It was such an afternoon as she loved; a red sky, a misty landscape, the near trees still ablaze with autumn tints. In the distance a flying train threaded its way whistling; the white steam appearing and disappearing behind wooded heights and promontories.
How often had she stood thus; how familiar was the scene!—but she could not linger now.
There was something she was searching for which she did not find. She had only seen it once, and then by chance,—in the present confused whirl of her brain she could not remember landmarks, nor identify localities.
But it was there, somewhere,—and she must look, look till she found it.
A branch snapped behind, and she spun round, terrified. Who—what was that?
The woods were almost silent, birds had ceased to sing, and rabbits were in their holes. After a minute's breathless suspense, she crept on a pace or two, and listened again,—but there was not a rustle, not a sound. She fled onwards.
A pile of logs and a rough saw-pit,—yes, yes,—she knew the saw-pit, she had passed the saw-pit that other day, and Val and she had sat upon the logs. Val had kicked about the splinters at his feet, and formed them into heaps. And it was close, close by, that—oh, it was so close that she shivered and trembled, and clung to the edge of the pit as a support, and at last sank upon her knees.
But she was not praying—she was not even thinking;—there was nothing more to think about,—she rose and crept down the slope, to where lay a deep, black pool.
And out of the pool crawled a toad. Its head came first; the ugly, flat head that, but for its movement, might have been mistaken for a lump of slime,—then one long-jointed, sluggish leg, and then the other, followed by a sudden leap, and a leap, ah! the loathsome thing!—in her direction. Involuntarily she also leaped—backwards.
Not there—not just there; she shuddered as the reptile startled in its turn, turned and plunged again into the water, where, no doubt, were others of its kind, many and vile....