CHAPTER XII
HE IS COME
One Sunday afternoon Barefoot, according to her custom, was leaning against the door-post of the house and gazing dreamily out before her, when Coaly Mathew's grandson came running up the street, beckoning to her from afar and crying:
"He is come, Barefoot! He is come!"
Barefoot felt her knees tremble, and she cried in a broken voice:
"Where is he? Where?"
"At my grandfather's, in Mossbrook Wood!"
"Where? Who? Who sent you?"
"Your Damie—he's down yonder in the woods."
Barefoot was obliged to sit down on the stone bench in front of the house; but only for a minute. Then she pulled herself together and stood up stiffly with the words: