He was really astonished to find that the afternoon had passed and that the people were cooking supper within and without the house, and he learned that Elder Mills had preached the funeral sermon for “poor Mis’ Knox” and that there was a fresh mound of earth beside Molly’s little grave.
A wonderful golden light lay across the higher reaches of the mountains, and below, the valley rested in deep purple shadow. The martins were snug in their hanging gourds in the crosstrees, and Jim could hear them making little sleepy noises. It seemed so sweet there at home that he couldn’t bear to think of Hi going on, and when he heard the boy’s uncle swearing at him because he had left some chores undone, Jim hated Sisson. He thought what fun he and Hi could have if they were allowed to prowl about and cook their supper together. Jim knew how to build a fire, and how to put it out. His father had taught him to take care of the woods and to keep them from catching fire. Now he came to think of it, he knew a great many things that he would like to teach Hi. But he had to go in the house to his supper, and he saw Hi being jerked along roughly by the arm and heard the angry words his uncle said to him.
Within the house, Azalea was lying on the settle in his mother’s clean kitchen. She looked small and white-faced, and her large eyes, which followed Ma McBirney everywhere, were more than ever like “Job’s tears.” She came to the table when Ma McBirney called her, but she could eat nothing—only drink a little of the warm milk, and her hand trembled so that she could hardly hold the cup to her lips.
And neither was Ma McBirney eating. Her face was white, too, and her eyes full of trouble. Jim knew very well what the matter was. She couldn’t bear to have this nice little girl go away in the company of “bad folks”—for that was how Mary McBirney would call the show people. Almost nothing was said while they were at the table, but when supper was over Pa McBirney remarked:
“Me and you’ll wash up the dishes to-night, Jim.”
“Ain’t ma well?” Jim asked.
“Ma’s well enough, but she’s got something better to do,” was all the answer he got. Pa began washing the dishes, and Jim wondered why it was that he made such a noise about it. Jim was told to build up more fire, too, which seemed strange, for the room was quite warm enough. But he did as he was told. The door stood open onto the porch-like room, but no one could see in unless he came up on the porch, for the solid wooden window shutters had been closed. The fire set up a great crackling, and that and the rattling of the dishes made it seem as if a great deal was going on there in the room. But, really, not very much was going on, for Ma McBirney and Azalea had slipped out of the back door and had not come back again. Outside, the voices of the men and the stamping of the horses could be heard, and by and by some one called:
“Hulloa there! Hulloa, I say!”
“Hulloa!” answered Jim’s father.
“We’re ready to go,” called the other voice.