She moved along for a hundred or so of ties, then she threatened to sit down. Tavia was desperate, but even in her present surprising state of mind, the railroad ties were too much for her, and she kept on.
"I might fly," she reflected, looking boldly at the ocean of blue above, "but there isn't a machine in sight."
More and more ties until she came to a small bridge.
"Well, I suppose if I try to walk this thing I shall presently find myself holding a session with some slimy, muddy frogs. Ugh!" and she looked between the ties at the lurking depths of mud and other things on either side of the railroad embankment. "I just hate—uncertainties."
She stepped cautiously a little farther. "Well, if I fall it serves me right. I shouldn't have done this!"
Tavia—poor Tavia!
The place was very lonely. Tavia realized this. She knew instantly that she was in the woods. It may have been her primitive hatred of the forest that inspired this sentiment, but there was always something about the depths of solitude that made her want to laugh—it was positively funny to her. Something must happen.
"If there were a single human being in sight," she sighed. Then she repeated, "I said 'single.'"
It was almost dusk. She thought of old Sam. Wasn't that funny! Then of her mending—shirring socks! When he tried them on he might change his mind about making her his heir.
"And that loon!" This last referred to Morrison. "When I believed him, I may, some day, believe myself!"