“Guess you’re right.” Greta sighed. Nevertheless, she did not forget.
“Do you know,” she said a moment later, “I believe I’d rather sit by our campfire and think than to go prowling round this ridge today.”
“You’re not afraid? Afraid of meeting some—someone?”
“Of course not! Just footsore and weary after yesterday.”
“Yes, I suppose you are. Sorry.” Florence’s tone changed. “As for me, I’m used to it. If you don’t mind, I’m going on. I don’t admit the possibility of anyone ever having been here before us. I mean to be an explorer. Were there any celebrated women explorers?”
“Not many, I’m afraid. There’s one in Chicago who goes across Africa once in a while.”
“Well, I’m going to explore. You watch me!” Florence laughed as she marched away into the bush. Soon enough she was to discover that her statement that no one had been here before them was not well founded. A rough and ready manner of discovery it was to be, too.
Left to herself, Greta wandered back to camp, found a few live coals which she fanned into flame, added fresh fuel, brewed herself a cup of black tea, then sat down to think.
“‘I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,’” she repeated reverently, “‘from whence cometh my help.’”
What was to come of this venture? Would she, like the prophets of old, find strength and inspiration by her sojourn in the hills?