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Dorothy Dale's Camping Days

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<hr /> <h2>CHAPTER XXToC</h2> <h3>HAPLESS TAVIA</h3> Step by step, or rather, move by move, Tavia struggled to reach in safety that heap of white. "Oh, if she is only alive!" moaned Tavia. "Why did I not induce her to go back to the Junction? I saw she was insane—and now!" A huge stone offered her a pause in the dangerous descent. She stopped and listened. Then she called: "Birdie! Birdie!" No answer. "Perhaps she hears and does not know—that name. Madame Fly-Fly?" she called again, and she thought the sleeve moved—always that attempt to fly. Tavia slid down from the rock, trembling in limb and throbbing in nerves. She had a terrible fear that the girl was either dying or dead. There with her alone! On a perfectly flat stone the form lay. Tavia was beside it now. She stooped and listened. "Thank the good Lord she is alive!" gasped Tavia fervently. "I must—lift—her!" But there was little trouble in turning the light form over, so that the white face looked up into Tavia's. "Oh!" sighed the girl. "Where am I? Who are you?" There was a change—a great change in her manner. "Oh, I am so glad you are alive!" breathed Tavia. "And how do you feel?" "As if something—moved in—my head. Where is mother?" There was no rambling, she spoke coherently! "Are you hurt?" pressed Tavia. "If only you can move?" "I am sure I can," the sufferer replied, at the same time making an effort to sit up. "I feel better—somehow. How did you come to me? I had a terrible dream." "I met you. Do you remember your name?" The girl did not answer at once. Then she said very slowly: "I am Mary, but they call me Molly." "Mary what?" "Mary Harriwell." Tavia knew better than to ask more questions just then. She almost forgot their predicament in the joy of seeing the girl apparently sane. "I wonder if you can walk?" "I am going to try. Just give me your hand—there, that's it," and the sufferer pulled herself up and stood beside Tavia. "I wonder might there be a path? I was so alarmed when you fell, that I did not take time to look for one, I just slid down the rocks. But to get up would be very different." "It is—dark, almost. We will have to look—I can't talk—just now. I have that strange feeling in my head." "You must not talk. Just follow me, lean on me! Oh, I am sure we will get up safely; and once upon the road we must find some help!" Tavia was afraid to look with too much scrutiny into the white face, afraid she might again see that wild-eyed warning. Following the mossy way they trudged along. How far away even the sky was! Could two girls be more desolate? Thoughts of camp, and of Dorothy, almost crushed Tavia. Young and strong as she was, her experience was beginning to leave its mark. She felt weak, and was hungry! But the strange girl seemed to have recovered her reason! Tavia must not falter, she must get up, out to the roadway. "This looks like a path," she said. "Yes, it is a path. See, the brush is trodden down, and the ferns are broken. Oh, some one must have been here lately, and that means that they can not be very far away now!" "What is your name?" asked the strange girl suddenly. "Tavia—Tavia Travers. And I am lost—far away from every one!" Tears welled into Tavia's eyes. Yes, she was lost! "And I am—lost! How strange that we should meet." "But are you not hurt? You walk——" "Yes, something does hurt, but I don't mind, for that awful dream is gone. I can walk, and then when—we are—found——" "Oh, yes. I am sure you will be all right as soon as we—are—found!" They had almost reached the crest of the hill. Up there at least they could see. "I hear a step," said Tavia. "We must hurry." It was difficult to do that, however, for Mary, or Molly, limped painfully. The step was plain now, as it crushed the dried leaves and brush. The figure of a man was next seen. The girls waited. He came along with a free air, and swinging gait. The man wore a slouch hat—— "Oh!" screamed Tavia. "We must run, or hide! It is that dreadful man! That—other—that lunatic!" and she clutched the arm beside her, and dragged the frightened girl to the edge of the roadway. Mortimer Morrison, with his big, rough, mountain stick, was about to pass! <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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