“It looks homelike, somehow, even without any houses in it,” observed Hugh after a long survey of the quiet landscape. “Oh, Oscar, how like home it looked the day that I was lost and came over that hill at last!”
He hesitated a moment, for very little had been said of his adventure in the wood. He had not even let himself think of it often and, half defiant, half ashamed, had avoided the subject, but now let his spoken remorse come with a rush.
“I am so sorry that I did not do just as you told me. You looked for me for hours, I know, and I have never owned that it was all my fault. And I lost your rifle, too; I feel so dreadfully about that. I thought that I could save time and that you were too careful.”
He sat thinking for a second, then added in a sudden burst of illumination:
“Perhaps that was why my father wouldn’t let me go to France, because he knew I hadn’t sense enough to obey orders. I understand now what he meant by my not having enough judgment. Oh, Oscar, I am so ashamed!”
“It iss all right.” The Swedish accent in Oscar’s voice sounded very distinctly as it was apt to do when he was moved. “It was my fault as much as yours; I should have warned you that you would be tempted to do just such a thing. When I waited for you and you did not come—well, I am not so often frightened, but I was afraid then. It is no little thing to be lost in these woods. I wish—I wish—”
He did not finish his sentence, but Hugh knew that he was thinking of the Edmonds boys and of how the search for them was growing more hopeless every day. He, too, felt that despair was not far off, but he had a feeling that, if either of them spoke of it, the idea of failure would suddenly become a real thing instead of a dreaded possibility. He tried to turn the talk to another subject and spoke the first words that entered his mind. It was the most careless of questions, but it led to such unexpected consequences that he used to wonder, later, why the clock had not ceased ticking or the rising breeze stopped blowing to listen as he spoke.
“Have you seen any wolves about here lately, or that white deer that the Indians say is in the forest?”
“Wolves never come so far south as this in summer,” answered Oscar, then added sharply, “Why?”
“Because when I was lost I stopped by a marsh and—I haven’t really thought of it very clearly since—but there were footprints in the ground that were much too big to have been made by a fox, I am sure, so I thought they were a wolf’s.”