cold, gray morning fog. Presently Flea stood up and said decisively:

"We've got to eat. Ye stay here while I hunt for somethin'."

She darted away before Flukey could remonstrate. For a long time the boy
lay on the damp ground, his face drawn awry with pain, watching the
wagons going back and forth on the road below. The pangs of hunger and
the night of rheumatism had told upon his young strength. His mind went
back to the hut on Cayuga Lake, and he thought of how when their absence
had been discovered Granny Cronk had cried a little, and how Pappy Lon
had cursed and grown more silent than ever. The tender heart of the sick
boy yearned toward the old squatter woman, who had been the only mother
he and Flea had ever known. In his loneliness he stroked Squeaky on the
snout and muttered tender words to the lean dog lying under his lame
leg. After a short time he saw Flea, with a small bundle in her hand,
picking her way among the graves. Flukey lay perfectly quiet until his
sister offered him a bun.

"I could only buy four, 'cause I only had a nickel."

"Give Squeaky and Snatchet one, will ye, Flea?" ventured Flukey.

"Yep. I said, when I buyed 'em, there'd be one apiece."

"Somethin' has made ye pale, Flea," said Flukey after each of the four
had devoured breakfast. "Ye didn't--"

"I see Lem Crabbe's scow down by the river."

Flukey uttered an exclamation and sat up with a groan. "He's comin'