Лето

           “Yourmotherisdead,Charity;you’dbettercomewithme,”hesaid.

           ShegotdownandfollowedhimwhileLiffledthehorseaway.Assheapproachedthedoorshesaidtoherself:“ThisiswhereIwasborn...thisiswhereIbelong....”ShehadsaidittoherselfoftenenoughasshelookedacrossthesunlitvalleysattheMountain;butithadmeantnothingthen,andnowithadbecomeareality.Mr.Milestookhergentlybythearm,andtheyenteredwhatappearedtobetheonlyroominthehouse.Itwassodarkthatshecouldjustdiscernagroupofadozenpeoplesittingorsprawlingaboutatablemadeofboardslaidacrosstwobarrels.TheylookeduplistlesslyasMr.MilesandCharitycamein,andawoman’sthickvoicesaid:“Here’sthepreacher.”Butnoonemoved.

           Mr.Milespausedandlookedabouthim;thenheturnedtotheyoungmanwhohadmetthematthedoor.

           “Isthebodyhere?”heasked.

           Theyoungman,insteadofanswering,turnedhisheadtowardthegroup.“Where’sthecandle?Itoleyertobringacandle,”hesaidwithsuddenharshnesstoagirlwhowaslollingagainstthetable.Shedidnotanswer,butanothermangotupandtookfromsomecorneracandlestuckintoabottle.

           “How’llIlightit?Thestove’sout,”thegirlgrumbled.

           Mr.Milesfumbledunderhisheavywrappingsanddrewoutamatch-box.Heheldamatchtothecandle,andinamomentortwoafaintcircleoflightfellonthepaleaguishheadsthatstartedoutoftheshadowliketheheadsofnocturnalanimals.

           “Mary’soverthere,”someonesaid;andMr.