“He was furious with his mother, saying to himself that she had told him not to open the bottle just to make him do it, and he vowed he would not go back to her. He threw down the bottle and turned, and rode another way, until he found himself alone in a wild forest where there was nothing to eat and nothing to shelter him from the cold night, and the wind blew through the trees and made strange noises. He dismounted, afraid to ride in the dark, and before he knew it, his pony was gone. He became miserably frightened and wished he had not run away. But still he blamed his mother.

“The mother became very uneasy about her boy, and went out to look for him. The neighbours too, though he was not a nice boy and none of them liked him, went out to help her look for him, and they came at last to the wood with their torches and lanterns.

“The boy was lying under a tree and saw the lights and heard the voices and knew it was his mother come to find him. Then the old wickedness rose up again in his heart and he said to himself: ‘Does she think she can find me so easily? Am I to come and go as she pleases?’ He lay very still and crept slowly away, and thus avoided those who had come to save him. He heard one say there were wolves in the wood, but he was just the kind of boy who will not believe what is good for him. So he slipped away until at length everyone despaired of finding him, and left the wood.

“Suddenly he knew that he was alone again. He gave a great cry, but no one heard it. He stood shaking and listening. Presently his pony came rushing past him with two or three wolves behind him. He began to run, wild with fear to get out of the wood. But he could not find the way, and ran about this way and that until utter despair came upon him, and all he could do was lie still as a mouse so that the wolves could not hear him.

“As he lay he began at last to think that he was a wicked child, that his mother had done everything to make him good, and he would not be good. Now he was lost and only the wolves would find him. He sank at last into a stupor.

“He came to himself in the arms of a strange woman, who had taken him up, and was carrying him home. The name of the woman was Sorrow—a wandering woman, a kind of gypsy, always going about the world and picking up her lost things. Nobody likes her, hardly anybody is civil to her, but when she has set anybody down and is gone, often a look of affection and wonder and gratitude is sent after her. Yet even with all that, very few are glad to be found by her again.