“Oh!” she cried out.
“Why, did I scare you, mom?” he asked tenderly. “I didn't mean to.”
“No, Joey. I didn't know any one was there; that's all. I didn't expect you. Why ain't you at home in bed? You must be tired enough, poor boy.”
“Oh, no, I ain't tired. Mr. Hingston is real good to me; he lets me rest plenty; and he says I'll make a first rate miller. I helped to dress the burrs this morning—the millstones, you know,” the boy explained, proud of the technicality. “Oh, I tell you I just like it there,” he said, and he laughed out his joy in it.
“You always was a glad boy, Joey,” his mother said ruefully.
“Well, you wouldn't thought so if you seen me over at our house. It seemed like there was somebody dead; I dasn't hardly go in, it was so dark and still. Whyn't you there? Didn't pop come home?”
“Yes, but he had to go back to the Cross Roads; he's got work there all the fall.”
“Well! We do seem to be gittin' along!” He laughed again. “I reckon you come over here because it seemed kind o' lonesome. Goin' to stay all night with Uncle?”
“Yes. You won't mind being there alone?”
“Oh, no! Not much, I reckon.”