"We could go a little piece from our camp-fire and not get lost,"
she suggested.

"Well," whispered Robert boldly, "le's do it. Le's take a walk. It
won't do any harm. 'Tisn't late."

"The's chickens crowin' away over there."

"Chickens crow all times of the night. Don't you remember how our
old roosters used to act on Christmas night? I got out of bed four
times once, because I thought it was daylight, they would crow so!"

"Which way'll we take?" whispered aunt Corinne.

Robert slid cautiously from the log and mapped out the expedition.

"Off behind the wagon so's Zene won't see us. And then we'll slip
along towards that furthest fire. We can see the others as we go by.
Follow me."

It was easy to slip behind the wagon and lose themselves in the
brush. But there they stumbled on unseen snags and were caught or
scratched by twigs, and descended suddenly to a pig-wallow or other
ugly spot, where Corinne fell down. Bobaday then thought it expedient
for his aunt to take hold of his jacket behind and walk in his
tracks, according to their life-long custom when going down cellar
for apples after dark. Grandma Padgett was not a woman to pamper the
fear of darkness in her family. She had been known to take a child
who recoiled from shapeless visions, and lead him into the unlighted
room where he fancied he saw them.