Gypsy sat upright in bed, and listened.
It grew louder, and came nearer; quick, and hoarse, and horrible—like the breathing of a hungry animal.
Sarah slept like a baby; there was not a movement from Tom and Mr. Hallam in the other tent; everything was still but that terrible sound. Gypsy had good nerves and was not easily frightened, but it must be confessed she thought of those traditionary bears which had been seen at Ripton. She had but a moment in which to decide what to do, for the creature was now sniffing at the tent-door, and once she was sure she saw a dark paw lift the sail-cloth. She might wake Sarah, but what was the use? She would only scream, and that would do no good, and might do much harm. If it were a bear, and they kept still, he might go away and leave them. Yet, if it were a bear, Tom must know it in some way.
All these thoughts passed through Gypsy’s mind in that one instant, while she sat listening to the panting of the brute without.
Then she rose quickly and went on tiptoe to the tent-door. Her hand trembled a little as she touched the canvas gently—so gently that it scarcely stirred. She held her breath, she put her eye to the partition, she looked out and saw——
Mr. Fisher’s little black dog!
Tom was awakened by a long, merry laugh that rang out like a bell on the still night air, and echoed through the forest. He thought Gypsy must be having another fit of somnambulism, and Sarah jumped up, with a scream, and asked if it wasn’t an Indian.
The night passed without further adventure, and the morning sun woke the girls by peering in at a hole in the tent-roof, and making a little round golden fleck, that danced across their eyelids until they opened.
They were scarcely dressed, when Tom’s voice, with a spice of mischief in it, called Gypsy from outside. The girls hurried out, and there he sat with Mr. Hallam, before a crackling fire over which some large fresh trout were frying in Indian meal.
“Oh, why didn’t you let us go, too?” said Gypsy.