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. He kept a
constant eye on his daughter, which caused many uneven
threads in his weaving. He became so nervous that if Petal
were out of his sight for any length of time - and he did not
hear her, either - he'd jump up from his loom, knocking
over his chair, and cry out, "Petal! Come here!"
"What is it, Father?" she'd call, hurrying into the
cottage, with, say, a basket of mushrooms she had been
gathering.
Aron never answered. He was just glad to see his
daughter, and, relieved, he'd pick up his chair and resume
his weaving.
Nights, though, proved even worse for Aron than the
days. It was then he had to sleep, and so it was then he
could keep neither eye nor ear on his daughter. He kept
waking at the slightest sound, thinking Petal might be
sneaking away, and he kept checking up on her in her room.
She was always there, curled up beneath her blanket on a
mattress filled with her fragrant pine needles.
But then, on one warm summer night, shortly after
midnight, Aron peeked into her room and found her bed
empty.
"Petal!" he bellowed, stepping from her door back into
the large room. "Petal!"
She didn't answer.
Aron ran outside into the benighted woods, where only
sprinkles of silver moonlight fell through the canopy and
broke up the dark forest floor, the way Petal's pine needles
broke up the cottage floor
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