We stopped late in the afternoon, and none too soon, for my ankle was beginning to throb. There was an oppressiveness about the air that disturbed me. “I wonder if we are brewing up to a storm,” I said.

Tim studied the sky—what he could see of it through the trees. “It looks clear,” he said.

When the fire got properly started, its smoke did not rise briskly as usual, but hung down around the ground in slow-moving clouds.

“Well,” said Tim. “I’m afraid you might be right. See how the smoke’s behaving? Dad said that’s a sure sign of rain.”

“Or snow. We may be in for a snowstorm.”

On the chance that the campfire was correct, we spent extra time building a stronger lean-to than usual and made sure we had enough firewood for more than one night. Instead of wasting time cooking, we ate ravenously of the roasted partridge and kept at our work until darkness made it impossible to move safely out of range of the camp fire’s light.

I peeled some of the wild apples and put them on the fire to boil down to applesauce, which would be good the next morning. Neither of us was sleepy, so we sat at the edge of the lean-to and talked.

“Do you think we’ll ever get home, Lizzy?”

“Of course I do. Don’t tell me you doubt it?”

“Sometimes I get scared.”

“I don’t blame you. Only a fool wouldn’t be scared. But there’s nothing wrong with being afraid. It’s only when you are so afraid that you can’t act that it’s wrong. Otherwise, I think a little fear is a good thing. It keeps us from behaving too rashly and makes us think before stepping. Had I been a little more afraid of that log, I wouldn’t have slipped and sprained my ankle.”

“I guess my mother is worried about us,” Tim said.

This was the first time in quite a while I had even thought about Miss Pauline. Why, of course she was worried half-sick with despair, no doubt. We were long overdue. If the searchers went to look for us where my father told Indian Pete we were going, they would have no luck, for we were not, and had never been, there.

“She’ll be all right,” I told Tim. “Miss Pauline is a tough old bird.”

To my surprise, he broke out in tears.

“You take that back!” he shouted.

“Why, Tim,” I said, “I meant it as a compliment.”

“She’s my mother,” he said. “You can’t call her an old bird.”

Hastily I said, “I take it back. Honor bright.”

Still sniffling, he said: “I know you never liked her. Or me either.”

I started to answer, then held my tongue. This would have to be said carefully, for I did not want to lie nor did I want to hurt his feelings.