Then a new position was sought and another sketch made, but Gwen permitted no talk between them.
“I can’t work and talk, too; please be still, can’t you?” she asked, looking up from her work.
And again the real earnestness of the girl she disliked made Dorothy obedient, again rising to follow while Gwen chose another view still, high up near the top of the wonderful cascade. Her face had grown pink and animated and her eyes glowed with enthusiasm.
“I shall paint that misty-veil with a glaze of ultramarine. There should be an underwash of madder, and maybe terre verte. Oh! if I can only make it look one atom as I see it! We must come here again and again, you and I, Miss Calvert, and you must—you simply must keep the secret of our finding till after I’ve exhibited my picture.”
“All right. How long will it be before we can go find the others? you know we can’t gather any nuts right here. I don’t see a single nut tree.”
“I don’t know how long I shall be, and why care about nuts while we can have—this?” returned Gwen, indifferently.
“Very well, I guess I’ll take a nap. Seems terrible close in this shut-in nook and my walk has made me sleepy. I reckon I’ll take a nap. Wake me up when you get through.”
So saying, Dorothy curled down upon a mass of mighty ferns, laid her head on her arm and went to sleep. For how long she never knew, but her awakening was sudden and startling. She had been roused from a dream of Bellevieu, her Baltimore home, and of dear Aunt Betty feeding her pets, the Great Danes.
Brushing the slumber from her eyes, she gazed about her, wondering for an instant, where she was. Then—that frantic shriek again: