were abed?” he asked, adopting the child’s vernacular.

“She’s makin’ yer bed ready in th’ loom shed, likely,” said the mother, ever alert. With her pale, prematurely wrinkled face and uncannily bright and watchful eyes, she seemed the controlling, all-pervading spirit of the place. “Run, child, an’ see what’s keepin’ her so long.”

“Hit’s dark out thar,” said the boy, stirring himself slowly.

“Run, honey, you hain’t afeared, kin drive a team all by you’se’f. Dark hain’t nothin’; I ben all ovah these heah mountains when thar wa’n’t one star o’ light. Maybe you kin he’p her.”