“No, you won't,” said June, “I can't spare you. Is that old horn here yet?”
Hale brought it out from behind the cupboard.
“I can get him—if he is at home.”
Hale followed her out to the porch where she put her red mouth to the old trumpet. One long, mellow hoot rang down the river—and up the hills. Then there were three short ones and a single long blast again.
“That's the old signal,” she said. “And he'll know I want him bad.” Then she laughed.
“He may think he's dreaming, so I'll blow for him again.” And she did.
“There, now,” she said. “He'll come.”
It was well she did blow again, for the old miller was not at home and old Hon, down at the cabin, dropped her iron when she heard the horn and walked to the door, dazed and listening. Even when it came again she could hardly believe her ears, and but for her rheumatism, she would herself have started at once for Lonesome Cove. As it was, she ironed no more, but sat in the doorway almost beside herself with anxiety and bewilderment, looking down the road for the old miller to come home.
Back the two went into the kitchen and Hale sat at the door watching June as she fixed the table and made the coffee and corn bread. Once only he disappeared and that was when suddenly a hen cackled, and with a shout of laughter he ran out to come back with a fresh egg.
“Now, my lord!” said June, her hair falling over her eyes and her face flushed from the heat.