“Well, well,” said the farm-wife, rising heavily to her feet and preparing to depart, “maybe George would like to hear about the thing you’ve seen when he comes back.” She paused on her way to the door, and turned an earnest face upon the two girls. “Say, children, you didn’t see no blue lights, did ye?”
“No, mother Hephzy,” said Alice sleepily. “There were no blue lights.”
“Ah,” in a tone of relief. “There’s no gainsaying the blue lights. They’re bad. It means death, children, death, does the blue light––sure.” And the good lady passed out of the room with the shuffling 186 gait which a pair of loose, heelless slippers contrived to give her.
“Prue,” said Alice, when the door had closed, “when are you going to ask Robb to come?”
“As soon as possible, if you like.”
“Thanks. Good-night, dear; mother Hephzy is a sweet old thing.”
The two girls turned over, and in a few moments were sleeping soundly. It would have taken more than the recollections of their adventures to banish sleep from their tired eyes. They slept the sweet refreshing sleep of those who have passed their waking hours in the strong, bracing air of the prairie.
Two days later Hervey was abroad early. He was cleaning his guns outside the back door of the house. Two weapons were lying upon a large dust sheet which was spread out upon the ground. The guns were in pieces, and each portion had been carefully oiled and wiped. He was now devoting his attention to a heavy revolver.
Prudence was standing in the kitchen doorway watching her brother. Andy was over by the barn superintending the dispatch of the teams to the harvest fields; the hands were preparing to depart to their work. Prudence’s early morning work was in the creamery.
Hervey looked up from the weapon he was cleaning, and turned his great eyes upon his sister.