There was a rustling through the leaves behind her, as of a snake gliding around the tree.  She was not afraid of snakes in the daytime, and when she was unbound, but she shrieked and turned cold at the thought of one wriggling across her feet while she was powerless to get away.  Every time a twig snapped, or there was a fluttering in the bushes, she strained her eyes to see what horrible thing might be creeping up toward her.  She had no thought that live Indians might be lurking about, but all the terrible stories she had ever heard, of the days of Daniel Boone and the early settlers, came back to haunt the woods with a nameless dread.

She felt that she was standing on the real Kentucky that the Indians meant, when they gave the State its name. “Dark and bloody ground!  Dark and bloody ground!” something seemed to say just behind her.  Then the trees took it up, and all the leaves whispered, “Sh—­sh, sh!  Dark and bloody ground!  Sh—­sh!”

At that she was so frightened that she began calling again, but the sound of her own voice startled her.  “Oh, they are not coming,” she thought, with a miserable ache in her throat, that seemed swelling bigger and bigger.  “I’ll have to stay here in the woods all night.  Oh, mamma! mamma!” she moaned, “I am so scared!  If you could only come back and get your poor little girl!”

Up to this time she had bravely fought back the tears, but just then a screech-owl flapped down from a branch above her with such a dismal hooting that she gave a nervous start and a cry of terror.  “Oh, that frightened me so!” she sobbed.  “I don’t believe I can stand it to be out here all night alone with so many horrible creepy things everywhere.  And nobody cares!  Nobody but papa and mamma, and they are away, way off in Cuba.  Maybe I’ll never see them any more,” At that the tears rolled down her face, and she could not move a hand to wipe them away.  To be so little and miserable and forsaken, so worn out with waiting and so helpless among all these unknown horrors that the dark woods might hold, was worse torture to the imaginative child than any bodily pain could have been.

It was just as her last bit of courage oozed away, and she began to cry, that the boys suddenly realised how long they had left her.

“It must be as dark as a pocket in the woods by this time,” exclaimed Malcolm.  “What do you suppose Ginger will say to us for leaving her so long?”

“You will have to take a knife to cut her loose,” said Keith.  “I tried to untie the knots before I came away, but I couldn’t move them.”

“My pocket-knife is up-stairs,” answered Malcolm.  “I’ll get something in the dining-room that will do.”

He was rushing out again with a carving-knife in his hand, when he came face to face with his grandmother and Aunt Allison.  The boys had been so interested in their camera that they had not heard the train whistle, or the sound of footsteps coming up on the front veranda.  Pete was lighting the hall lamps as the ladies came in, and he turned his back to hide the broad grin on his face, as he thought of the sight which would soon greet them.  Mrs. Maclntyre gave a gasp of astonishment and sank down in the nearest chair as Malcolm came dashing into the bright lamplight.