It was years now since Mary had given a thought to the deserted garden and cabin—the clearing was at the trail's end and no one ever took it, for it led nowhere.
But now, to Mary's astonished eyes, the garden appeared almost as well planted as her own, and from the chimney of the tumble-down cabin a lazy curl of smoke rose. Under the dark pine clump the outlines of a narrow mound could be plainly seen, and beside it lay a spade and a spray of withered azaleas.
Mary's throat was dry and painful. People to whom tears are possible never know the agony, but Mary was used to it.
Presently she walked across the open that lay between the edge of the forest and the cabin and stood by the threshold.
The door hung by one hinge, and through the gap Mary saw old Becky! She had hoped against hope that what she had told Nancy might be true, but she was prepared for the worst.
It seemed incredible that this poor, wretched skeleton by the hearth could be Becky—but Mary knew that it was. Back from her wandering the pitiful creature had come—home!
She had come as Mary herself had come—because the call of the hills never dies, but grows with absence.
"Aunt Becky!"
The crone by the hearth paused in her stirring of corn-meal in a pan, but did not turn.
"Aunt Becky!" And then the old woman staggered to her feet and faced Mary.