“What’s thet ther’ thing, Mose?” inquired Tolliver, addressing the dog.
“Well I’ll ber dorg-goned!” he added, as he picked up a woman’s bonnet. “If this here don’t beat the worl’ an’ all camp meetin’! Hit air—well, I’ll ber dorged—hit air—I’m er ghost if hit aint Miss Sara’ Anna Crabb’s bonnet, by Ned!”
He held it up by one silk string and gazed at it with a ludicrously puzzled stare. The dog whined and wagged his tail in humble sympathy with his master’s bewilderment.
“Hit’s kinder interestin’, haint it, Mose?” Tolliver went on dryly. “We’ll hev ter look inter this here thing, won’t we, Mose?”
As for Mose, he was looking into it with all his eyes. Indeed he was beginning to show extreme interest, and his tail was pounding the ground with great rapidity.
Suddenly a thought leaped into Tolliver’s brain and with a start he glanced up the escarpment, his mouth open and his brown cheeks betraying strong emotion. Mose followed his master’s movements with kindling eyes, and whined dolefully, his wolfish nose lifted almost vertically.
“Is that you, Mr. Tolliver?” fell a voice out of a cedar clump a little way up the side of the cliff.
“Hit air me,” he responded, as he saw Miss Crabb perched among the thick branches. She had her little red note-book open and was writing vigorously. Her yellow hair was disheveled so that it appeared to surround her face with a flickering light which to Tolliver’s mind gave it a most beautiful and altogether lovely expression.
“Well, I’ll ber—” he checked himself and stood in picturesque suspense.
“Now, Mr. Tolliver, won’t you please help me down from here?” she demanded, closing her note-book and placing her pencil behind her ear. “I’m awfully cramped, sitting in this position so long.”