For once in her life the crafty Mrs. Purvine was embarrassed; to conceal her confusion, she engaged in a strenuous struggle with one of the bags of seed.
“I feel toler’ble well,” she said at last, gruffly.
“Waal!” exclaimed Alethea, in amazement. “From the word Ben Doaks brung ter Wild-Cat Hollow, ez he war drivin’ up some steers ter the bald o’ the mounting, we-uns ’lowed ez ye hed been tuk awful sick, an’ war like ter die.”
“I sent ye that word,” said Mrs. Purvine with admirable effrontery. “I knowed thar warn’t no other way ter git ye down hyar. When hev ye hed the perliteness ter fetch them bones o’ yourn hyar afore?” She looked over her spectacles with angry reproach at the girl.
“Waal, aunt Dely,” said Alethea in her dulcet, mollifying drawl, sitting down on the step as she talked, “ye know I hev hed ter do so much o’ the ploughin’ an’ sech, a-puttin’ in o’ our craps. We-uns hev got sech a lot o’ folks up ter our house. An’ I dunno when Jacob Jessup hev done less work ’n he hev this spring.”
“Thought ye be always ’lowin’ ye ain’t layin’ off ter do his work,” said the elder tartly.
“Waal,” rejoined Alethea wearily, “I don’t ’pear ter hev the grit ter hold out an’ quar’l over it, like I used ter do. I reckon my sperit’s a-gittin’ bruk; but I don’t mind workin’ off in the field, ’thout no jawin’, whar I kin keep comp’ny with my thoughts.”
“I wouldn’t want ter keep comp’ny with ’em,” said aunt Dely cavalierly. “I’ll be bound they air heavier ter foller ’n the plough. Mighty solemn, low-sperited thoughts fur a spry young gal like you-uns! Ef yer head could be turned inside out, thar ain’t nobody ez wouldn’t ’low it mus’ outside be gray. They’d say, ‘In the name o’ Moses! old ez this inside, an’ yaller outside! ’Tain’t natur’!’”
The girl had taken off her bonnet. Her beauty was undimmed, despite a pensive pallor on her delicate cheek. She fanned herself with her sun-bonnet, and the heavy, undulating folds of her lustrous yellow hair stirred softly. “I’m powerful glad ter find ye hevin’ yer health same ez common,” she said.
“I’m s’prised ter hear ye say so,” declared Mrs. Purvine, tart from her renewed conflicts with the bag. “I ain’t sick, bless the Lord, but I wanted ye ter kem down hyar an’ bide with me, an’ I knowed I couldn’t tole ye out’n that thar Eden, ez ye call Wild-Cat Hollow, ’thout purtendin’ ter be nigh dead. So I jes’ held my han’ ter my side an’ tied up my head, an’ hollered ter Ben Doaks ez he went by. He looked mighty sorry fur me!” A faint smile flickered across her broad face. “I hed laid off ter go ter bed afore you-uns kem, though. I will say fur ye ez ye travel toler’ble fas’. Yes, sir!” she went on, after a momentary pause. “I live in a ongrateful worl’. I hev ter gin out I’m dyin’ ter git my own niece ter kem ter see me. An’ thar’s that thar Jerry Price, ez I hev raised from a ill-convenient infant ez won’t do nuthin’ I say, nor marry nobody I picks out fur him. I’ll be boun’ he wouldn’t hev no say-so ’bout’n it ef his aunt Melindy Jane hed hed the raisin’ of him. An’ Bluff ez good ez ’lowed this mornin’ ez he’d hook me ef I didn’t quit foolin’ in his bucket o’ bran,—’kase I ’lowed ez mebbe the saaft-soap gourd war drapped in it, bein’ ez I couldn’t find it nowhar, an’ I war afear’d ’twouldn’t agree with the critter’s insides. An’ thar’s that rooster,”—he was now out among the weeds,—“he war a aig ez got by accident inter a tur-r-key’s nest, an’ when he war hatched she wouldn’t hev him; an’ ez I hed no hen ez war kerryin’ o’ chickens his size, I hed ter care fur him. I useter git up in my bare feet in the middle o’ a winter night ter kiver up that thar rooster in a bat o’ cotton, fur he war easy ter git cold, an’ he could holler ez loud ez a baby. An’ arter all, he kem hyar an’ eat up ’bout haffen my dish-rag-gourd seed! I dunno what in Moses’ name is kem o’ the other bags. Never mind!”—she shook her head as she addressed the jaunty and unprescient fowl,—“I’ll git up the heart ter kill ye some day; an’ ef I can’t eat ye, bein’ so well acquainted with ye, I’ll be boun’ Jerry kin.”