It was growing dark, and she began to feel a vague alarm for him.
A whistle fell on her ear.

It was the sweetest music she had ever heard, for it came from the lips of her boy.
He was in sight, coming along the well worn path that led in front of the other dwellings and to her own door.

When he saw her, he waved his hand in salutation, but could not afford to break in on the vigorous melody which kept his lips puckered.
She saw he was carrying something on his shoulder.

A second glance showed that it was one of the heavy rifles used by the pioneers a hundred years ago.

The sight--taken with what Omas had just said--filled her heart with forebodings.
She waited until the lad came up.