“I don’t see as we can do anything except keep him out of here till men come to look for us,” said the oldest boy, who was about fourteen, and used to the ways of the country.
“And that won’t be,” said Miss Brown, “till they are alarmed because we don’t get home.”
“Yes,” said the boy; “not before five or six o’clock. We’re often that late getting home.”
This was a dreary prospect, indeed, and wails and cries began again to fill the room. Miss Brown saw that she must rouse herself and quell the panic before it got beyond bounds.
She thought quickly, then said, quietly as she could, though her voice trembled at first:—
“Children, shall I tell you a story?”
Story is a magic word to a child, and in a moment the smaller ones were camped down on the floor around her—having no benches to sit on—while Miss Brown racked her brain to think of stirring incidents to keep them interested.
Story after story fell from her lips; lunch time came—but there were no lunches. Miss Brown struggled on; words came slowly,—her lips and throat were dry,—she sipped a little water and struggled on.
All sorts of possible and impossible adventures she related; she told strange facts of history with the wildest fancies of romance-makers; fairies and pirates, and queens and beggar girls, in one mad medley. She never in after years could recall anything that passed her lips in those terrible hours.
Some of the smaller children, worn out with crying, fell asleep, and as the hours passed and twilight stole over the world, hope began to revive; surely the fathers of the village must come to seek their children.