I set off through the fields for Black Jean’s. Before I had run half the distance, I heard shooting, and it was father’s rifle—I knew the sound of her only too well.
When I got to my spying-place it was all quiet at Black Jean’s. I could not see a thing stirring about the cabin.
Then I thought of mother and started home. Father had gone over to the Cove that morning, with a load of wheat for the Yankee’s mill, and wasn’t to get back until late. So mother and I waited.
It was nearly one o’clock in the morning when we heard father’s wagon, and I rushed outside.
“Hello, son,” he exclaimed. “You’re up late. And here’s mother, too.”
Father listened to what we told him, without saying a word.
“Well,” he said, when we had finished. “I don’t really see anything to worry about. Black Jean can take care of himself. Look there!”
He was pointing over here to this limekiln.
“Jean’s had her loaded for a week,” said father, “waiting for better weather.”
Later, in the house, my father said: “It is none of our business, anyway.”