“We might go to Mr. Fisher’s,—do, Gypsy! I can’t bear to stay here,” said Sarah, looking around.
“No,” said Gypsy, decidedly. “We can’t go to Mr. Fisher’s, because that would mislead them all the more. We must stay here now till they come.”
“I’m afraid!” said Sarah, clinging to her arm; “it is so dark. Perhaps we’ll have to stay here alone all night,—oh, Gypsy!”
“Nonsense!” said Gypsy, looking as bold as possible; “it wouldn’t be so dreadful if we did. Besides, of course, we sha’n’t; they’ll be back here before long. You go in the tent, if you feel any safer there, and I’ll make up a bright fire. If they see it, they’ll know we’ve come.”
Sarah went into the tent, and covered her head up in the bed-clothes; but in about ten minutes she came back, feeling a little ashamed of her timidity, and sat down by Gypsy before the fire. It was a strange picture—the ghostly white tents and tangled brushwood gilded with the light; the great forest stretching away darkly beyond; the fitful shadows and glares from the flickering fire that chased each other in strange, uncouth shapes, among the leaves, and the two children sitting there alone with frightened, watching eyes.
“I’m not a bit afraid,” said Gypsy, after a silence, in a tone as if she were rather arguing with herself than with Sarah. “I think it’s rather nice. Tom left his gun all loaded, and we can defend ourselves against anything. I’m going to get it, and we’ll play we’re Union refugees hiding in the South.”
So she went into Tom’s tent, and brought out his gun.
“Look out!” said Sarah, shrinking, “it may go off.”
“Go off? Of course it can’t, unless I pull the trigger. I know how to manage a gun,—hark! what’s that?”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” said Sarah, beginning to cry. “I know it’s a bear.”