"Rachel, wait! I'm coming, too. Give me my traveling-coat—there on the trunk. What can I put on my head? My hat is in auntie's room."
Rachel, rummaging in the closet, brought forth an old white tam-o'-shanter. "That will do!" cried Ruth. "Now, don't make any noise, but come."
They tiptoed through the house and out into the early morning. It was still half dark, and the big-eyed poplars watched them suspiciously as they hurried down to the road. Every branch and twig was covered with ice, and the snow crackled under their feet.
"I 'spec' it's gwine be summer-time where you gwine at, Miss Rufe," said Rachel.
"I don't care," cried Ruth. "I don't want to be anywhere in the world except right here."
"Dey're comin'," announced Rachel. "I hear de hosses."
Ruth leaned across the top bar of the gate, her figure enveloped in her long coat, and her white tam a bright spot in the half-light.
On came the riders, three abreast.
"Dat's him in de middle," whispered Rachel, excitedly; "next to de sheriff. I's s'prised dey didn't swing him up—I shorely is. He's hangin' down his head lak he's mighty 'shamed."
Ruth bent forward to get a glimpse of the prisoner's face, and as she did so he lifted his head.