Cornelia came hurrying home.

As the wagon drove up the mountain trail to the house, the hounds came
belling joyously to meet them; but no light gleamed cheerfully from the
windows; no door was flung gayly open; no little Huldy cried out her glad
greeting. Filled with formless apprehensions, Pap climbed over the wheel,
lifted Cornelia down, and dreading they knew not what, the two
went,--holding by each other's hand,--opened the door, and entered,
shrinking and reluctant. They blew the smouldering coals to a little flame,
piled on light-wood till the broad blaze rolled up the chimney, then looked
about. No living soul was in any room. Finally Cornelia caught sight of a
bit of paper stuck upon the high mantel. She tore it down, and the two read
slowly and laboriously together the few lines written in Sammy's hand:

"I ain't going to allow my wife to live off any man's charity. I ain't
going to be made to look like nothing in the eyes of people any longer.
I've taken my wife to my own place, where I can support her myself. I had
to borrow your ox-cart and steers to move with, and Huldy made me bring
some things she said mother had give her, but I'll pay all this back, and
more, for I intend to be independent and not live on any man's bounty.

"Respectfully, your son,
"SAMUEL"

The two old faces, pallid and grief-struck, confronted each other in the
shaken radiance of the pine fire.

"Oh, my po' chile, my po' little Huldy! Whar? His own place! My law!--whar?
Whar has he drug that little soul?"