"No, marm, not yet," he answered gloomily. "It'll be night 'fore long; thar ain't much daylight left him to travel in."
Alice caught her breath. "But you think he'll come, don't you, Mr. Holt?" "Yes, marm, I do," he answered, laying down his axe. "'T ain't hardly possible he won't; I cal'late they'll both git in 'fore dark. It won't do to borry trouble 'fore it comes. It was my fault, marm—I shouldn't hev let him go—it warn't right—but he would hev his way."
"And you don't think they're lost?" she ventured timidly.
"Not so long as he stays by my son, marm—no, 't ain't likely they're lost; it warn't that I was thinkin' of." He saw the sudden terror in her eyes.
"But you think he will be back, don't you? Oh! you do, Mr. Holt—don't you?"
"Yes, marm, I tell ye I do. He had grit 'nough to go, and I cal'late he'll hev grit 'nough to git back. He seemed to know what he was doin'."
She turned away that he might not see her tears. She could hear the dull whack of the old man's axe as she retraced her steps to her place by the crackling fire.
For another anxious hour she sat shivering before it, then the Clown announced apologetically that supper was ready. Blakeman handed her a cup of tea, but she did not taste it. Annette put to rights the few comforts within the lean-to and re-folded the blankets. Margaret and Holcomb whispered together. All moved as if in the shadow of a great calamity.
It was now pitch dark and raining. The camp sat in strained silence. Finally Margaret came over to her mother and whispered something in her ear. A weary smile crossed Alice's lips; then she beckoned to Holcomb, laid her hand on his arm, and looking up into his face said in a broken voice:
"You will look after Margaret, Mr. Holcomb, won't you, if—if anything has happened?"