As he did so I thought I heard the sound of steps in the garden, but I glanced out past Victor and couldn’t hear anything more, only that plaintive bird song, low, and strange, and thrillin’.
And I kep’ on with my work. But agin we all thought we heard steps, and we listened for a minute, but everything wuz still. But sunthin’ drawed my eyes to look up at little Snow, and even as I looked a ball come crashin’ through the window and went right through that baby’s breast.
Victor sprung to his feet and sez:
“That wuz meant for me!”
And as he looked down on Snow he cried out:
“My God! has it killed the child?”
But he laid her down on the lounge right by him, and, bold as a lion, and as if to shield us all from further harm, he sprang out on the piazza and from there to the ground, and faced the gang of masked men we could see surroundin’ him.
But we couldn’t foller him with any of our thoughts; all of our hearts wuz centred on our little lamb.
She lay there white as death where Victor put her. She lay there still, with her big blue eyes lookin’ up—up—and what did they see? Wuz the Form a bendin’ over her? We thought so, from her face—such a look of content, and understandin’, and comprehension of sunthin’ that wuz beyend our poor knowledge.
For a minute she looked up with that rapt look on her face, and then she tried to lift her little white hand in that pretty gesture of greetin’ somebody we couldn’t see.