An hour later, John Burnham came over, told Jason to stay with his
mother, and went forthwith to town. Within a few hours all was
quickly, quietly done, and that night Jason started with his
mother and the body of Mavis's father back to the hills. The
railroad had almost reached the county-seat now, and at the end of
it old Jason Hawn and Mavis were waiting in the misty dawn with
two saddled horses and a spring wagon. The four met with a
handshake, a grave "how-dye," and no further speech. And thus old
Jason and Martha Hawn jolted silently ahead, and little Jason and
Mavis followed silently behind. Once or twice Jason turned to look
at her. She was in black, and the whiteness of her face, unstained
with tears, lent depth and darkness to her eyes, but the eyes were
never turned toward him.

When they entered town there were Hawns in front of one store and
one hotel on one side of the street. There were Honeycutts in
front of one store and one hotel on the other side, and Jason saw
the lowering face of little Aaron, and towering in one group the
huge frame of Babe Honeycutt. Silently the Hawns fell in behind on
horseback, and on foot, and gravely the Honeycutts watched the
procession move through the town and up the winding road.

The pink-flecked cups of the laurel were dropping to the ground,
the woods were starred with great white clusters of rhododendron,
wood-thrushes, unseen, poured golden rills of music from every
cool ravine, air and sunlight were heavy with the richness of
June, and every odor was a whisper, every sound a voice, and every
shaking leaf a friendly little beckoning hand--all giving him
welcome home. The boy began to choke with memories, but Mavis
still gave no sign. Once she turned her head when they passed her