Under their tree was a new encampment, one tent with the hood of a
wagon behind it, and oxen grazing in the sun. As they drew near they
could see the crouched forms of two children, the light filtering
through the leafage on the silky flax of their heads. They were
occupied over a game, evidently a serious business, its floor of
operations the smooth ground worn bare about the camp fire. One of
them lay flat with a careful hand patting the dust into mounds, the
other squatted near by watching, a slant of white hair falling across a
rounded cheek. They did not heed the creak of the wagon wheels, but as
a woman's voice called from the tent, raised their heads listening, but
not answering, evidently deeming silence the best safeguard against
interruption.
Susan laid a clutching hand on Daddy John's arm.
"It's the children," she cried in a choked voice. "Stop, stop!" and
before he could rein the mules to order she was out and running toward
them, calling their names.
They made a clamor of welcome, Bob running to her and making delighted
leaps up at her face, the little girl standing aloof for the first
bashful moment, then sidling nearer with mouth upheld for kisses.
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