Pappy Blackshears passed away quietly in the evening; and when he had been
made ready for his grave by Cornelia's hands, her anxiety for the little
daughter at home would not let her remain longer.
"I'm jest 'bleeged to go to Huldy," she explained to the relatives and
neighbors gathered at the old Blackshears place. "I p'intedly dassent to
leave her over one night--and not a soul with her but Sammy, and he nothin'
but a chile--and not a neighbor within a mild of our place--and sech a
night! Pap and me we'll hitch up an' mak' 'as'e back to Huldy. We'll be
here to the funeral a Sunday--but I dassent to stay away from Huldy nair
another hour now." And so, at ten o'clock that bitter night, Pap and Aunt
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.
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