Her best chance, however, was to wait until the light came, and then,
despite her lack of acquaintance with the art of reading footprints, to
try to distinguish those of the gypsy. All that she needed was some clue
to enable her to guess which path her quarry had taken; beyond that the
message of the footprints was not necessary.

As she sat there, watching the slow, slow lightening in the east, Bessie
wondered if the day was ever coming. She had seen the sun rise before,
but never had it seemed so lazy, so inclined to linger in its couch of
night.

But every wait comes to an end at last, and finally Bessie was able to
go back a little way, before the other trails began to branch off, and
bending over, to try to pick out the footprints of the man who had
carried Dolly off. It was easy to do, fortunately, or Bessie could
scarcely have hoped to accomplish it.

There had been a light rain the previous morning, enough to soften the
ground and wipe out the traces of the numerous parties that had made
Deer Mountain the objective point of a tramp in the woods, and, mingled
with her own small footsteps, Bessie soon found the marks of hobnailed
feet, that must, she was sure, have been made by the gypsy.

Step by step she followed them, and she was just about at the first of
the diverging trails when a sound behind her made her turn, terrified,
to see who was approaching.

But it was not the man who had so frightened her whom she saw as she
turned. It was a girl--a gypsy, to be sure--but a girl, and Bessie had