It was sunset. There was but one house near the station, and their road led through a sparsely tenanted country. Slender pines stood in the fields, and beyond the sky glowed golden. The air was clear and fragrant, and Hazel found herself drinking in deep breaths. Suddenly from the meadow came a bird’s note, long and sweet and plaintive. Again and again the bird called.
“A meadow lark,” Mr. Jenks said.
The child pressed her hands together. She felt exquisitely sad, and yet full of awe and wonder. The bird sang on and on from the meadow, and when at length she left it behind, the sunset had changed to red and the air was growing chill.
“Yes, I have a warm coat,” she said in answer to Mr. Jenks’ look, and she buttoned the blue coat about her neck.
Fields and pines and pines and fields. The sunset light, purple now, a single star shining in the west. Then a cabin by the road, and the horse stopped.
Hazel trembled as Mr. Jenks lifted her down. The cabin door opened and a tall, large woman came down the steps, put her arm about Hazel and spoke to Mr. Jenks.
“You done brought my child,” she said. “Come in and rest yourself.”
“Not to-night,” Mr. Jenks answered. “I’m going back to John’s.”
He took the trunk from the wagon and placed it on the ground.
“Good-night, Hazel. Good-night, Aunt Ellen,” and turning his team, he drove away.