“And maybe,” suggested Andy, in an awed voice, “’twere like we were sayin’. Maybe Mother was close by, watchin’, and maybe she asked th’ Lard to waken us.”
“Yes,” said David, “I been thinkin’ o’ that too. There’s no doubtin’ spirits walks about, and shows theirselves, too, sometimes. Uncle Hi Roper saw an Injun down t’ th’ Post one night paddlin’ a canoe around. He was an Injun that had been dead fifteen years, whatever. Uncle Hi knew he, and called to he, but th’ Injun didn’t answer because he were just a spirit. He kept on paddlin’ and paddlin’ in a circle, and never speakin’. It scared Uncle Hi, and he ran in and told Zeke Hodge, and Zeke comes out, but he couldn’t see th’ Injun then. He’d just disappeared.”
“Oh-h!” breathed Andy. “I’d been scared too! But I wouldn’t be scared at Mother’s spirit.”
“I’d—I’d be glad t’ see un,” said David.
But if their mother’s spirit came that night to look lovingly upon her two brave boys, they did not know it. They had rested but a short time the previous night, and, exhausted from their struggle of nearly twenty hours with the snow drifts, they quickly fell into sound and dreamless sleep.
It was long past daylight when they awoke, to the sound of shrieking wind, and when David looked out of the tilt door he was met by a cloud of driving snow.
“’Tis a wonderful nasty day,” he said.
“Is it too bad t’ travel?” asked Andy, anxiously.
“Aye,” said David regretfully. “We never could face un. We’ll have t’ bide here.”
“And we only has one pa’tridge t’ eat!” mourned Andy.