Maggie brightened considerably at this suggestion, and gratefully accepted the kind offer.
Bessie lay with her head in Maggie’s lap, drowsily thinking how pleasant it would be to go to sleep in this nice place, if papa and mamma and baby were only here too. It was so cool and quiet. No one seemed to be stirring in the cottages or the small station; not a sound was heard but the gentle whisper of the breeze in the tree-tops, the chirp of the crickets, and the varied notes of a mocking-bird perched not far from them. Then the spicy smell of the pines was so delicious and balmy.
Not a human being was to be seen but their own party, and the old negro man, who now sat upon a wheelbarrow at a little distance, reading what looked like a leaf or two from a book. He seemed to read very slowly and with great pains, pointing his finger along from word to word, and forming the words with his mouth, as people do who cannot read very well; but he appeared to be very intent over it.
“I wonder what he is reading,” said Bessie to herself, as she sleepily watched him: “it looks like a piece out of an old torn book. Maybe it’s a newspaper, and they have such a very little one this is such a very little place, and there isn’t much to tell about. I shouldn’t think it was very interesting here.”
The last thing she saw before she went to sleep, was the old negro; and the first on which her eyes opened was the white-haired man, still sitting there, poring over his leaf, as if he had not moved from that spot; and yet she felt as if she had taken quite a long, refreshing nap.
She gently turned her head, and looked at her companions. Belle did not appear to have moved, lying fast asleep with her cheek on Maggie’s dress, and her hat over her eyes, just as she had lain down. Mr. Travers sat with his back against a tree, his arms folded, his eyes closed, and bareheaded. Bessie turned a little more, so that she could see Maggie.
Why! was it possible? Yes, surely: watchful Maggie was fast asleep too. The pine-tree against which she leaned did not shoot up with a straight, unbroken trunk, as they generally do, but was a kind of twin tree, parting into two a foot above the ground, and forming a crook or fork. In this fork was the “bad hat,” and on the “bad hat” lay Maggie’s head, as peacefully as though it were the pillow of her own pretty bed at home; and Maggie was as sound asleep as if it were that same familiar pillow. One dimpled hand loosely held Mr. Travers’ pencil, and the paper lay fluttering unheeded on the ground at her feet. Bessie picked it up lest the breeze should blow it away, and Maggie’s precious thoughts be lost. But it was evident that the letter had not made much progress, for Bessie found only these words written:—
“Oh, dear, darling Uncle Ruthven,—Such a horrible, dreadful adventure!”