She selected a spot high up on the terrace, from whence she could plainly see the ribbon of white road across the valley. Then she began to signal her message:
“I AM MARY LOUISE GAY. HELP!”
Over and over again she repeated the same letters, hope coming into her heart each time a car swung into view, despair taking possession of her when it failed to stop. Perhaps, she thought, she was too far away to be seen. She glanced behind her, at the green bushes, and moved along where she might have the gray wall of the institution for her background. Red and white should show up brilliantly in contrast to somber gray.
Half an hour passed, during which perhaps a dozen cars went by without stopping, and Mary Louise’s arms became weary. But she did not give up. Sometimes, she was certain, one of her own friends’ cars would come over that hill—and stop.
Miss Stone, watching the girl out of the corner of her eye, nodded sadly to herself. She must be crazy after all, she decided, to go through that silly routine over and over again. Intelligent on most subjects as she had discovered Mary Louise to be, she must be unbalanced on this particular obsession.
Still Mary Louise went on trying.
“I AM MARY LOUISE GAY. HELP!”
she signaled again, for the twenty-fourth time, as a small, bright car appeared on the road.
The car was proceeding very slowly; it looked as if it could scarcely climb the hill. Then, to the girl’s intense joy, she watched it stop. Perhaps it was only because of a faulty engine or a puncture—but—oh—it was stopping!
Her heart beat so fast and her hands trembled so that she could hardly repeat the message. But she forced herself to go through it again. This might be her one chance—her vital hope of escape!