against the sky, in that hideous likeness to a fleshless hand which
night and darkness always lend to them. Even Gypsy, though she had been
in the woods many times at night before, shuddered as she stood looking
up. A queer thought came to her, of an old fable she had sometime read
in Tom's mythology; a fable of some huge Titans, angry and fierce, who
tried to climb into heaven; there was just that look about the trees. It
was very still. The birds were in their nests, their singing done. From
far away in some distant swamp came the monotonous, mournful chant of
the frogs--a dreary sound enough, heard in a safe and warm and lighted
home; unspeakably ugly if one is lost in a desolate forest.

Now and then a startled squirrel dropped from bough to bough; or there
was the stealthy, sickening rustle of an unseen snake among the fallen
leaves. From somewhere, too, where precipices that they could not find
dashed downwards into damp gullies, cold, clinging mists were rising.

"To stay here all night!" sobbed Joy, "Oh Gypsy, Gypsy!"

Gypsy was a brave, sensible girl, and after that first moment of horror
when she stood looking up at the trees, her courage and her wits came
back to her.

"I don't believe we shall have to stay here all night," speaking in a
decided, womanly way, a little of the way her mother had in a
difficulty.

"They are all over the mountain hunting for us now. They'll find us
before long, I know. Besides, if they didn't, we could sit down in a dry
place somewhere, and wait till morning; there wouldn't anything hurt us.
Oh, you brought your waterproof--good! Put it on and button it up
tight."

Joy had the cloak folded over her arm. She did passively as Gypsy told
her. When it was all buttoned, she suddenly remembered that Gypsy wore
only her thin, nankeen sack, and she offered to share it with her.

"No," said Gypsy, "I don't want it. Wrap it around your throat as warm
as you can. I got you into this scrape, and now I'm going to take care
of you. Now let's halloa."

And halloa they did, to the best of their ability; Joy in her feeble,
frightened way, Gypsy in loud shouts, and strong, like a boy's. But
there was no answer. They called again and again; they stopped after
each cry, with breath held in, and head bent to listen. Nothing was to
be heard but the frogs and the squirrels and the gliding snakes.

Joy broke out into fresh sobs.

"Well, it's no use to stand here any longer," said Gypsy; "let