"Gone! Then how shall we go back? What can we do?"
"I must think." His voice was still very quiet. "You had better take him into the hut."
She obeyed in silence, half stupefied and bewildered after the agitation she had undergone. The boy had sobbed himself into a drowsy state, and staggered along the path supported by her arm. When they entered the hut she laid him on the seat, and made a pillow of the old basket, covered with her handkerchief. In a moment he was fast asleep.
When she came out of the little building Arnold was standing in the clearing, looking out across the water. The last of the sunset had vanished, and the river and its banks looked like a picture in delicate grey tints. A light suddenly twinkled on the opposite shore, where one could just discern the outlines of a farm-house, fading fast into the mist of twilight.
"Can we not make a signal?" Elsie asked.
"We can gather sticks and light a fire," he answered gravely. "There's nothing else to be done."
"There's plenty of wood," she said, "and you have some matches, I suppose? I'll help you to collect the boughs and twigs." She made a movement towards the underwood, but he stopped her, and their hands touched.
"You are cold," he said, "and you had a great fright. I wish I could have prevented all this."
"I think," she replied, "that it is quite as unpleasant for you as for me."
"Not half as unpleasant," he returned abruptly. "You must hate me for bringing you here. You do hate me, don't you?"