A shutter slammed sharply somewhere in the house above, and something stirred fearfully in the shadow of the room. It was a small figure that crouched against the wall, listening and watching with the furtive terror of a newly captured coyote—the slight figure of a woman dressed as a child, with short gingham dress, and heelless slippers, and a bright ribbon holding back the limp, flaxen hair from her strange, pinched face.
Again and again her wide, frightened eyes sought the steps leading to the room above, and sometimes she would lean forward and whisper in agonized expectancy, “Daddy?” Then when no answer came, she would shudder back against the wall, cold and shaking and full of dumb terrors.
Suddenly the hound’s howling changed to a sharp bark, and the old negress stirred and stretched herself.
“What ails dat air dog?” she [p39] mumbled, going to the window, and shading her eyes with her hand. “You’d ’low to hear him tell it he done heared old master coming up de road.”
That somebody was coming was evident from the continued excitement of the hound, and when the gate slammed and a man’s voice sounded in the darkness, Aunt Tish opened the door, throwing a long, dim patch of light out across the narrow porch and over the big, round stepping-stones beyond.
Into the light came Mr. Opp, staggering under the load of his baggage, his coat over his arm, his collar off, thoroughly spent with the events of the day.
“Lord ’a’ mercy!” said Aunt Tish, “if hit ain’t Mr. D.! I done give you up long ago. I certainly is glad you come. Miss Kippy’s jes carrying on like ever’thing. She ain’t been to baid for two nights, an’ I can’t do nothin’ ’t all wif her.”
Mr. Opp deposited his things in a corner, and, tired as he was, assumed an air of authority. It was evident that a man [p40] was needed, a person of firmness, of decision.
“I’ll see that she goes to bed at once,” he said resolutely. “Where is she at?”
“She’s behind de door,” said Aunt Tish; “she’s be’n so skeered ever sence her paw died I can’t do nothin’ wif her.”