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“And you take the entire charge of the house?”

“Yes, and the log tallies.”

“The log tallies?”

“Yes; keep count and measure the logs that go by the slide.”

It flashed upon me that I had passed the slide or declivity on the hillside, where logs were slipped down into the valley, and I inferred that Johnson’s business was cutting timber for the mill.

“But you’re rather young for all this work,” I suggested.

“I’m goin’ on sixteen,” she said gravely.

Indeed, for the matter of that, she might have been any age. Her face, on which sunburn took the place of complexion, was already hard and set. But on a nearer view I was struck with the fact that her eyes, which were not large, were almost indistinguishable from the presence of the most singular eyelashes I had ever seen. Intensely black, intensely thick, and even tangled in their profusion, they bristled rather than fringed her eyelids, obliterating everything but the shining black pupils beneath, which were like certain lustrous hairy mountain berries. It was this woodland suggestion that seemed to uncannily connect her with the locality. I went on playfully:–

“That’s not VERY old–but tell me–does your father, or DID your father, ever speak of you as his ‘old woman?'”

She nodded. “Then you thought I was mar?” she said, smiling.

It was such a relief to see her worn face relax its expression of pathetic gravity–although this operation quite buried her eyes in their black thickest hedge again–that I continued cheerfully: “It wasn’t much of a mistake, considering all you do for the house and family.”

“Then you didn’t tell Billy ‘to go and be dead in the ground with mar,’ as he ‘lows you did?” she said half suspiciously, yet trembling on the edge of a smile.

No, I had not, but I admitted that my asking him to go to his mother might have been open to this dismal construction by a sensitive infant mind. She seemed mollified, and again turned to go.

“Good-night, Miss–you know your father didn’t tell me your real name,” I said.

“Karline!”

“Good-night, Miss Karline.”

I held out my hand.

She looked at it and then at me through her intricate eyelashes. Then she struck it aside briskly, but not unkindly, said “Quit foolin’, now,” as she might have said to one of the children, and disappeared through the inner door. Not knowing whether to be amused or indignant, I remained silent a moment. Then I took a turn outside in the increasing darkness, listened to the now hurrying wind over the tree-tops, re-entered the cabin, closed the door, and went to bed.

But not to sleep. Perhaps the responsibility towards these solitary children, which Johnson had so lightly shaken off, devolved upon me as I lay there, for I found myself imagining a dozen emergencies of their unprotected state, with which the elder girl could scarcely grapple. There was little to fear from depredatory man or beast–desperadoes of the mountain trail never stooped to ignoble burglary, bear or panther seldom approached a cabin–but there was the chance of sudden illness, fire, the accidents that beset childhood, to say nothing of the narrowing moral and mental effect of their isolation at that tender age. It was scandalous in Johnson to leave them alone.

In the silence I found I could hear quite distinctly the sound of their voices in the extension, and it was evident that Caroline was putting them to bed. Suddenly a voice was uplifted–her own! She began to sing and the others to join her. It was the repetition of a single verse of a well-known lugubrious negro melody. “All the world am sad and dreary,” wailed Caroline, in a high head-note, “everywhere I roam.” “Oh, darkieth,” lisped the younger girl in response, “how my heart growth weary, far from the old folkth at h-o-o-me.” This was repeated two or three times before the others seemed to get the full swing of it, and then the lines rose and fell sadly and monotonously in the darkness. I don’t know why, but I at once got the impression that those motherless little creatures were under a vague belief that their performance was devotional, and was really filling the place of an evening hymn. A brief and indistinct kind of recitation, followed by a dead silence, broken only by the slow creaking of new timber, as if the house were stretching itself to sleep too, confirmed my impression. Then all became quiet again.