“Kiss her first. Me last. Just once. Now, go! I won't be weak with you like David is. And don't you be afraid for _me_. I can get along. _I'm not a man_!” She went into the cabin, with her baby over her shoulder; but in a little while she came back without it, and stared after the figure of Laban losing itself in the night. Then she sat down on the doorstep and cried; it seemed as if she never could stop; but the tears helped her. When she lifted her head she caught the sounds of singing from the village below the upland where the cabin stood. It was the tune that carried, not the words, but she knew them from the tune; as well as if she were in the Temple with them she knew what the people were singing. While she followed the lines helplessly, almost singing them herself, she was startled by the presence of a boy, who had come silently round the cabin in his bare feet and stood beside her. “Oh!” she cried out. “Why, did I scare you, mom?” he asked tenderly. “I didn't mean to.” “No, Joey. I didn't know any one was there; that's all. I didn't expect you. Why ain't you at home in bed? You must be tired enough, poor boy.” “Oh, no, I ain't tired. Mr. Hingston is real good to me; he lets me rest plenty; and he says I'll make a first rate miller. I helped to dress the burrs this morning--the millstones, you know,” the boy explained, proud of the technicality. “Oh, I tell you I just like it there,” he said, and he laughed out his joy in it. “You always was a glad boy, Joey,” his mother said ruefully. “Well, you wouldn't thought so if you seen me over at our house. It seemed like there was somebody dead; I dasn't hardly go in, it was so dark and still. Whyn't you there? Didn't pop come home?” “Yes, but he had to go back to the Cross Roads; he's got work there all the fall.” “Well! We do seem to be gittin' along!” He laughed again. “I reckon you come over here because it seemed kind o' lonesome. Goin' to stay all night with Uncle?” “Yes. You won't mind being there alone?” “Oh, no! Not much, I reckon.” “You can stay here too, if you want to--” “Oh, no! Mom,” he confessed shyly, “I brung Benny Hingston with me. I thought you'd let him stay all night with me.” “Why, certainly, Joey--” “He's just behind the house; I wanted to ask first--” “You know you can always bring Benny. There's plenty of room for both of you in your bed. But now when you go back with him be careful of the lamp. I put a fresh piece of rag in and there's plenty of grease. You can blow up a coal on the hearth. I covered the fire; only be careful.” “Oh, we'll be careful. Benny's about the carefullest boy the' is in Leatherwood. Oh, I do like being in the mill with Mr. Hingston.” He laughed out his joy again, and then he asked doubtfully, “Mom?” “Yes, Joey.”