"I've scolded you, too, a lot, and made fun of your things. I wish I hadn't."
"If we could only get out of here, I'd never be cross to you as long as ever I live, and I wish you'd please to forgive me."
"I will if—if you'll forgive me, you know. Oh, Gypsy, it's growing so hot over here!"
"Kiss me, Joy."
They kissed each other through their sobs.
"Mother's in the parlor now, watching for us, and Tom and—"
Gypsy's sentence was never finished. There was a great blazing and crackling, and one of the trees fell, swooping down with a crash. It fell across the ravine, lying there, a bridge of flame, and lighting the underbrush upon the opposite side. One tree stood yet. That would fall, when it fell, directly into the corner of the gully where the girls were crouched up against the rocks. And then Joy remembered what in her terror she had not thought of before.
"Gypsy, you can climb! don't stay here with me. What are you staying for?"
"You needn't talk about that," said Gypsy, with faltering voice; "if it hadn't been for me you wouldn't be here. I'm not going to sneak off and leave you,—not any such thing!"
Whether Gypsy would have kept this resolve—and very like Gypsy it was, to make it—when the flames were actually upon her; whether, indeed, she ought to have kept it, are questions open to discussion. Something happened just then that saved the trouble of deciding. It was nothing but a clap of thunder, to be sure, but I wonder if you have any idea how it sounded to those two girls.