They sat for half an hour chatting, laughing, and as merry as when they started from home. The sky was still unclouded, but the moon had passed beyond the zenith. A wall of shadow was thrown out from one of the banks, except for occasional short distances, where the course of the stream was directly toward or from the orb.
When Sterry again glanced at his watch it was a few minutes past ten. They had rested longer than any one suspected.
"Mother won't look for us before midnight," remarked Fred, "and we can easily make it in that time."
"She was so anxious," said the sister, who, despite her light-heartedness, was more thoughtful than her brother, "that I would like to please her by getting back sooner than she expects."
"We have only to keep up this pace to do it," said Monteith, "for we have been resting fully a half hour—"
He paused abruptly. From some point in the wintry wilderness came a dismal, resounding wail, apparently a mile distant.
"What is that?" asked Monteith, less accustomed to the Maine woods than his companions.
"It is the cry of a wolf," replied Fred; "I have heard it many times when hunting alone or with father."
"It isn't the most cheerful voice of the night," commented the young Bostonian, who, as yet never dreamed of connecting it with any peril to themselves. And then he sang:
Yes, the war whoop of the Indian may produce a pleasant thrill
When mellowed by the distance that one feels increasing still;
And the shrilling of the whistle from the engine's brazen snout
May have minor tones of music, though I never found it out.