Then a harsh voice crashed into that silence.
“Reckon she are up thar, Lige?”
“’T’ain’t no ways possible,” drawled the second man. “Look at them thar hollyhocks. Narry a leaf broke. Reckon airy one’d pass through that door without a tramplin’ ’em down?”
“Reckon not.”
“Better be stirrin’ then, I reckon.”
“Reckon so.”
Again came the solid drum of feet. This grew fainter and fainter until it died away in the distance.
“Good old hollyhocks! Good little old sentries, how I could hug you for that!” A tear splashed down upon the girl’s hand, a tear for which none should be ashamed.
Even as the footsteps of the men died away in the distance, Florence felt the shadow of the mountain creeping over the cabin.
“Soon be dark,” she breathed, “and then—”