And—“=
At this point Beveridge began moving through the weeds. Pink sang on; and he was just breaking out into the refrain,—=
Mother's in her coffan, sir,
Mother's left her home;
The ainjulls come and took her up—'”
when he heard a sound, started, looked up, saw a dark figure bending over him, and stopped singing with a gasp.
“That 'll do for you,” said the dark figure.
“Oh, it's you!” exclaimed Pink, with relief. “That 'll do for you. Understand?”
Pink was silent. Beveridge slipped silently back to his log.
Night has a way of giving place to day, even such interminable nights as this. Neither hastening nor resting, with no heed for the miserable little company that surrounded the deserted house in the wilderness, the hours stepped silently on into eternity. The darkness slowly changed to blackness; then the east brightened, the sky paled, the new day tossed its first flaming spears, and the shivering dawn was upon them.