“I s’pose,” said Anna, “she’d as leave we had it as soldiers. Wouldn’t it be jolly if we could make ’em steal the bees?”
The wind blew east. Up came martial sounds mingled with the break and the roar of the ocean.
“Oh, dear! They’re a coming,” gasped Mrs. Kull, running to the spot. “They’re coming, and your father is not here.”
“Hide, hide, my children! Never mind the cow now,” she almost shrieked; her mind was running wild with all the scenes of terror she had ever heard of.
“Pshaw! pshaw! Mother Kull,” said her boy, assuringly. “They won’t come down here. Somebody’s guiding them around who knows just where every house is. You and Anna get into that thicket yonder and keep, whatever happens, as still as mice.”
“What’ll you do, bub?” questioned Anna, her sunburned face brown-pale with affright.
“Oh, I’ll take care of myself. Boys always do.”
As soon as Mrs. Kull and her daughter were well concealed in the thicket, the sounds began to die away. They waited half an hour. All was still. They crept out, gazing the country over. No soldier in sight. Down in the marsh again were boy and cow.
“I’ll run home now,” said Mrs. Kull. “I dare say ’twas all a trick of my ears.”