A Cry in the Wilderness

by Mary E. Waller

We were soon on the road again, as ever beneath trees. It seemed to me as if we were turning to the river again. I asked Cale about it.

"You 've hit it 'bout right, in the dark too. We foller back a quarter of a mile, an' then we 're there."

That quarter of a mile seemed long to me.

"Here we are," said Cale, at last.

I looked out. I could see the long low outlines of a house showing dimly white through the trees, for there were trees everywhere. A flaring light, as from a wood fire, illumined one window.

We drew up at a broad flight of low steps. A door into a lighted passageway was opened. I saw there were at least four people in it; one, a woman in a white cap, came out on the upper step.

"Have you brought Miss Farrell, Cale?" she said.

"Yes, Mis' Macleod, fetched her right along; but the boat was good three hours late.—Pete, open the door; I 'll hold the hosses."

I went up the steps, not knowing what to say, for the mere inflection of her voice, the gentle address, the prefix "Miss" to my name, told me intuitively that I was with gentle people, and my service with them was to be other than I fancied.