Mr. Achilles

XXXII

AND A VOICE

“Can you hear me, little Miss Harris?” The voice came from the dusky shed, high up against the wall.

But the child did not turn her head. “Yes—Mr. Achilles—I can hear you very well,” she said softly.

“Don’t look this way,” said the voice. “Get down and look at the chickens—and listen to what I tell you.”

The child dropped obediently to her knees, her head a little bent, her face toward the open light outside.

The woman, going about her work in the kitchen, looked out and saw her and nodded to her kindly—

The child’s lips made a little smile in return. They were very pale.

“I come to take you home,” said the voice. It was full of tenderness and Betty Harris bent her head, a great wave of homesickness sweeping across her.

“I can’t go, Mr. Achilles.” It was like a sob. “I can’t go. They will kill you. I heard them. They will kill anybody—that comes—!” She spoke in swift little whispers—and waited. “Can you hear me say it?” she asked. “Can you hear me say it, Mr. Achilles?”

“I hear it—yes.” The voice of Achilles laughed a little. “They will not kill—little lady, and you go home—with me—to-night.” The voice dropped down from its high place and comforted her.

She reached out little hands to the chickens and laughed tremulously. “I am afraid,” she said softly, “I am afraid!”

But the low voice, up in the dusk, steadied her and gave her swift commands—and repeated them—till she crept from the dim shed into the light and stood up—blinking a little—and looked about her—and laughed happily.

And the woman came to the door and smiled at her. “You must come in,” she called.

“Yes—Mrs. Seabury—” The child darted back into the shed and gathered up the spoon and basin from the board and looked about her swiftly. In the slatted box, the mother hen clucked drowsily, and wise cheeps from beneath her wings answered bravely. The child glanced at the box, and up at the dusky boards of the shed, peering far in the dimness. But there was no one—not even a voice—just the high, tumbled pile of boards—and the few nests along the wall and the mother hen clucking cosily behind her slats—and the wise little cheeps.