Part 2 (1/2)
”We'll go through the woods,” said Mom Beck, lifting her over the fence.
”It's not so long that way.”
As they followed the narrow, straggling path into the cool dusk of the woods, she began to sing. The crooning chant was as mournful as a funeral dirge.
”The clouds hang heavy, an' it's gwine to rain.
Fa'well, my dyin' friends.
I'm gwine to lie in the silent tomb.
Fa'well, my dyin' friends.”
A m.u.f.fled little sob made her stop and look down in surprise.
”Why, what's the mattah, honey?” she exclaimed. ”Did Emma Louise make you mad? Or is you cryin' 'cause you're so ti'ed? Come! Ole Becky'll tote her baby the rest of the way.”
She picked the light form up in her arms, and, pressing the troubled little face against her shoulder, resumed her walk and her song.
”It's a world of trouble we're travellin' through, Fa'well, my dyin' friends.”
”Oh, don't, Mom Beck,” sobbed the child, throwing her arms around the woman's neck, and crying as though her heart would break.
”Land sakes, what is the mattah?” she asked, in alarm. She sat down on a mossy log, took off the white hat, and looked into the flushed, tearful face.
”Oh, it makes me so lonesome when you sing that way,” wailed the Little Colonel. ”I just can't 'tand it! Mom Beck, is my mothah's heart all broken? Is that why she is sick so much, and will it kill her suah 'nuff?”
”Who's been tellin' you such nonsense?” asked the woman, sharply.
”Some ladies at the hotel were talkin' about it. They said that gran'fathah didn't love her any moah, an' it was just a-killin' her.”
Mom Beck frowned fiercely.
The child's grief was so deep and intense that she did not know just how to quiet her. Then she said, decidedly, ”Well, if that's all that's a-troublin' you, you can jus' get down an' walk home on yo' own laigs.
Yo' mamma's a-grievin' 'cause yo' papa has to be away all the time.
She's all wo'n out, too, with the work of movin', when she's nevah been used to doin' anything. But her heart isn't broke any moah'n my neck is.”
The positive words and the decided toss Mom Beck gave her head settled the matter for the Little Colonel. She wiped her eyes and stood up much relieved.
”Don't you nevah go to worryin' 'bout what you heahs,” continued the woman. ”I tell you p'intedly you cyarnt nevah b'lieve what you heahs.”
”Why doesn't gran'fathah love my mothah?” asked the child, as they came in sight of the cottage. She had puzzled over the knotty problem all the way home. ”How can papas not love their little girls?”
”'Cause he's stubbo'n,” was the unsatisfactory answer. ”All the Lloyds is. Yo' mamma's stubbo'n, an' you's stubbo'n--”
”I'm not!” shrieked the Little Colonel, stamping her foot. ”You sha'n't call me names!”
Then she saw a familiar white hand waving to her from the hammock, and she broke away from Mom Beck with very red cheeks and very bright eyes.
Cuddled close in her mother's arms, she had a queer feeling that she had grown a great deal older in that short afternoon.