Then she turned to her father with a little sigh, for the miles seemed very long.
"How far is it to Richmon', Daddy-man?" she said.
"Just about twelve miles," her father answered. "But they're real old country miles, I'm sorry to say."
"Can we get to it to-night?"
The simple little question made the man's heart ache. What wouldn't he give for an hour of Roger once more—or Belle—or Lightfoot! Anything—even one of the old plantation mules would do if he could only perch her up on its back and take her into Richmond like a lady and not like the daughter of poor white trash, tramping, poverty stricken, along a dusty road.
"No, dear, not to-night," he sighed. "We've come a long way and we're both tired. So when it gets dark we'll curl up somewhere in the nice, sweet woods and take a snooze, just like camping out. And then—in the morning, when the old sun comes sneaking up through the trees, we'll fool him! We won't wait till he can make it hot, but we'll get right up with the birds and the squirrels and we'll just run right along. And by twelve o'clock we'll be in Richmond—where they have good things to eat. So there you are—all mapped out. Only now we'll have a belt supper."
"A belt supper?" queried the child curiously, though her face brightened at the thought of any kind of supper, made out of belts or any other thing.
"Um-hum," asseverated her father gravely. "See—this is the way it's done."
He cupped his hands and took a draught from the spring, pretending to chew it as it went down. "You take a big drink of nice cold water; then draw up your belt as tight as you can—and say your prayers."
To his surprise his small daughter only sniffed scornfully.