“Can you hear me, little Miss Harris?” The voice came from the dusky shed, high up against the wall.  
But the child did not turn her head. “Yes—Mr. Achilles—I can hear you very well,” she said softly.
 
“Don’t look this way,” said the voice. “Get down and look at the chickens—and listen to what I tell you.”
 
The child dropped obediently to her knees, her head a little bent¹, her face toward the open light outside.
 
The woman, going about her work in the kitchen, looked out and saw her and nodded to her kindly—
 
The child’s lips made a little smile in return. They were very pale.
 
“I come to take you home,” said the voice. It was full of tenderness and Betty Harris bent her head, a great wave of homesickness sweeping² across her.
 
“I can’t go, Mr. Achilles.” It was like a sob³. “I can’t go. They will kill you. I heard them. They will kill anybody—that comes—!” She spoke⁴ in swift little whispers—and waited. “Can you hear me say it?” she asked. “Can you hear me say it, Mr. Achilles?”
 
“I hear it—yes.” The voi............