h
there were no paths, and it all looked very much alike, he knew what
direction to take for the hiding-place he had in view. A town boy would
soon have become confused, and perhaps have ended in finding himself at
Green Highlands again, but Frank knew better than that, and he stumbled
steadily along in his heavy boots, getting gradually and surely further
away from home and deeper in the wood.

How quiet it was, and how fast the darkness seemed to close round him!
All the birds were silent soon, except that a jay sometimes startled him
with its harsh sudden cry; once a rabbit rushed so quickly across his
path that he almost fell on it. On and on he went at a steady jog-trot
pace, looking neither to right nor left. Now, if you have ever been in
a beech wood, you must remember that winter and summer the ground is
covered with the old dead brown leaves that have fallen from the trees.
So thick they lie, that in some places you can stand knee-deep in them,
especially if there are any hollows into which they have been drifted by
the wind; this particular wood was full of such hollows, some of them
wide and long enough for a tall man to lie down in, and Frank knew
exactly where to find them. Turning aside, therefore, at a certain
clump of bushes there was the very thing he wanted--bed and hiding-place
at once. It was a broad shallow pit or hollow filled quite up to the
top with the red-brown beech leaves. He scooped out a place just large
enough for himself, lay down in it, and carefully replaced the leaves up
to his very chin. He even put a few lightly over his face, and when
that was done no one would have imagined that a boy or any other living
thing was hidden there.

Then the solemn hours of darkness came silently on; all the creatures in
the great wood slept, and even Frank in his strange leafy bed slept
also, worn out with weariness.

About the middle of the night the breeze freshened a little, and the dry
leaves stirred and rustled. The sounds mingled with the boy's dreams,
and he thought he was lying in his attic at home, and that a mouse was
running over his face; he felt its little tickling feet and its long
tail quite plainly, and put up his hand to brush it away. Then he woke
with a start. The chill wind blew in his face and sighed among the
trees, and instead of the low attic beams there were waving branches
over his head. He was not at home, but alone, quite alone in Whiteleaf
Wood, with thick da