"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 muffled 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