The Indians did not speak save for an occasional word of direction from the squaw. The sun had set when they turned the canoe toward the shore. Nakanit pulled the canoe up on the sand beyond reach of the tide, and the squaw led the way to a little opening among the trees, and there Anne was surprised to find another wigwam, very much like the one they had left that morning. The squaw spread the blankets, gave the girls the corn cakes with strips of dried fish for their supper, and they had water from a near-by brook.
Anne was soon fast asleep, quite forgetful of her strange surroundings and of the friends in Province Town.
Meanwhile those friends had now nearly given up the hope of finding her.
Amanda Cary’s jealousy had vanished the moment she heard of Anne’s disappearance.
“I do not know what I shall do with the child,” Mrs. Cary said anxiously, when Amanda cried herself to sleep on the night after Anne left home, and when, on the next morning, she began sobbing bitterly at the mention of her playmate’s name.
“Amanda’s ashamed; that’s what’s the matter with her,” declared Amos boldly.
Amanda’s sobs stopped, and she looked at her brother with startled eyes. What would become of her, she wondered, if the Stoddards should ever find out that she, Amanda, was the one to blame; that Anne had not deserved any punishment.
“Amos, don’t plague your sister,” said Mrs. Cary. “You know she loves Anne, even if the girl did slap her. Amanda has a good heart, and she does not hold resentment,” and Mrs. Cary looked at Amanda with loving eyes.
At her mother’s words Amanda began to cry again. She thought to herself that she could never tell the truth, never. “Everybody will hate me if I do,” she thought, and then, remembering Anne and hearing her father say on the second day after her disappearance that there was now little hope of finding the runaway, she felt that she must tell Mrs. Stoddard.
“I’ll wager I could find Anne,” said Amos as he and Amanda sat on the door-step. “She’s started for Brewster.”