"Kiss her first. Me last. Just once. Now, go! I won't be weak with you
like David is. And don't you be afraid for _me_. I can get along.
_I'm not a man_!" She went into the cabin, with her baby over her
shoulder; but in a little while she came back without it, and stared after
the figure of Laban losing itself in the night. Then she sat down on the
doorstep and cried; it seemed as if she never could stop; but the tears
helped her.

When she lifted her head she caught the sounds of singing from the
village below the upland where the cabin stood. It was the tune that
carried, not the words, but she knew them from the tune; as well as if she
were in the Temple with them she knew what the people were singing. While
she followed the lines helplessly, almost singing them herself, she was
startled by the presence of a boy, who had come silently round the cabin
in his bare feet and stood beside her.

"Oh!" she cried out.

"Why, did I scare you, mom?" he asked tenderly. "I didn't mean to."

"No, Joey. I didn't know any one was there; that's all. I didn't expect
you. Why ain't you at home in bed? You must be tired enough, poor boy."

"Oh, no, I ain't tired. Mr. Hingston is real good to me; he lets me rest
plenty; and he says I'll make a first rate miller. I helped to dress the
burrs this morning--the millstones, you know," the boy explained, proud of
the technicality. "Oh, I tell you I just like it there," he said, and he
laughed out his joy in it.