At the
last call the reply came from such a short distance that Mr. Minturn began
intently watching from his shelter to witness the final triumph of seeing
the bird Malcolm had called across the swamp, come into view. He could see
that the boy was growing reckless, for as he delivered the strain, he
stepped almost into the open, watching before him and slowly going ahead.
With the answer, there was a discernible movement a few yards away. Mr.
Minturn saw the boy start, and gazed at him. With bent body Malcolm stared
before him, and then his father heard his amazed, awed cry: "_Why mother!_
Is that _you_, mother?"
"_Malcolm! Are you Malcolm?_" came the incredulous answer.
James Minturn was stupefied. Distinctly he could see now. He did not
recognize the knee boots, the outing suit of coarse green material, but
the beautiful pink face slowly paling, the bright waving hair framing it,
he knew very well. Astonishment bound him. Malcolm advanced another step,
still half dazed, and cried: "Why, have I been calling _you?_ I thought it
was the bird I saw, still answering!"
"And I believed you were the Hermit singing!" she said.
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