“They’re mighty welcome, Elder Drane,” Judith declared warmly, receiving the little fellow in open arms. “I’ll be glad to do for ’em.”
Martin and Lucy were old-fashioned, repressed, timid children, with the pathetic outlook of young persons brought up by a melancholy, ancient hireling. But the baby, glowing-eyed, laughing-mouthed rogue, staggering valiantly on sturdy, emulous legs, taking tribute everywhere with all babyhood’s divine audacity, walked straight into her heart. He slept beside her at night, for him she darkened and quieted the house of afternoons, lying down with him to watch his slumbers, to brood with mother fondness upon the round, rosy, small face, and the even, placid breathing.
Drane had brought such clothing as they had, but Judith found them ill-provided, and set to work for them at once. Being a capable needlewoman she soon had them apparelled more to her liking, and the labour physicked pain. Sitting in the porch sewing, with the baby tumbling about the floor at her feet and Mart and Lucy building play-houses in the yard under the trees, Judith began dimly to realise that life, somewhere and at some time, might lack all she had so passionately craved, all she so piercingly regretted, and yet hold some peace, some satisfaction. True she was still desolate, robbed, despairing, yet with the children to tend there were hours when she almost lost sight of her own sorrow, in the sweet compulsion of doing for them.
Jim Cal shook his head over these arrangements. “Looks like to me ef I was a widower with chaps, trying to wed a fine lookin’, upheaded gal like Jude, I’d a’ kep’ the little ’uns out of her sight as much as I could, ’stid of fetchin’ ’em right to her. Hit seems now as though she muched them greatly, but she’s sartin shore to find out what a sight o’ trouble chaps makes, and ain’t any woman wantin’ more work than she’s ’bleeged to have.”
Lacking active concerns of his own, James Calhoun was always greatly interested in those of the persons about him. Judith’s doings, on account of her reticence, beauty and high spirit, proved a theme of unending, mild interest.
“Jude,” he opened out one day as he sat on the edge of the porch while his cousin was busy with some sewing for her little visitors, “did ye hear ’bout Lace Rountree?”
Judith never moved her eyes from her work. “I know they’s sech a person,” she said evenly, “if that’s what you mean.”
“No, but have ye heared of how he’s a-doin’ here lately?” persisted the fat man. “I don’t know as anybody has named anything special to me about Lacey Rountree or his doin’s,” Judith returned with a rising irritation. “Why should they?”
Jim Cal heaved a wheezy sigh. “’Caze yo’ said to be the cause of it,” he expounded with lugubrious enjoyment. “Lace Rountree is fillin’ hisse’f up on corn whiskey and givin’ it out to each and every that he’s goin’ plumb straight di-rect to the dav-il, an’ all on yo’ accounts—’caze you wouldn’t have ’im. Now what do you make out o’ that?”
“I make out that some folks are mighty big fools,” retorted Judith with asperity. “Lace Rountree is no older than Jeff and Andy—he’s two years younger’n I am—why, he’s like a child to me. I never no more thought of Lace Rountree than I’d think of—well, not so much as I would of Little Buck Provine.”