“Oh, thave me!” wailed Grace Thompson, her impish little face appearing to grow several degrees smaller.
“Girls! Please do not become excited,” urged the guardian. “There is no cause for alarm. Even if we have lost our way we shall find it again on the morrow. Harriet, you have the map. Suppose we examine it again and see if we can find out where we are. We surely must be near human habitation, and the country is so open that really getting lost is quite impossible.”
Harriet Burrell unslung the pack that she carried over her shoulder, then felt about in it until she found that for which she was looking. She spread the map out on the ground at one side of the road, her companions gathering about and gazing down over her shoulder. Miss Elting sat down beside the map.
“Here! Trace our day’s route with the pencil,” she said. “This should be Harmon’s Valley. That being the case, the village of Harmon should be not more than a mile farther on.”
“There is no village anywhere near us, according to the route we have traveled since this morning,” answered Harriet.
“Oh, that can’t be possible,” exclaimed Miss Elting.
“Please look for yourself, Miss Elting,” Harriet replied earnestly. “After leaving Granite Mountain we swung to the left as you will see by the line I have marked.”
“Hm-m-m,” murmured the guardian as she scanned the map.
“It looks to me very much as though we had taken the wrong valley,” said Harriet, as she paused in her scrutiny of the map to glance up at the hills that shut in the valley where they now were. “See! There isn’t a town marked on this map anywhere in this valley.”
“I believe you are right. In order to get to our stopping place for the night we shall have to cross those hills to the right. How far is it across?”