Later in the evening, John Logan, gun in hand, passes slowly and dreamily down the trail, close to old Forty-nine's cabin. Stumps and Carrie are at play in the wood close at hand, and come forth at a bound.
"Booh!" cries Carrie, darting around from behind a tree. "Booh! Mr. John Logan," continues the girl, and then with her two dimpled brown hands she throws back the glorious storm of black abundant hair, that all the time tumbles about her beautiful face.
"Why, Carrie, is that you? and Stumps, too? I am glad to see you. I—I was feeling awful lonesome."
"Been down to Squire Fields' again, haven't you?"
The girl has reached one hand out against a tree, and half leaning on it swings her right foot to and fro. John Logan starts just a little, looks at her, sighs, sets the breech of his gun on the ground, and as his eyes turn to hers, she sees he is very sad.
"Yes, Carrie, I—I am lonesome at my cabin since—since mother died. All the time, Carrie, I see her as I saw her that night, when I got home, sitting there on the porch, looking straight out at the gate, waiting for me, her hand on the dog's head, as if to hold him."
As he says this, poor little Stumps stands up close against a tree, draws his head down, and pulls up his shoulders.
"Yes, her long bony fingers resting on his head, holding him—and the faithful dog never moving for fear he would disturb her—for she was dead."
"Oh, Mr. John Logan, don't tell me about it—don't!" and the girl's apron is again raised to her face as she shudders.
"Poor old woman with the holler eyes," says Stumps to himself, in a tone that is scarcely audible.