Husband an' son, when will I go to ye?
When will I finish the work the Lord hez fur me ter do?
When will the day uv my freedom come?
May-be to-morrer--may-be to-morrer." She began singing softly: "An' when a shadder falls acrost the winder Of my room, When I am workin' my app'inted task, I lift my head to watch the door an' ask If he is come; An' the angel answers sweetly In my home: 'Only a few more shadders An' He will come.'" "Aunt Debby, honey," said Fortner, rousing himself from a nap in his chair, "thet thar lead's burnin'.

Better run yer bullets." She started as if waked from a trance, pressed her slender thin hands to her eyes for an instant, and then taking the molds up in her left hand she raised the ladle with her right, filled them from it, knocked the molded balls out by a tap on the floor, and repeated the process with such dexterous quickness that she had made fifty bullets before harry realized that she was fairly at work.
"Ye men hed better lay down an' git some sleep," she said, as she replaced the molds and ladle on the shelf.

"Ye'll need all yer strength to-morrer.

I'll neck these bullets, an' git together some vittles fur the trip, an' then I'll lay down a while.

We orter start airly--soon arter daybreak." They did start early the next morning, with Aunt Debby riding upon the roads that wound around the mountain sides, while Fortner led the men through the shorter by-paths.
Noon had passed some hours, and yet they had come across no signs of wagons.