On the day after Shade Buckheath and Gideon Himes had come to
their agreement, she stopped at the hospital for a briefer stay than
usual. Her uncle was worse, and an opiate had been administered to quiet
him, so that she only sat a while at the bedside and finally took her
way homeward in a state of utter depression for which she could
scarcely account.
It was dusk--almost dark--when she reached the gate, and she noted
carelessly a vehicle drawn up before it.
"Johnnie," called her mother's voice from the back of the rickety old
wagon as the girl was turning in toward the steps.
"Sis' Johnnie--Sis' Johnnie!" crowed Deanie; and then she was aware of
sober, eleven-year-old Milo climbing down over the wheel and trying to
help Lissy, while Pony got in his way and was gravely reproved. She ran
to the wheel and put up ready arms.
"Why, honeys!" she exclaimed. "How come you-all never let me know to
expect you? Oh, I'm so glad, mother. I didn't intend to send you word to
come; but I was feeling so blue. I sure wanted to. Maybe Uncle Pros
might know you--or the baby--and it would do him good."
She had got little Deanie out in her arms now, and stood hugging the
child, bending to kiss Melissa, finding a hand to pat Milo's shoulder
and rub Pony's tousled poll.
"Oh, I'm so glad!--I'm so glad to see you-all," she kept repeating.
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