“Tom! Thom-as! Mr. Hallam!”
A bird chirped in a maple-bough overhead, and a spark cracked out of the smouldering hickory fire; there was no other sound.
“I guess they’re busy in their tent,” said Gypsy, going up to it. But the tent was empty.
“They haven’t come!” exclaimed Sarah.
“It’s real mean in them to leave us here,” said Gypsy, looking round among the trees.
“You know,” suggested Sarah, timidly, “you know Mr. Hallam said we were to stay at the tents. Perhaps they came while we were gone, and couldn’t find us, and have gone to hunt us up.”
“Oh!” said Gypsy, quickly, “I forgot.” She turned away her face a moment, so that Sarah could not see it; then she turned back, and said, slowly,—
“Sarah, I’m very sorry I took you off. This is rather a bad fix. We must make the best of it now.”
“Let’s call again,” said Sarah, faintly.
They called again, and many times; but there was no reply. Everything was still but the bird, and the sparks that crackled now and then from the fire. The heavy gray shadows grew purple and grew black. The little foot-paths in the woods were blotted out of sight, and the far sky above the tree-tops grew dusky and dim.