"Whose boy, Mr. Lightfoot?" she asked sharply.
Holding the child by the hand, the Major went into the room.
"It's poor Jane's boy, Molly," he repeated huskily.
The old lady raised her head upon her high pillows, and looked at him by
the light of the candle on her breast. "Are you Jane's boy?" she questioned
in suspicion, and at the child's "Yes, ma'am," she said, "Come nearer.
There, stand between the curtains. Yes, you are Jane's boy, I see." She
gave the decision flatly, as if his parentage were a matter of her
pleasure. "And what is your name?" she added, as she snuffed the candle.
The boy looked from her stiff white nightcap to the "log-cabin" quilt on
the bed, and then at her steel hoops which were hanging from a chair back.
He had always thought of her as in her rich black silk, with the tight gray
curls about her ears, and at this revelation of her inner mysteries, his
fancy received a checkmate.
But he met her eyes again and answered simply, "Dandridge--they call me
Dan--Dan Montjoy."
"And he has walked two hundred miles, Molly," gasped the Major.
"Then he must be tired," was the old lady's rejoinder, and she added with
spirit: "Mr. Lightfoot, will you show Dan to Jane's old room, and see that
he has a blanket on his bed. He should have been asleep hours ago--good
night, child, be sure and say your prayers," and as they crossed the
threshold, she laid aside her book and blew out her light.
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