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Billy stared at his mother in amazement. "Jest what has Anse ever did fer you, Ma?" he asked wonderingly. "It's jest a bad cold he's caught," Billy reassured her. "He's so hoarse he can't speak." "I won't," promised Anson. "Cross my heart, Bill." The twilight shadows were beginning to steal across the glade; the golden-rod of the uplands massed into indistinguishable clumps. The silence of eventide fell soft and sweet and songless—that breathless space between the forest day and darkness..