IN WHICH DAVID THRYNG EXPERIENCES THE HOSPITALITY OF THE MOUNTAIN
PEOPLE.
Suddenly the jolting ceased. The deep stillness of the night seemed only
intensified by the low panting of the animals and the soft dropping of
the wet snow from the trees.
"What is it?" said Thryng, peering from under the canvas cover.
"Anything the matter?"
The beasts stood with low-swung heads, the vapor rising white from their
warm bodies, wet with the melting snow. His question fell unheard, and
the girl who was climbing down over the front wheel began to unhitch the
team in silence. He rolled the sleeping child in his rug and leaped out.
"Let me help you. What is the trouble? Oh, are you at home?"
"I can do this, suh. I have done it a heap of times. Don't go nigh Pete,
suh. He's mighty quick, and he's mean." The beast laid back his ears
viciously as David approached.
"You ought not go near him yourself," he said, taking a firm grip of the
bridle.
"Oh, he's safe enough with me--or Frale. Hold him tight, suh, now you
have him, till I get round there. Keep his head towa'ds you. He
certainly is mean."
The colt walked off to a low stack of corn fodder, as she turned him
loose with a light slap on the flank; and the mule, impatient, stamping
and sidling about, stretched forth his nose and let out his raucous and
hideous cry. While he was thus occupied, the girl slipped off his
harness and, taking the bridle, led the beast away to a small railed
enclosure on the far side of the stack; and David stood alone in the
snow and looked about him.
He saw a low, rambling house, which, although one structure, appeared to
be a series of houses, built of logs plastered with clay in the chinks.
It stood in a tangle of wild growth, on what seemed to be a wide ledge
jutting out from the side of the mountain, which loomed dark and high
behind it. An incessant, rushing sound pervaded the place, as it were a
part of the silence or a breathing of the mountain itself. Was it wind
among the trees, or the rushing of water? No wind stirred now, and yet
the sound never ceased. It must be a torrent swollen by the melting
snow.
He saw the girl moving in and out among the shadows, about the open log
stable, like a wraith. The braying of the mule had disturbed the
occupants of the house, for a candle was placed in a window, and its
little ray streamed forth and was swallowed up in the moonlight and
black shades. The child, awakened by the horrible noise of the beast,
rustled in the corn fodder where Thryng had left him. Dazed and
wondering, he peered out at the young man for some moments, too shy to
descend until his sister should return. Now she came, and he scrambled
down and stood close to her side, looking up weirdly, his twisted little
form shivering and quaking.
"Run in, Hoyle," she said, looking kindly down upon him. "Tell mothah
we're all right, son."
A woman came to the door holding a candle, which she shaded with a
gnarled and bony hand.
"That you, Cass?" she quavered. "Who aire ye talkin' to?"
"Yes, Aunt Sally, we'll be there directly. Don't let mothah get cold."
She turned again to David. "I reckon you'll have to stop with us
to-night. It's a right smart way to the cabin, and it'll be cold, and
nothing to eat. We'll bring in your things now, and in the morning we
can tote them up to your place with the mule, and Hoyle can go with you
to show you the way."
She turned toward the wagon as if all were settled, and Thryng could not
be effusive in the face of her direct and conclusive manner; but he took
the basket from her hand.
"Let me--no, no--I will bring in everything. Thank you very much. I can
do it quite easily, taking one at a time." Then she left him, but at the
door she met him and helped to lift his heavy belongings into the house.
The room he entered was warm and brightly lighted by a pile of blazing
logs in the great chimneyplace. He walked toward it and stretched his
hands to the fire--a generous fire--the mountain home's luxury.
Something was cooking in the ashes on the hearth which sent up a savory
odor most pleasant and appealing to the hungry man. The meagre boy stood
near, also warming his little body, on which his coarse garments hung
limply. He kept his great eyes fixed on David's face in a manner
disconcerting, even in a child, had Thryng given his attention to it,
but at the moment he was interested in other things. Dropped thus
suddenly into this utterly alien environment, he was observing the girl
and the old woman as intently, though less openly, as the boy was
watching him.
Presently he felt himself uncannily the object of a scrutiny far
different from the child's wide-eyed gaze, and glancing over his
shoulder toward the corner from which the sensation seemed to emanate,
he saw in the depths of an old four-posted bed, set in their hollow
sockets and roofed over by projecting light eyebrows, a pair of keen,
glittering eyes.
"Yas, you see me now, do ye?" said a high, thin voice in toothless
speech. "Who be ye?"
His physician's feeling instantly alert, he stepped to the bedside and
bent over the wasted form, which seemed hardly to raise the clothing
from its level smoothness, as if she had lain motionless since some
careful hand had arranged it.
"No, ye don't know me, I reckon. 'Tain't likely. Who be ye?" she
iterated, still looking unflinchingly in his eyes.
"Hit's a gentleman who knows Doctah Hoyle, mothah. He sent him. Don't
fret you'se'f," said the girl soothingly.
"I'm not one of the frettin' kind," retorted the mother, never taking
her eyes from his face, and again speaking in a weak monotone. "Who be
ye?"
"My name is David Thryng, and I am a doctor," he said quietly.
"Where be ye from?"
"I came from Canada, the country where Doctor Hoyle lives."
"I reckon so. He used to tell 'at his home was thar." A pallid hand was
reached slowly out to him. "I'm right glad to see ye. Take a cheer and
set. Bring a cheer, Sally."
But the girl had already placed him a chair, which he drew close to the
bedside. He took the feeble old hand and slipped his fingers along to
rest lightly on the wrist.
"You needn't stan' watchin' me, Cass. You 'n' Sally set suthin' fer th'
doctah to eat. I reckon ye're all about gone fer hunger."
"Yes, mothah, right soon. Fry a little pork to go with the pone, Aunt
Sally. Is any coffee left in the pot?"
"I done put in a leetle mo' when I heered the mule hollah. I knowed ye'd
want it. Might throw in a mite mo' now th' gentleman's come."
The two women resumed their preparations for supper, the boy continued
to stand and gaze, and the high voice of the frail occupant of the bed
began again to talk and question.
"When did you come down f'om that thar country whar Doctah Hoyle lives
at?" she said, in her monotonous wail.
"Four days ago. I travelled slowly, for I have been ill myself."
"Hit's right quare now; 'pears like ef I was a doctah I wouldn't 'low
myself fer to get sick. An' you seed Doctah Hoyle fo' days back!"
"No, he has gone to England on a visit. I saw his wife, though, and his
daughter. She is a young lady--is to be married soon."
"They do grow up--the leetle ones. Hit don't seem mo'n yestahday 'at
Cass was like leetle Hoyle yandah, an' hit don't seem that since Doctah
Hoyle was here an' leetle Hoyle came. We named him fer th' doctah. Waal,
I reckon ef th' doctah was here now 'at he could he'p me some. Maybe ef
he'd 'a' stayed here I nevah would 'a' got down whar I be now. He was a
right good doctah, bettah'n a yarb doctah--most--I reckon so."
David smiled. "I think so myself," he said. "Are there many herb doctors
here about?"
"Not rightly doctahs, so to speak, but they is some 'at knows a heap
about yarbs."
"Good. Perhaps they can teach me something."
The old face was feebly lifted a bit from the pillow, and the dark eyes
grew suddenly sharp in their scrutiny.
"Who be ye, anyhow? What aire ye here fer? Sech as you knows a heap
a'ready 'thout makin' out to larn o' we-uns."
David saw his mistake and hastened to allay the suspicion which gleamed
out at him almost malignantly.
"I am just what I said, a doctor like Adam Hoyle, only that I don't know
as much as he--not yet. The wisest man in the world can learn more if he
watches out to do so. Your herb doctors might be able to teach me a good
many things."
"I 'spect ye're right thar, on'y a heap o' folks thinks they knows it
all fust."
There was a pause, and Thryng leaned back in his stiff, splint-bottomed
chair and glanced around him. He saw that the girl, although moving
about setting to rights and brushing here and there with an unique,
home-made broom, was at the same time intently listening.
Presently the old woman spoke again, her threadlike voice penetrating
far.
"What do you 'low to do here in ouah mountains? They hain't no
settlement nighabouts here, an' them what's sick hain't no money to pay
doctahs with. I reckon they'll hev to stay sick fer all o' you-uns."
David looked into her eyes a moment quietly; then he smiled. The way to
her heart he saw was through the magic of one name.
"What did Doctor Hoyle do when he was down here?"
"Him? They hain't no one livin' like he was."
Then David laughed outright, a gay, contagious laugh, and after an
instant she laughed also.
"I agree with you," he said. "But you see, I am a countryman of his, and
he sent me here--he knows me well--and I mean to do as he did, if--I
can."
He drew in a deep breath of utter weariness, and leaned forward, his
elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and gazed into the blazing
fire. The memories which had taken possession of his soul during the
long ride seemed to envelop him so that in a moment the present was
swept away into oblivion and his spirit was, as it were, suddenly
withdrawn from the body and projected into the past. He had been unable
to touch any of the greasy cold stuff which had been offered him during
the latter part of his journey, and the heat brought a drowsiness on him
and a faintness from lack of food.
"Cass--Cassandry! Look to him," called the mother shrilly, but the girl
had already noticed his strange abstraction, and the small Adam Hoyle
had drawn back, in awe, to his mother.
"Get some whiskey, Sally," said the girl, and David roused himself to
see her bending over him.
"I must have gone off in a doze," he said weakly. "The long ride and
then this warmth--" Seeing the anxious faces around him, he laughed
again. "It's nothing, I assure you, only the comfort and the smell of
something good to eat;" he sniffed a little. "What is it?" he asked.
Old Sally was tossing and shaking the frying salt pork in the skillet at
the fireplace, and the odor aggravated his already too keen appetite.
"Ye was more'n sleepy, I reckon," shrilled the woman from the bed.
"Hain't that pone done, Sally? No, 'tain't liquor he needs; hit's
suthin' to eat."
Then the girl hastened her slow, gliding movements, drew splint chairs
to a table of rough pine that stood against the side of the room, and,
stooping between him and the fire, pulled something from among the hot
ashes. The fire made the only light in the room, and David never forgot
the supple grace of her as she bent thus silhouetted--the perfect line
of chin and throat black against the blaze, contrasted with the weird,
witchlike old woman with roughly knotted hair, who still squatted in the
heat, and shook the skillet of frying pork.
"Thar, now hit's done, I reckon," said old Sally, slowly rising and
straightening her bent back; and the woman from the bed called her
orders.
"Not that cup," she cried, as Sally began pouring black coffee into a
cracked white cup. "Git th' chany one. I hid hit yandah in th' cornder
'hind that tin can, to keep 'em f'om usin' hit every day. I had a hull
set o' that when I married Farwell. Give hit here." She took the
precious relic in her work-worn hands and peered into it, then wiped it
out with the corner of the sheet which covered her. This Thryng did not
see. He was watching the girl, as she broke open the hot, fragrant
corn-bread and placed it beside his plate.
"Come," she said. "You sure must be right hungry. Sit here and eat."
David felt like one drunken with weariness when he rose, and caught at
the edge of the table to steady himself.
"Aren't you hungry, too?" he asked, "and Hoyle, here? Sit beside me;
we're going to have a feast, little chap."
The girl placed an earthen crock on the table and took from it honey in
the broken comb, rich and dark.
"Have a little of this with your pone. It's right good," she said.
"Frale, he found a bee tree," piped the child suddenly, gaining
confidence as he saw the stranger engaged in the very normal act of
eating with the relish of an ordinary man. He edged forward and sat
himself gingerly on the outer corner of the next chair, and accepted a
huge piece of the pone from David's hand. His sister gave him honey, and
Sally dropped pieces of the sizzling hot pork on their plates, from the
skillet.
David sipped his coffee from the flowered "chany cup" contentedly.
Served without milk or sugar, it was strong, hot, and reviving. The girl
shyly offered more of the corn-bread as she saw it rapidly disappearing,
pleased to see him eat so eagerly, yet abashed at having nothing else to
offer.
"I'm sorry we can give you only such as this. We don't live like you do
in the no'th. Have a little more of the honey."
"Ah, but this is fine. Good, hey, little chap? You are doing a very
beneficent thing, do you know, saving a man's life?" He glanced up at
her flushed face, and she smiled deprecatingly. He fancied her smiles
were rare.
"But it is quite true. Where would I be now but for you and Hoyle here?
Lying under the lee side of the station coughing my life away,--and all
my own fault, too. I should have accepted the bishop's invitation."
"You helped me when the colt was bad." Her soft voice, low and
monotonous, fell musically on his ear when she spoke.
"Naturally--but how about that, anyway? It's a wonder you weren't
killed. How came a youngster like you there alone with those beasts?"
Thryng had an abrupt manner of springing a question which startled the
child, and he edged away, furtively watching his sister.
[Illustration: _"Casabianca, was it?" said Thryng, smiling. Page 17._]
"Did you hitch that kicking brute alone and drive all that distance?"
"Aunt Sally, she he'ped me to tie up; she give him co'n whilst I th'owed
on the strops, an' when he's oncet tied up, he goes all right." The atom
grinned. "Hit's his way. He's mean, but he nevah works both ends to
oncet."
"Good thing to know; but you're a hero, do you understand that?" The
child continued to edge away, and David reached out and drew him to his
side. Holding him by his two sharp little elbows, he gave him a playful
shake. "I say, do you know what a hero is?"
The startled boy stopped grinning and looked wildly to his sister, but
receiving only a smile of reassurance from her, he lifted his great eyes
to Thryng's face, then slowly the little form relaxed, and he was drawn
within the doctor's encircling arm.
"I don't reckon," was all his reply, which ambiguous remark caused
David, in his turn, to look to the sister for elucidation. She held a
long, lighted candle in her hand, and paused to look back as she was
leaving the room.
"Yes, you do, honey son. You remembah the boy with the quare long name
sistah told you about, who stood there when the ship was all afiah and
wouldn't leave because his fathah had told him to bide? He was a hero."
But Hoyle was too shy to respond, and David could feel his little heart
thumping against his arm as he held him.
"Tell the gentleman, Hoyle. He don't bite, I reckon," called the mother
from her corner.
"His name begun like yourn, Cass, but I cyan't remembah the hull of it."
"Casabianca, was it?" said Thryng, smiling.
"I reckon. Did you-uns know him?"
"When I was a small chap like you, I used to read about him." Then the
atom yielded entirely, and leaned comfortably against David, and his
sister left them, carrying the candle with her.
Old Sally threw another log on the fire, and the flames leaped up the
cavernous chimney, lighting the room with dramatic splendor. Thryng
took note of its unique furnishing. In the corner opposite the one where
the mother lay was another immense four-poster bed, and before it hung a
coarse homespun curtain, half concealing it. At its foot was a huge box
of dark wood, well-made and strong, with a padlock. This and the beds
seemed to belong to another time and place, in contrast to the other
articles, which were evidently mountain made, rude in construction and
hewn out by hand, the chairs unstained and unpolished, and seated with
splints.
The walls were the roughly dressed logs of which the house was built,
the chinks plastered with deep red-brown clay. Depending from nails
driven in the logs were festoons of dried apple and strips of dried
pumpkin, and hanging by their braided husks were bunches of Indian corn,
not yellow like that of the north, but white or purple.
There were bags also, containing Thryng knew not what, although he was
to learn later, when his own larder came to be eked out by sundry gifts
of dried fruit and sweet corn, together with the staple of beans and
peas from the widow's store.
Beside the window of small panes was a shelf, on which were a few worn
books, and beneath hung an almanac; at the foot of the mother's bed
stood a small spinning-wheel, with the wool still hanging to the
spindle. David wondered how long since it had been used. The scrupulous
cleanliness of the place satisfied his fastidious nature, and gave him a
sense of comfort in the homely interior. He liked the look of the bed in
the corner, made up high and round, and covered with marvellous
patchwork.
As he sat thus, noting all his surroundings, Hoyle still nestled at his
side, leaning his elbows on the doctor's knees, his chin in his hands,
and his soft eyes fixed steadily on the doctor's face. Thus they
advanced rapidly toward an amicable acquaintance, each questioning and
being questioned.
"What is a 'bee tree'?" said David. "You said somebody found one."
"Hit's a big holler tree, an' hit's plumb full o' bees an' honey. Frale,
he found this'n."
"Tell me about it. Where was it?"
"Hit war up yandah, highah up th' mountain. They is a hole thar what
wil' cats live in, Wil' Cat Hole. Frale, he war a hunt'n fer a cat. Some
men thar at th' hotel, they war plumb mad to hunt a wil' cat with th'
dogs, an' Frale, he 'lowed to git th' cat fer 'em."
"And when was that?"
"Las' summah, when th' hotel war open. They war a heap o' men at th'
hotel."
"And now about the bee tree?"
"Frale, he nevah let on like he know'd thar war a bee tree, an' then
this fall he took me with him, an' we made a big fire, an' then we cut
down th' tree, an' we stayed thar th' hull day, too, an' eat thar an'
had ros'n ears by th' fire, too."
"I say, you know. There seem to be a lot of things you will have to
enlighten me about. After you get through with the bee tree you must
tell me what 'ros'n ears' are. And then what did you do?"
"Thar war a heap o' honey. That tree, hit war nigh-about plumb full o'
honey, and th' bees war that mad you couldn't let 'em come nigh ye
'thout they'd sting you. They stung me, an' I nevah hollered. Frale, he
'lowed ef you hollered, you wa'n't good fer nothin', goin' bee hunt'n'."
"Is Frale your brother?"
"Yas. He c'n do a heap o' things, Frale can. They war a heap o' honey in
that thar tree, 'bout a bar'l full, er more'n that. We hev a hull tub o'
honey out thar in th' loom shed yet, an' maw done sont all th' rest to
th' neighbors, 'cause maw said they wa'n't no use in humans bein' fool
hogs like th' bees war, a-keepin' more'n they could eat jes' fer
therselves."
"Yas," called the mother from her corner, where she had been admiringly
listening; "they is a heap like that-a-way, but hit ain't our way here
in th' mountains. Let th' doctah tell you suthin' now, Hoyle,--ye mount
larn a heap if ye'd hark to him right smart, 'thout talkin' th' hull
time youse'f."
"I has to tell him 'bouts th' ros'n ears--he said so. Thar they be." He
pointed to a bunch of Indian corn. "You wrop 'em up in ther shucks,
whilst ther green an' sof', and kiver 'em up in th' ashes whar hit's
right hot, and then when ther rosted, eat 'em so. Now, what do you
know?"
"Why, he knows a heap, son. Don't ax that-a-way."
"In my country, away across the ocean--" began David.
"Tell 'bout th' ocean, how hit look."
"In my country we don't have Indian corn nor bee trees, nor wild cat
holes, but we have the ocean all around us, and we see the ships and--"
"Like that thar one whar th' boy stood whilst hit war on fire?"
"Something like, yes." Then he told about the sea and the ships and the
great fishes, and was interrupted with the query:--
"Reckon you done seed that thar fish what swallered the man in th' Bible
an' then th'ow'd him up agin?"
"Why no, son, you know that thar fish war dade long 'fore we-uns war
born. You mustn't ax fool questions, honey."
Old Sally sat crouched by the hearth intently listening and asking as
naive questions as the child, whose pallid face grew pink and animated,
and whose eyes grew larger as he strove to see with inward vision the
things Thryng described. It was a happy evening for little Hoyle.
Leaning confidingly against David, he sighed with repletion of joy. He
was not eager for his sister to return--not he. He could lean forever
against this wonderful man and listen to his tales. But the doctor's
weariness was growing heavier, and he bethought himself that the girl
had not eaten with them, and feared she was taking trouble to prepare
quarters for him, when if she only knew how gladly he would bunk down
anywhere,--only to sleep while this blessed and delicious drowsiness was
overpowering him.
"Where is your sister, Hoyle? Don't you reckon it's time you and I were
abed?" he asked, adopting the child's vernacular.
"She's makin' yer bed ready in th' loom shed, likely," said the mother,
ever alert. With her pale, prematurely wrinkled face and uncannily
bright and watchful eyes, she seemed the controlling, all-pervading
spirit of the place. "Run, child, an' see what's keepin' her so long."
"Hit's dark out thar," said the boy, stirring himself slowly.
"Run, honey, you hain't afeared, kin drive a team all by you'se'f. Dark
hain't nothin'; I ben all ovah these heah mountains when thar wa'n't one
star o' light. Maybe you kin he'p her."
At that moment she entered, holding the candle high to light her way
through what seemed to be a dark passage, her still, sweet face a bit
flushed and stray taches of white cotton down clinging to her blue
homespun dress. "The doctah's mos' dade fer sleep, Cass."
"I am right sorry to keep you so long, but we are obleeged--"
She lifted troubled eyes to his face, as Thryng interrupted her.
"Ah, no, no! I really beg your pardon--for coming in on you this way--it
was not right, you know. It was a--a--predicament, wasn't it? It
certainly wasn't right to put you about so; if--you will just let me go
anywhere, only to sleep, I shall be greatly obliged. I'm making you a
lot of trouble, and I'm so sorry."
His profusion of manner, of which he was entirely unaware, embarrassed
her; although not shy like her brother, she had never encountered any
one who spoke with such rapid abruptness, and his swift, penetrating
glance and pleasant ease of the world abashed her. For an instant she
stood perfectly still before him, slowly comprehending his thought, then
hastened with her inherited, inborn ladyhood to relieve him from any
sense that his sudden descent upon their privacy was an intrusion.
Her mind moved along direct lines from thought to expression--from
impulse to action. She knew no conventional tricks of words or phrases
for covering an awkward situation, and her only way of avoiding a
self-betrayal was by silence and a masklike impassivity. During this
moment of stillness while she waited to regain her poise, he, quick and
intuitive as a woman, took in the situation, yet he failed to comprehend
the character before him.
To one accustomed to the conventional, perfect simplicity seems to
conceal something held back. It is hard to believe that all is being
revealed, hence her slower thought, in reality, comprehended him the
more truly. What he supposed to be pride and shame over their meagre
accommodations was, in reality, genuine concern for his comfort, and
embarrassment before his ease and ready phrases. As in a swift breeze
her thoughts were caught up and borne away upon them, but after a moment
they would sweep back to her--a flock of innocent, startled doves.
Still holding her candle aloft, she raised her eyes to his and smiled.
"We-uns are right glad you came. If you can be comfortable where we are
obliged to put you to sleep, you must bide awhile." She did not say
"obleeged" this time. He had not pronounced it so, and he must know.
"That is so good of you. And now you are very tired yourself and have
eaten nothing. You must have your own supper. Hoyle can look after me."
He took the candle from her and gave it to the boy, then turned his own
chair back to the table and looked inquiringly at Sally squatted before
the fire. "Not another thing shall you do for me until you are waited
on. Take my place here."
David's manner seemed like a command to her, and she slid into the chair
with a weary, drooping movement. Hoyle stood holding the candle, his wry
neck twisting his head to one side, a smile on his face, eying them
sharply. He turned a questioning look to his sister, as he stiffened
himself to his newly acquired importance as host.
Thryng walked over to the bedside. "In the morning, when we are all
rested, I'll see what can be done for you," he said, taking the
proffered old hand in his. "I am not Dr. Hoyle, but he has taught me a
little. I studied and practised with him, you know."
"Hev ye? Then ye must know a heap. Hit's right like th' Lord sont ye.
You see suthin' 'peared like to give way whilst I war a-cuttin' light
'ud th' othah day, an' I went all er a heap 'crost a log, an' I reckon
hit hurt me some. I hain't ben able to move a foot sence, an' I lay out
thar nigh on to a hull day, whilst Hoyle here run clar down to Sally's
place to git her. He couldn't lif' me hisse'f, he's that weak; he tried
to haul me in, but when I hollered,--sufferin' so I war jes' 'bleeged to
holler,--he kivered me up whar I lay and lit out fer Sally, an' she an'
her man they got me up here, an' here I ben ever since. I reckon I never
will leave this bed ontwell I'm cyarried out in a box."
"Oh, no, not that! You're too much alive for that. We'll see about it
to-morrow. Good night."
"Hoyle may show you the way," said the girl, rising. "Your bed is in the
loom shed. I'm right sorry it's so cold. I put blankets there, and you
can use all you like of them. I would have given you Frale's place up
garret--only--he might come in any time, and--"
"Naw, he won't. He's too skeered 'at--" Hoyle's interruption stopped
abruptly, checked by a glance of his sister's eye.
"I hope you'll sleep well--"
"Sleep? I shall sleep like a log. I feel as if I could sleep for a week.
It's awfully good of you. I hope we haven't eaten all the supper, Hoyle
and I. Come, little chap. Good night." He took up his valise and
followed the boy, leaving her standing by the uncleared table, gazing
after him.
"Now you eat, Cassandry. You are nigh about perished you are that
tired," said her mother.
Then old Sally brought more pork and hot pone from the ashes, and they
sat down together, eating and sipping their black coffee in silence.
Presently Hoyle returned and began removing his clumsy shoes, by the
fire.
"Did he ax ye a heap o' questions, Hoyle?" queried the old woman
sharply.
"Naw. Did'n' ax noth'n'."
"Waal, look out 'at you don't let on nothin' ef he does. Talkin' may
hurt, an' hit may not."
"He hain't no government man, maw."
"Hit's all right, I reckon, but them 'at larns young to hold ther
tongues saves a heap o' trouble fer therselves."
After they had eaten, old Sally gathered the few dishes together and
placed all the splint-bottomed chairs back against the sides of the
room, and, only half disrobing, crawled into the far side of the bed
opposite to the mother's, behind the homespun curtain.
"To-morrow I reckon I kin go home to my old man, now you've come, Cass."
"Yes," said the girl in a low voice, "you have been right kind to
we-all, Aunt Sally."
Then she bent over her mother, ministering to her few wants; lifting her
forward, she shook up the pillow, and gently laid her back upon it, and
lightly kissed her cheek. The child had quickly dropped to sleep, curled
up like a ball in the farther side of his mother's bed, undisturbed by
the low murmur of conversation. Cassandra drew her chair close to the
fire and sat long gazing into the burning logs that were fast crumbling
to a heap of glowing embers. She uncoiled her heavy bronze hair and
combed it slowly out, until it fell a rippling mass to the floor, as she
sat. It shone in the firelight as if it had drawn its tint from the fire
itself, and the cold night had so filled it with electricity that it
flew out and followed the comb, as if each hair were alive, and made a
moving aureola of warm red amber about her drooping figure in the midst
of the sombre shadows of the room. Her face grew sad and her hands moved
listlessly, and at last she slipped from her chair to her knees and wept
softly and prayed, her lips forming the words soundlessly. Once her
mother awoke, lifted her head slightly from her pillow and gazed an
instant at her, then slowly subsided, and again slept.