“Come,” said she, drawing her gently away from the door. “We will stay by the window, and when anybody goes by, we will knock and shout and call, and some one will let us out, I know.”
So the two little girls stationed themselves by the front window and looked longingly out at the sunny road, the dancing leaves, and oh, cruelest of all, the lunch basket on the porch steps, still guarded by the faithful Flip and Snowball.
Susan, her face streaked with dirt, polished off the window-glass as best she could with her pocket handkerchief.
“Grandmother will find us,” said she hopefully. “Or else Grandfather will. Don’t you be afraid, Gentilla.”
“Grandfather has gone fishing, and perhaps he won’t be home till black night. And I didn’t tell Grandmother where we were going; I know I didn’t tell her where we were going.”
These sad thoughts were interrupted by the welcome sound of wheels.
“Knock and scream, knock and scream!” called Susan excitedly.
And they fell to work with a will, Susan redoubling her efforts when she saw that it was Mr. Drew, hastening home behind little brown Molly.
But the _clip_, _clap_, _clip_, _clap_, of Molly’s hoofs drowned all the noise they made, and Mr. Drew, with not a glance toward the schoolhouse, drove out of sight.
“Oh, what a long time we’ve been here,” said she forlornly. “It must be nearly night.”
She sat down on the floor with her back against the wall, leaving Susan alone on guard. She shut her eyes, her head nodded once or twice, and when Susan next glanced at her she lay on the floor sound asleep.
“Oh, Gentilla, wake up! I’m afraid to stay here alone. Wake up!” began poor Susan, who at that moment would have welcomed the company of even a fly buzzing on the window-pane. But the thought of Grandmother’s speech silenced her.
“I won’t wake her up, and I won’t cry either,” thought she. And pressing her face against the window, she bravely watched the empty road for a five minutes that actually seemed to her two hours long.
All kinds of dreadful thoughts began to come to Susan’s mind. Were there bears in the woods, and at nightfall would they come lumbering out, and, pushing the door open, squeeze her and Gentilla to death in a mighty bear hug? What if Grandfather had made a mistake and the Indians had not all gone away years ago! Suppose they should carry her off and stain her brown with berry juice, like the little girl in her story book, so that, even if Grandfather should see her, he would never know that it was his black-eyed Susan, but would think she was a real true little Indian girl.
