"I guess I do," said Lydia. That day she felt particularly well and freed from the assaults of memory. The sun was on her face and she welcomed it, and a light breeze stirred her hair. "Mother always said I was bewitched over gardens."
"You shall have all the land you can take care of," he avowed, "an' you shall have a hired man of your own. I can foretell his name. It's Eben Jakes."
Lydia laughed, and he went on: "We used to have a few beds, but when mother was taken away I kinder let it slip."
Suddenly Lydia felt her heart beating hard. Something choked her, and her voice stuck in her throat.
"Eben, how'd your mother look?"
"What say?" asked Eben. He was shaking the ashes from his pipe, and the tapping of the bowl against his chair had drowned her mild attempt.
"How did your mother look?"
He pursed his lips and gazed off into the distance of the orchard. Then he laughed a little at his own incompetence.
"I dunno 's I can tell. I ain't much of a hand at that. She was just kinder old an' pindlin' to other folks. But she looked pretty nice to me."
"Ain't you got a photograph of her here with you?"