So she watched carefully for some break in the thick undergrowth that
lined the trail, for some opening through which John might have gone
with his burden. There might even, she thought, be another of those
precious sign posts that, back on the other trail, had been made by the
torn pieces from Dolly's skirt.
But, careful as was her search, she reached the end of the trail without
finding anything that looked like a promising place, or seeing anything
that made her think Dolly was within a short distance of her. The trail
led to an exposed peak, a ragged outcrop of rock, bare of trees, and
covered only with a slight undergrowth.
Once there Bessie understood why the trail had been made through the
woods. The view was wonderful. Below her were the waving tops of
countless trees, and beyond them she could look down and over the
cultivated valleys, full of farms, whose fields, marked off by stone
fences, looked small and insignificant from her high perch.
Bessie, however, was in no mood to enjoy a view.
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