“Can you hear me, little Miss Harris?” The voice came from the dusky
shed, high up against the wall.
But the child did not turn her head. “Yes--Mr. Achilles--I can hear you
very well,” she said softly.
“Don’t look this way,” said the voice. “Get down and look at the
chickens--and listen to what I tell you.”
The child dropped obediently to her knees, her head a little bent, her
face toward the open light outside.
The woman, going about her work in the kitchen, looked out and saw her
and nodded to her kindly--
The child’s lips made a little smile in return. They were very pale.
“I come to take you home,” said the voice. It was full of tenderness and
Betty Harris bent her head, a great wave of homesickness sweeping across
her.
“I can’t go, Mr. Achilles.” It was like a sob. “I can’t go. They will
kill you. I heard them. They will kill _anybody_--that comes--!” She
spoke in swift little whispers--and waited. “Can you hear me say it?”
she asked. “Can you hear me say it, Mr. Achilles?”
“I hear it--yes.” The voice of Achilles laughed a little. “They will
not kill--little lady, and you go home--with me--to-night.” The voice
dropped down from its high place and comforted her.
She reached out little hands to the chickens and laughed tremulously. “I
am afraid,” she said softly, “I am afraid!”
But the low voice, up in the dusk, steadied her and gave her swift
commands--and repeated them--till she crept from the dim shed into the
light and stood up--blinking a little--and looked about her--and laughed
happily.
And the woman came to the door and smiled at her. “You must come in,”
she called.
“Yes--Mrs. Seabury--” The child darted back into the shed and gathered
up the spoon and basin from the board and looked about her swiftly. In
the slatted box, the mother hen clucked drowsily, and wise cheeps from
beneath her wings answered bravely. The child glanced at the box, and up
at the dusky boards of the shed, peering far in the dimness. But there
was no one--not even a voice--just the high, tumbled pile of boards--and
the few nests along the wall and the mother hen clucking cosily behind
her slats--and the wise little cheeps.