“Wall, anyhow, I ain’t ‘cock-bird-high’ to be caught by her chaff.” The farmer stamped again. “The women they go an’ see her an’ come back with tales o’ what they hear and see—my wife with a muslin mouth upon her, all stiff and starched, tellin’ about strange water-burn, little cloudy-bright rings an’ shapes floating up from it—some new brand o’ angels, I suppose, visiting with her, the Little Lone Lady.”
“Um-m. Phosphine, I guess, Daddy would say!” whispered Pemrose to the hay.
“I didn’t see none of it when I went to ask her about Paddy’s cough—you can hear him now underneath you.”
There was a wild burst of laughter at this give-away, mingled with the blowing noise of a windy cougher.
“Wal! as you ain’t Her and want to spend the night here ... you ain’t got no candles nor matches about you?” he asked suspiciously.
“No, nothing that could start a fire,” the Guardian assured him, intent now on seeing that the girls removed their wet shoes.
“Well! good rest to ye on the hay. Mebbe there’ll be a bite o’ breakfast comin’ to ye—for I vum ye can stand more ’n most city folks, though there’s one among ye that looks a dainty piece—not meant for any hard-sleddin’.” He raised the lantern, until its ray singled out Una, yawning upon the hay. “So-o long!” He backed down the ladder—gun and lantern. But, again, he thrust his head up and glared around. “Look out—folks!” he began; “this ’ere hay-loft—.” But, once more, he saw red, the red of his “rosie” slippers. “Gosh!” he gurgled, “lucky fer Her that she warn’t you; I swear to goodness! I’d ha’ come within a grain o’ shooting Her.” The lantern gave a final flash and disappeared.
“Well! now—now that old ‘Bunch o’ Spinach’ has gone, I guess we can settle to sleep,” gasped Lura.
“Don’t call—names,” mumbled the Guardian, who was seeing that Una got out of damp clothing. “Aren’t we lucky not to be Her!”
It was a new flash light, mornie-blink, stealing up the ladder and through the loft transom, some three hours later.