The girl’s heart went into double-quick time as the man came near to her. It slowed down very little as he vanished into the night. Questions were pounding away at her brain. Who was this man? What did he want? To whom had he referred? To Mrs. McAlpin? To Hallie?
“Must have been Hallie,” she told herself. “And now perhaps he will steal upon us unawares and carry her away.”
Even as she thought this she felt that it was a foolish fear. Why should he?
Then of a sudden, as a new thought struck her, she sprang to her feet. A cry was on her lips, but it died unuttered.
It had suddenly occurred to her that if this man knew something about this mysterious little girl he should be called back and questioned.
She did not call him back. She was afraid, very much afraid of that man.
“Anyway,” she reassured herself, “he probably didn’t mean Hallie at all. Probably meant Mrs. McAlpin. She’s been here three summers, and has been up every creek for miles around.”
With this as a concluding thought, and having caught the delicious odor of spring chicken roasting on the hearth, she hurried down to supper.
As she entered the cabin, Mrs. McAlpin, who was a famous cook, lifted the lid of the small cast-iron oven that had been buried beneath the hearth coals for an hour. At once the room was filled with such delectable fragrance as only can come from such an oven.
Since the cabin had been purchased by its present owner, it had not been disfigured by a stove. An immense stone fireplace graced the corner of each of the four rooms. The cooking was done on the hearth of the room used as kitchen and dining room.