Poor Miss Vilda! Fifty years old, and in twenty summers and winters scarcely one lovely thought had blossomed into lovelier deed and shed its sweetness over her arid and colorless life. And now, under the magic spell of tender little hands and innocent lips, of luminous eyes that looked wistfully into hers for a welcome, and the touch of a groping helplessness that fastened upon her strength, the woman in her woke into life, and the beauty and fragrance of long-ago summers came back again as in a dream.
After having driven three or four miles, they heard a melancholy sound in the distance; and as they approached a huge wood-pile on the left side of the road, they saw a small woolly form perched on a little rise of ground, howling most melodiously at the August moon, that hung like a ball of red fire in the cloudless sky.
"That's a sign of death in the family, ain't it, Jabe?" whispered Miss Vilda faintly.
"So they say," he answered cheerfully; "but if 't is, I can 'count for it, bein' as how I fertilized the pond lilies with a mess o' four white kittens this afternoon; and as Rags was with me when I done it, he may know what he's bayin' 'bout,—if 't is Rags, 'n' it looks enough like him to be him,—'n' it is him, by Jiminy, 'n' Timothy's sure to be somewheres near. I'll get out 'n' look roun' a little."
"You set right still, Jabe, I'll get out myself, for if I find that boy I've got something to say to him that nobody can say for me."
As Jabe drew the wagon up beside the fence, Rags bounded out to meet them. He knew Maria, bless your soul, the minute he clapped his eyes on her, and as he approached Miss Vilda's congress boot his quivering whiskers seemed to say, "Now, where have I smelled that boot before? If I mistake not, it has been applied to me more than once. Ha! I have it! Miss Vilda Cummins of the White Farm, owner of the white cat and hash-pan, and companion of the lady with the firm hand, who wields the broom!" whereupon he leaped up on Miss Cummins's black alpaca skirts, and made for her flannel garters in a way that she particularly disliked.
"Now," said she, "if he's anything like the dogs you hear tell of, he'll take us right to Timothy."
"Wall, I don' know," said Jabe cautiously; "there's so many kinds o' dorg in him you can't hardly tell what he will do. When dorgs is mixed beyond a certain p'int it kind o' muddles up their instincks, 'n' you can't rely on 'em. Still you might try him. Hold still, 'n' see what he'll do."
Miss Vilda "held still," and Rags jumped on her skirts.
"Now, set down, 'n' see whar he'll go."