Uncle Billy had described. Visions of the old
days rose before her. As she stood there with her hands wrapped in her
apron, it was not the moon-flooded night she looked into, but the warm,
living daylight of a golden past.

At last, with a sigh, she turned to take the chairs into the house.
Lifting the big rocker high in front of her, she stepped over the
threshold and started to shuffle her way along to the candle shelf. The
chair came down in the middle of the floor with a sudden bang, as she
caught her foot in John Jay's pillow and sprawled across him.

The boy's first waking thought was that there had been an earthquake and
that the cabin had caved in. He never could rightly remember the order
of events that followed, but he had a confused memory of a shriek, a
scratching of matches, and the glimmer of a candle that made him sit up
and blink his eyes. Then something struck him, first on one ear, then
the other, cuffing him soundly. He was too dazed to know why. Some blind
instinct helped him to find the bed and burrow down under the clothes,
where he lay trying to think what possible fault of his could have
raised such a cyclone about his ears. He was too deep under the
bedclothes to hear Mammy's grumbling remarks about his "tawmentin' ways"
as she rubbed her skinned elbow with tallow from the candle.

CHAPTER III.

Standing in the back door of Sheba's cabin one could see the red gables
of the old Chadwick house, rising above the dark pine-trees that
surrounded it. A wealthy city family by the name of Haven owned it now.
It was open only during the summer months. The roses that Mistress Alice
had set out with her own white hands years ago climbed all over the
front of the house, twining around its tall pillars, and hanging down in
festoons from its stately eaves. Cuttings from the same hardy plant had
been trained along the fences, around the tree-trunks and over
trellises, until the place had come to be known all around the country
as "Rosehaven."

Sheba always had steady employment when the place was open, for the
young ladies of the family kept her flat-irons busy with their endless
tucks and ruffles. She found a good market, too, for all the eggs she
could induce her buff cochins to lay, and all the berries that she
could make John Jay pick.

This bright June morning she stood in the door with a basket of fresh
eggs in her hand, looking anxiously across the fields to the gables of
Rosehaven, and