"Scraggy! Scraggy!" he called. "It be Lemmy! Open the door!"
Through her deep sleep came the voice Screech Owl had loved, and still loved. She sat up in bed, trembling violently, pushing back with a pathetic gesture the gray hair from her eyes. She had been dreaming of Lem—dreaming that she had heard his voice. But black pussy couldn't have dreamed also. He was perched in the small window, lashing his great tail from side to side. She slid from the bed, stretched out a bony hand, and clutched the cat.
"Did ye hear him, too, black pussy?"
"Scraggy!" called Lem again, "Open the door! I brought you something to eat."
It was the thought of the time when he had loved her so, and not of the food he had brought, that forced Scraggy to the door. She flung it open, and the scowman entered.
"I thought ye might be hungry, Scraggy; so I brought ye this bread," said Lem, lifting the hook and sending a ray from the lantern upon the woman. "Can I set down?"
Could he, this king among men to her, could he sit down in her hut? He could have had her heart's blood had he asked it! Had she not crowned him that day, when he had stood awkwardly by, as she tendered him a dark-haired baby boy? Scraggy's happiness knew no bounds. She forgot her fatigue and set forth a chair for Lem.
"Be ye glad to see me, Scraggy?" asked he presently, crossing his legs and watching her as she lighted some candles.
"More'n glad," she replied simply. "But what did ya come for, Lemmy?"
Lem remained silent for some seconds; then said: