Like a wounded quail with lowered crest and trailing wing, she crept back to her hiding-place.
Even then the influence of the wood was still upon her.

She picked up the novel she had contemptuously thrown aside only to let it fall again in utter weariness.

For a moment her feminine curiosity was excited by the discovery of an old book, in whose blank leaves were pressed a variety of flowers and woodland grasses.

As she could not conceive that these had been kept for any but a sentimental purpose, she was disappointed to find that underneath each was a sentence in an unknown tongue, that even to her untutored eye did not appear to be the language of passion.

Finally she rearranged the couch of skins and blankets, and, imparting to it in three clever shakes an entirely different character, lay down to pursue her reveries.