Night in gloomy places brings an eerie feeling sometimes to the
bravest--dormant sense impressions, running back to the cave age and
beyond, become active, harry the mind with subtle, unreasoning
qualms--and she was a girl, brave enough, but out of the only
environment she knew how to grapple with. All the fearsome tales of
forest beasts she had ever heard rose up to harass her. She had not
lifted up her voice while it was light because she was not the timid
soul that cries in the face of a threatened danger. Also because she
would not then admit the possibility of getting lost. And now she was
afraid to call. She huddled on the log, shuddering with the growing
chill of the night air, partly with dread of the long, black night
itself that walled her in. She had no matches to light a fire.
After what seemed an age, she fancied she saw a gleam far distant in
the timber. She watched the spot fixedly, and thought she saw the
faint reflection of a light. That heartened her. She advanced toward
it, hoping that it might be the gleam of a ranch window. Her progress
was slow. She blundered over the litter of a forest floor, tripping
over unseen obstacles. But ten minutes established beyond peradventure
the fact that it was indeed a light.
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