“Who would hide away up here if their purposes were lawful? Think, Florence! They may be kidnapers! That person may be a victim!”
“Yes,” exclaimed Florence, springing to her feet, “and they may be law-abiding citizens! Come, you have given me the creeps. Besides, I’m starving. You get some bacon frying while I start the coffee brewing. We’ll eat. That will brighten our horizon.”
Nine o’clock came. Seated before a fire of brightly gleaming coals, their cozy bed of blankets and balsam boughs awaiting them, the two girls forgot the mysteries and adventures of the day to sit and talk, as young people will, of home, of friends, of hopes and fears, and of the future that stretches on and on before them like a golden pathway. They were deep in this whispered revery when, gripping her companion’s arm, Greta exclaimed, “There it is again!”
A wild, piercing, blood-curdling scream had rent the air of night.
“Wha—what can it be?” As if for protection, the slim girl threw herself into the arms of her stout companion.
“It’s no loon!” Florence measured her words. “It’s some human being in distress.”
“I told you!” The slim girl shuddered.
“We should go to their aid.”
“But just two girls! What could we do? We—”
“Listen!” Florence touched Greta’s lips. From afar, as on that other night, there came, wafted in faint and glorious tones, the whisper of a violin.