Stanley's, telling that preparation
was being made for Darby's last breakfast. It might have told more, however,
by its long continuance; for it meant that Little Darby was cutting his mother
a supply of wood to last till his return. Inside, the old woman,
thin and faded, was rubbing his musket.
. . . . .
The sun was just rising above the pines, filling the little bottom
between the cabins with a sort of rosy light, and making
the dewy bushes and weeds sparkle with jewel-strung gossamer webs,
when Little Darby, with his musket in his hand, stepped for the last time
out of the low door. He had been the first soldier in the district to enlist,
he must be on time. He paused just long enough to give one swift glance
around the little clearing, and then set out along the path at his old
swinging pace. At the edge of the pines he turned and glanced back.
His mother was standing in the door, but whether she saw him or not
he could not tell. He waved his hand to her, but she did not wave back,
her eyes were failing somewhat. The next instant he disappeared in the pines.
He had crossed the little stream on the old log and passed the point where
he had met Vashti the evening before, when he thought he heard something fall
a little ahead of him.
Pages:
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175
176
177
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185