"Uncle Silas has put the bear's-oil away," said Socky, in a tone of regret. He thought a moment, and then added, "Ladies don't never git spoke to."
"You'd carry her on your back—wouldn't you, Uncle Robert?" inquired little Sue. Both children fixed him with their eyes.
"Oh no—that wouldn't do," said Master.
"Men don't never carry ladies on their backs," Socky wisely assured her.
"Uncle Silas carries 'em," Sue insisted.
"That's only Aunt Sinthy," said the boy, now a little in doubt of his position.
Just then they heard the crow chattering away up the dusky trail. The children rose and ran to meet "the beautiful lady," and their voices rang in the still woods, calling, "Hoo-hoo! hoo-hoo!" Master slowly followed so as to keep in sight of them. When he saw Edith Dunmore come out of a thicket suddenly and embrace them, he turned back and stood where he could just hear the sound of their voices.
She drew them close to her breast a moment, and a low strain of song sounded within her closed lips—that unconscious, irrepressible song of the mother at the cradle.
"Dear little brownies! I love you—I love you," she said, presently. Then she whispered, "Where is he?"
"Over there," the boy answered, pointing with his finger.