“We haven’t a single trout,” said Tom.
“It is rather late to fish,” said Mr. Hallam. “The little girls are tired and hungry,—indeed we all are, for that matter,—and I guess we will have supper.”
Gypsy installed herself as housekeeper-in-general, and she and Sarah lost no time in unpacking the cake and bread and butter. Tom collected some light, dry brushwood for a fire, and he and Mr. Hallam made the coffee. It seemed as if no supper had ever tasted as that supper did. The free mountain air was so fresh and strong, and the breath of the pines so sweet. It was so pleasant to sit on the moss around a fire, and eat with your fingers if you chose, without shocking anybody. Then the woods looked so wide and lonely and still, and it was so strange to watch the great red sunset dying like a fire through the thick green net-work, where the pine-boughs and the maple interlaced.
For about five minutes after supper was cleared away, when the great shadows began to darken among the trees, Sarah discoursed in a vague, scientific way, about the habits of bears, and Gypsy had a dim notion that she shouldn’t so very much object to see her mother come walking up the mountain, seized with an uncontrollable desire to spend a night in a tent. But Tom was so pleasant and merry, and Mr. Hallam told such funny stories, that they were laughing before they knew it, and the evening passed happily away.
Gypsy could not sleep for some time that night, for delight at spending a night out doors in a real tent on a real mountain, that was known to have an occasional real bear on it. She did not feel afraid in the least, although Sarah had a very uncomfortable way of asking her, every ten minutes, if she were perfectly sure it was safe.
“Oh, don’t!” said Gypsy, at last. “I am having such a good time thinking that I’m really here. You go to sleep.”
Sarah was so much accustomed to doing as Gypsy told her, that she turned over and went to sleep without another word. It was not a good thing for Gypsy to be so much with just such a girl as Sarah. She was physically the weaker of the two, as well as the more timid, and she had fallen into a habit of obeying, and Gypsy of commanding, by a sort of mutual tacit agreement. It was partly for this reason, as was natural enough, that Gypsy chose her so often for a companion, but principally because Sarah never refused any romp or adventure; other timid girls liked to have their own way and choose their own quiet plays. Sarah’s timidity yielded to Gypsy’s stronger will. If Gypsy took a fancy to climb a ruined windmill, Sarah would scream all the way, but follow. If Gypsy wanted to run at full speed down a dangerous steep hill, where there were walls to be leaped, and loose, rolling stones to be dodged, Sarah scolded a little, but went.
A girl more selfish than Gypsy would have been ruined by this sort of companionship. Her frank, impulsive generosity saved her from becoming tyrannical or dictatorial. The worst of it was, that she was forced to form such a habit of always taking the lead.
She lay awake some time that night after Sarah had fallen asleep, listening to the strange whispers of the wind in the trees, and making plans for to-morrow, until at last her happy thoughts faded into happy dreams.
She did not know how long she had been asleep, when something suddenly woke her. She was a little startled at first by the unfamiliar sight of the tent-roof, and narrow, walled space which shut her in. The wind was sighing drearily through the forest, the distant scream of an owl had an ugly sound; and—why no—but yes!—another sound, more ugly than the cry of a night-bird, was distinct at the door of the tent—the sound of a quick, panting breath!