“It sure will cheer them up to see it,” ma said. “It’s all ready for use, Jim. I filled it and polished it yesterday.”
So Jim climbed up the tulip tree to the first long, out-reaching branch, and swung out a serviceable headlight lantern.
“There!” said Jim descending, “It looks like the morning star.”
And so it did to the homesick eyes of the girl who sat snuggled close to Pa McBirney, sitting all starched and prim, in the pink gingham frock of little Barbara Summers.
“What’s that, please?” she cried, nudging pa’s arm. “That away up on the mountain? That’s not a star, is it? It’s too low down.”
“Sho!” ejaculated pa, “that’s ma’s lantern. She’s telling us to hurry up. You hear, you there?” he called good-naturedly to the horses.
“Perhaps the boys will come down to meet us.”
“No they won’t, Azalea. At least, Jim won’t. He’ll stay with his ma. As much as we can, Azalea, we-all must stay with ma. It ain’t good for her to be alone too much. I’ve been talking that over with Jim and he thinks just like I do. She’s had too much trouble, ma has, to be left alone to brood over them. Not that she’s a fretting one. But she’s deep, ma is.”
“I know.”
“It just seemed like her heart would break when you was took away, Azalea. She sets great store by you—almost as much as she did by Molly. You see, she’s turned the love she had for Molly, right on you. So you be good to her, sister, won’t you now?”