"The baby's about to walk," she said. "He's a-pullin' up by the chairs all the time, and he can go from one person to another, if they'll hold out they' hands."
A swift contraction passed over Lance's features at the picture her words called up.
"Haven't got him named yet?" he suggested huskily.
The color flared warm on Callista's face as she bent to the fire.
"I—why—Gran'pappy's an old man, and I'm the onliest grandchild he's got. He always was powerful kind to me; and the baby—why, he just—"
"You've called the boy Ajax," supplied Lance, in that tired voice which now was his. "That's a good name."
While she cooked the "fine dinner" their talk blew idly across the surface of deeps which both dreaded.
"Pore Roxy!" Lance said musingly. "Hit was mighty kind of her to send me her gospel quilt."
From her work at the fire Callista answered him.
"Your sister Roxy thinks a heap o' you, Lance; you needn't never 366 to doubt it. Course she does, or she wouldn't always have been pickin' at you."