The distant sound of a hoot-owl startled Flea from her tears.  It was a familiar sound to her and came as a call from a friend.

Creeping into the low woodshed, Flea took up a bundle of fagots from the corner, and, closing the door on Snatchet that he might not follow her, mounted the hill with the wood under her arm.  Once at the top of the lane, she opened her lips and echoed the hoot.  She passed through a thicket of sumac into a clearing where a number of sheep were huddled together in the cold night air.  An answer came back almost instantly from the ragged rocks, and, squatting in a hollow, Flea sat patiently until the branches broke below her.  A woman with tangled hair came creeping cautiously forward.

“Who be there?” she whispered.

“It’s Flea, Screech Owl.  Be the bats a runnin’ in yer head?”

“Yep, child,” the woman answered mournfully.  “The fagots be given out, too, and I’m a huntin’ of ’em.  The night’s cold.”

“I was lookin’ for ye this afternoon, Screechy,” said Flea.  “Set down.”

The lean, half-starved woman dropped beside the girl.  Flea put out her hand and smoothed down the rough hair on Scraggy’s black cat.  The animal, usually so vicious, purred in delight, rubbing his nose against the girl’s hand.

“Air the little Flea wantin’ the owl to tell her somethin’?”

“Yep,” replied Flea doubtfully.

“And ye brought yer old Screechy a little present?”

“Yep.”

“What?”

“Some fagots to keep ye warm, Screechy.”

“Where be they?”

“Here by my side.”

“Ye be a good Flea,” cackled Screechy.  “Be ye in trouble?”

“Yep.  So be Flukey.  Can ye tell me anything ’bout Flukey?”

The woman frowned.  “Flukey, Flukey, yer brother,” she repeated.  “I ain’t a likin’ boys, ’cause they throw stones at me.”

“Flukey never throwed no stones at ye, Screechy, an’ he’s unhappy now.  He’ll bring ye a lot more fagots sometime to heat yer bones by.”

“Aye, I’m a needin’ heat.  My bones be stiff, and my blood’s nothin’ but water, and my eyes ain’t seein’ nothin’.”

“Don’t they see things in the dark,” asked the girl, superstitiously, “ghosts and things?”

“Aye, Flea; and the things I see now I’ll tell ye if they be good or bad—­mind ye, good or bad!”

“Good or bad,” repeated Flea.

At length, after a silence, the girl broke forth.  “Air Flukey in yer eyes, Screechy?”

“Yep, Flea, and so be you; but there ain’t much for ye, savin’ that ye go a long journey lookin’ for a good land.”

Bending her head nearer, Flea coaxed, “What good land, Screechy dear?”

“Yer’s and Flukey’s, Flea.”

“Where air it?”

“Down behind the college hill, many a stretch for yer short legs from the squatter’s settlement, and many a day when bread’s short and water’s plenty, many a night when the cold’ll bite yer legs, and many a tear—­”