His tone had suddenly changed, and the two big boys ran to him as if they still were children. "Pop, can't we come back after we take her out?" they exclaimed, with backward jerks of their heads toward 'Tilda Jane. Their hands were on his arms, and they were roughly fondling his shoulders—these two unmannerly cubs of his.
"Sons," he said, in a broken voice, "I ain't been a good father to ye. I've got to spend the last o' my life in rootin' up the weeds I sowed the fust part. I don't want you to have such a crop. Now you go 'long out an' be good sons. Your mother'll be sot up, an' you mind what she says, an' I'll soon come home. Take good care o' the leetle gal," and passing his hand, first over one brown head, then over the other, he tramped away out of view among the snowy spruces.
The boys and 'Tilda Jane went back into the cabin. The two former sat together by the fire and talked, taking little notice of her. All their friendliness of the evening before was gone, yet they were not openly unkind, but simply neglectful. Toward noon the snow ceased falling, as Lucas had predicted, the sun came out brilliantly, and they began making preparations for departure.
Zebedee was to wear an old pair of snow-shoes that had been left in the cabin, and 'Tilda Jane was to put on his new ones. Her humility and unselfishness slightly thawed the boys' reserve, and when they at last started, her ridiculous attempts at snow-shoeing threw them into fits of laughter.
Zebedee carried the infirm Gippie, who otherwise would have sunk to his neck in the snow, Poacher soberly plunged his way along, while Joe assisted 'Tilda Jane in keeping her equilibrium. After an hour's travel, she had become quite expert in the art of taking wide steps, and no longer needed his helping hand.
"Air we mos' there?" she asked.
"In the span of another hour and a half," said Joe.
The hour and a half went by. They tramped on under the serene blue of the sky, and in such a solemn stillness that it seemed as if never a bird nor beast could have inhabited this white wilderness. Only the voiceless, silent trees were there, clad all in white like ghosts of departed living things. But at last their winding way through the wood came to an end, and they stepped out on the old road. Here were evidences of travel. A few teams had passed by, and there were snow-shoe tracks alongside those of the sleigh runners.
The trees also grew more sparsely, and soon gave place to clearings, then the distant roof of a barn appeared, and finally a long, thin string of small farmhouses winding down a bleak road before them.
"Is this your home?" asked 'Tilda Jane, of the boys.