She was tireder still when they got out of the train at Hillsboro
Station and started wearily up the road toward Putney Farm. Two miles
lay before them, two miles which they had often walked before, but never
after such a day as now lay back of them. Molly dragged her feet as she
walked and hung heavily on Betsy's hand. Betsy plodded along, her head
hanging, her eyes all gritty with fatigue and sleepiness. A light buggy
spun round the turn of the road behind them, the single horse trotting
fast as though the driver were in a hurry, the wheels rattling smartly
on the hard road. The little girls drew out to one side and stood
waiting till the road should be free again. When he saw them the driver
pulled the horse back so quickly it stood almost straight up. He peered
at them through the twilight and then with a loud shout sprang over the
side of the buggy.
It was Uncle Henry--oh, goody, it was Uncle Henry come to meet them!
They wouldn't have to walk any further!
But what was the matter with Uncle Henry? He ran up to them, exclaiming,
"Are ye all right? Are ye all right?" He stooped over and felt of them
desperately as though he expected them to be broken somewhere. And Betsy
could feel that his old hands were shaking, that he was trembling all
over. When she said, "Why, yes, Uncle Henry, we're all right. We came
home on the cars," Uncle Henry leaned up against the fence as though he
couldn't stand up.
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