Tom left the stream and entered the bushes. When he was within fifty yards of the house, he dropped to the ground. An instant later, he felt himself going to sleep. It was like whirling through a great dark space to oblivion.
He awoke two hours later, and felt the warm sun beating down upon him. He raised his head and glanced about, recollecting how he had come here. Then he squirmed through the branches and looked toward the house. There, in the garden, stood Marjorie, snipping at a rose bush with a pair of scissors.
"Marjorie!" he called hoarsely. She glanced at the house, as though she thought that someone there had called her. "Marjorie!" She turned in his direction. "It's Tom Burns—over here. Down at the end of this row—in the bushes." Her scissors dropped to the ground and her hands went to her throat in a gesture of alarm. "Come here," he said. "But slowly—so that they won't know."
She recovered the scissors hurriedly and came toward him. "Where are you?" she gasped.
"Here—hiding. Stop at that last rose bush and pretend to be working."
"Oh, Tom—you escaped! You got away!"
"Yes, but I'm famished. Crossed the Tennessee last night—nothing to eat since night before last. Can you…?"
"Yes, I'll get you something," she gasped. "I'm so glad you escaped. I've been worried…. Wait there."
She walked toward the house and entered. Presently she came out of the kitchen door and sauntered into the garden again.
"I told Mattie, the cook," she said as she came near him and went to trimming the rose bush again. "She understands. Her little boy is going to bring you something to eat. Here he comes."