She was
staring from wide and, Caleb noted, rather horror-stricken eyes at the
huge steel trap above the blanket pack. But the boy who must have
received her glance full in his face had not faltered a step in his
advance. He went forward until he stood at the foot of the low steps
which mounted to the veranda; and there he stopped, looking up at her,
and removed his battered hat. Caleb ranged awkwardly up alongside him
and looked up at her in turn. He, searching desperately for a neat and
cleverly casual opening speech, could not know that beneath her
forbidding manner a peal of soft laughter was struggling for utterance;
could not know that, at that moment, she was telling herself that, of
the two, Caleb was far the younger.
At last he cleared his throat, oratorically, and then she promptly
interrupted him.
"Supper is served, Cal," she drawled in her gentle, almost lisping
voice.
Caleb received the statement as if it were an astounding bit of
hitherto undreamed-of news.
"Comin', Sarah!" he chirped briskly. "Comin' this blessed minute!"
And then, with an attempt at disingenuousness:
"I--I've a friend here, Sarah, whom I'd like to--er--present to you!
This is my sister, Miss Hunter," he announced to the silent boy, "and
this young man, Sarah, this young man is--er--ah--Mr.----"
"I'm Steve," said the boy, mildly. "I'm just Stephen O'Mara!"
"Certainly!" gasped Caleb.
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