‘Guess it’s nuthin’ to be ‘fraid of;’ he said, feeling in the pet of his coat He had struck a match in a moment.  By its flickering light I could see only a bit of rubbish on the floor.

‘Full o’ white owls,’ said he, stepping inside, where the rustling was now continuous.  ‘They’ll do us no harm.’

I could see them now flying about under the low ceiling.  Uncle Eb gathered an gathered an armful of grass and clover, in the near field, and spread it in a corner well away from the ruined door and windows.  Covered with our blanket it made a fairly comfortable bed.  Soon as we had lain down, the rain began to rattle on the shaky roof and flashes of lightning lit every corner of the old room.

I have had, ever, a curious love of storms, and, from the time when memory began its record in my brain, it has delighted me to hear at night the roar of thunder and see the swift play of the lightning.  I lay between Uncle Eb and the old dog, who both went asleep shortly.  Less wearied I presume than either of them, for I had done none of the carrying, and had slept along time that day in the shade of a tree, I was awake an hour or more after they were snoring.  Every flash lit the old room like the full glare of the noonday sun.  I remember it showed me an old cradle, piled full of rubbish, a rusty scythe hung in the rotting sash of a window, a few lengths of stove-pipe and a plough in one corner, and three staring white owls that sat on a beam above the doorway.  The rain roared on the old roof shortly, and came dripping down through the bare boards above us.  A big drop struck in my face and I moved a little.  Then I saw what made me hold my breath a moment and cover my head with the shawl.  A flash of lightning revealed a tall, ragged man looking in at the doorway.  I lay close to Uncle Eb imagining much evil of that vision but made no outcry.

Snugged in between my two companions I felt reasonably secure and soon fell asleep.  The sun, streaming in at the open door, roused me in the morning.  At the beginning of each day of our journey I woke to find Uncle Eb cooking at the fire.  He was lying beside me, this morning, his eyes open.

‘Fraid I’m hard sick,’ he said as I kissed him.

‘What’s the matter?’ I enquired.

He struggled to a sitting posture, groaning so it went to my heart.

‘Rheumatiz,’ he answered presently.

He got to his feet, little by little, and every move he made gave him great pain.  With one hand on his cane and the other on my shoulder he made his way slowly to the broken gate.  Even now I can see clearly the fair prospect of that high place — a valley reaching to distant hills and a river winding through it, glimmering in the sunlight; a long wooded ledge breaking into naked, grassy slopes on one side of the valley and on the other a deep forest rolling to the far horizon; between them big patches of yellow grain and white buckwheat and green pasture land and greener meadows and the straight road, with white houses on either side of it, glorious in a double fringe of golden rod and purple aster and yellow John’s-wort and the deep blue of the Jacob’s ladder.