“Well, now come along, Ma Peters,” said Matilda; “he hain’t spilled th’ things yit, an’ he’s turned th’ road. We’ve got to git back to work.”
“’Twouldn’t be so bad ef you hadn’t put in that quince sass, Tildy,” mourned her mother, picking up her worn calico gown to step over a puddle of water from a broken drain-pipe. “But I’m awful skeered about that.”
“Oh, Ma, you make me sick.” Matilda gave her a little push into the kitchen, slipped in after her, and slammed the door; but her hand shook as she took up the broom. “I’m goin’ to work anyhow. You c’n set an’ worry about Pa, ef you want to. I’m glad for my part, that Mis Pepper’s goin’ to have that basket o’ things.”
“So be I,” cried Mrs. Peters. “Land sakes! I guess I’m as glad as you be, Tildy Peters. An’ I s’pose Davie’s gittin’ along towards home pretty fast by this time.”
Matilda shook her head and pursed up her lips as she went out to sweep the back entry. “All the same, I wish Davie Pepper was safe home to the little brown house,” she said to herself.
The old cord cut into Davie’s fingers as he trudged along the winding road, the basket wobbling about from side to side; but every step was bringing him home to Mamsie, and he smiled as he went along.
“Hey there!” a sudden turn of the road brought him squarely before a tall gaunt old man leaning against the stone wall on the other side of a scrub oak.
“Where you ben?” demanded Old Man Peters.
“Just—just—” began David.
“Jest where? Stop your hemmin’ an’ hawin’. Where you ben?”