ed out her yearning arms. "Gin him ter me!"

"Naw, naw, Eveliny," huskily whispered Absalom's mother. "Ye oughter kem
hyar an' 'bide with yer husband--ye know ye ought."

Evelina still held out her insistent arms. "Gin him ter me!" she
pleaded.

The old woman shook her head sternly. "Ye kem in, an' 'bide whar ye
b'long."

Evelina took a step nearer the window. She laid her hand on the sill.
"Spos'n 'twar Abs'lom whenst he war a baby," she said, her eyes softly
brightening, "an' another woman hed him an' kep' him, 'kase ye an' his
dad fell out--would ye hev 'lowed she war right ter treat ye like ye
treat me--whenst Abs'lom war a baby?"

Once more she held out her arms.

There was a step in the inner shed-room; then silence.

"Ye hain't got no excuse," the soft voice urged; "ye know jes how I
feel, how ye'd hev felt, whenst Abs'lom war a baby."

The shawl had fallen back from her tender face; her eyes glowed, her
cheek was softly flushed. A sudden terror thrilled through her as she
again heard the heavy step approaching in the shed-room. "Whenst Abs'lom
war a baby," she reiterated, her whole pleading heart in the tones.

A sudden radiance seemed to illumine the sad, dun-colored folds of the
encompassing cloud; her face shone with a transfiguring happiness, for
the hustling old crone had handed out to her a warm, somnolent bundle,
and the shutter closed upon the mists with a bang.

"The wind's riz powerful suddint," Peter said, noticing the noise as he
came stumbling in, rubbing his eyes. He went and fastened the shutter,
while his mother tremulously mended the fire.

The absence of the baby was not noticed for some time, and when the
father's hasty and angry questions elicited the reluctant facts, the
outcry for his loss was hardly less bitter among the Kittredges than
among the Quimbeys. The fugitives were shielded from capture by the
enveloping mist, and when Absalom returned from the search he could do
naught but indignantly upbraid his mother.

[Illustration: Flung her apron over her head 133]

She was terrified by her own deed, and cowered under Absalom's wrath. It
was in a moral collapse, she felt, that she could have done this
thing. She flung her apron over her head, and sat still and silent--a
monumental figure--among them. Once, roused by Absalom's reproaches, she
made some effort to defend and exculpate herself, speaking from behind
the enveloping apron.

"I ain't born no Kittredge nohow," she