"Who?"
"The one I must call Aunt Martha; do you like her?"
"Well, I never thought about it, much, but I don't believe I am as fond of her as I ought to be."
"Ought to be,—why?"
"She is my real blood aunt, you know—my mother's sister."
"That's nothing. She's hateful, just as much as if she weren't—this morning she stole my crucifix—I left it on my dresser, and it's gone. O, I know she stole it!"
"Don't let's talk about that now," I said, "but sit down here and have lunch together. I'm hungry still, though I've had my dinner." This was not strictly true, but I managed to eat enough to keep her at it till I thought she was satisfied, and then I bade her follow me, and not to let me walk too fast for her.
She scouted the idea, saying: "My father was tall, like you, and walked fast always, and he never had to wait for me."
She kept up without seeming to try, and helped me to pile brush for a blind on the edge of the brake, keeping as still as possible when we were hidden behind it.
A flock rose presently, and flew straight over our heads toward the river. I took aim, brought down one, then loaded quickly, and hit a second, as the flock circled, calling noisily to each other.