"But the others will not find us this way," sighed Dorothy, "and isn't it getting dark!"
"Never mind. There must be some way of getting out of the woods. No mountains for mine. Good flat terra firma is good enough for Chrissy."
Dorothy tried to be cheerful—there were no bears surely on these peaks, and perhaps no tramps—what would they be doing up there?
"Now!" cried Tavia, "I see a way down! Keep right close to me and you will be all right! Yes, and I see a light! There's a hut at this end of the mountain."
To say that the lost Glenwood girls slid down the steep hill would hardly express the kind of speed that they indulged in—they went over the ground like human kangaroos, and made such good time that the light, seen by Tavia, actually stood before them now, in a little house against the hill.
Two ferocious dogs greeted their coming—but Tavia managed to coax them into submission, and presently a woman peered out of a dingy window and demanded to know what was wanted. She seemed a coarse creature and the place was such a hovel that the girls were sorry they had come.
"Don't answer her," cautioned Dorothy quickly. "Let's make our way to the road."
Tavia saw that this would be safest, although she was not sure the woman would allow them to pass unquestioned past her stone fence. But with a dash they did reach the highway and had made tracks along through the muddy narrow wagon road before the woman, who was now calling after them, could do anything more disagreeable. The dogs followed them up for a few paces, and then turned back while the woman continued to shout in tones that struck terror into the hearts of the miserable girls.
"We may be running away from Glenwood!" ventured Tavia, spattering along, "but this road surely goes to some place—if we can only get there."
"Oh, I'm so out of breath," panted Dorothy. "We can walk now. The woman has ceased shouting."