God doesn't make people live on and on and die, for nothing.

One can't be a little girl all one's life, climbing trees and making snowballs," said Gypsy, half dreamily, half impatiently, jumping up and walking on.
[Illustration] So they wandered away and away, deeper into the heart of the forest, through moss and tufted grasses, and tangles of mountain flowers, chatting as girls will, in their silly, merry way, with now and then a flash of graver thought like this of Gypsy's.
"You're sure you know the way back," said Joy, presently.
"Oh, yes; I've been over it forty times.

We've turned about a good many times, but I don't think we've gone very far from the top of the mountain." So, deeper, and further, and on, where the breath of the pines was sweet; where hidden blossoms were folding their cups for the night, and the shadows in the thickets were growing gray.
"Gypsy!" said Joy, suddenly, "we're certainly going _down hill_!" "So we are," said Gypsy, thoughtfully; "it's getting dark, too.

They'll be ready to start for home.

I guess we'll go back now." They turned then, and began rapidly to retrace their steps, over brambles and stones and fallen trees; through thickets, and up projecting rocks--very rapidly.
"It is growing dark," said Gypsy, half under her breath; "why didn't we find it out before ?" "Gypsy," said Joy, after a silence, "do you remember that knot of white birches?
I don't." Gypsy stopped and looked around.
"N-no, I don't know as I do.