She would not find a living thing but Indians; and,
maybe, wild beasts, the whole distance.
If she should get lost she would not find Hannah, and the people
would have to hunt for her too. But Ann had quick wits for an
emergency. She had actually carried those cards, with a big wad of
wool between them all the time, in her gathered-up apron. Now she
began picking off little bits of wool and marking her way with them,
sticking them on the trees and bushes. Every few feet a fluffy scrap
of wool showed the road Ann had gone.
But poor Ann went on, farther and farther--and no sign of Hannah. She
kept calling her, from time to time, hallooing at the top of her
shrill sweet voice: "Hannah! Hannah! Hannah Fre-nch."
But never a response got the dauntless little girl, slipping almost
up to her knees, sometimes, in black swamp-mud; and sometimes
stumbling painfully over tree-stumps, and through tangled undergrowth.
"I'll go till my wool gives out," said Ann Wales; then she used it
more sparingly.
But it was almost gone before she thought she heard in the distance a
faint little cry in response to her call: "Hannah! Hannah Fre-nch!"
She called again and listened.
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