Mrs. Owsley stepped down from the doorway and crossed to them. In approaching her teacher she scorned any subterfuge, and spoke directly to the point.
"What'd ye git, ef yeou wuz me, Miss Jane? I got shoes, a'ready—these here'n; but this ole gingham's the onlies' dress I got, an' hit's a sorry lookin' thing! Mr. Bowser sez ef I don't hanker arter shoes I don't hev ter hev 'em;—he sez his store'll leave me take their wu'th outen sumthin' else. I reckon hit'll be all right ter the trustee!"
"What trustee do you mean?" Jane asked. There was a pucker of mystification between her eyes as she looked up at Mrs. Owsley.
But that countenance did not change. It never changed. The same yellowish face, rather long and horse-like, beneath the same hair plainly brushed back, looked at Jane now as it had looked at the world's multitude of privations and pittance of joys, this last score of years.
"The trustee," she answered, "what sees as how we-uns goin' ter school gits shoes—outen the school fund, I reckon 'twuz he said, or sumthin' that a-way. He's a-stayin' down thar by the Cunnel's, some-un says, so mebbe ye knows 'im. Not as I allow ter be beholden ter no one:—but commencement's commencement!"
"Why, Mrs. Owsley!" an accusing voice cried from the window. "He made us promise not to tell who he was!"
"'N' I don't kyeer what he done!" the imperturbable one answered. "I want ye-all ter know I don't take nuthin' underhand from nobody, less'n hit's my man, Bill!"
The accuser ducked from sight.
"Do you mean," Jane asked, "a man about twenty-four, or five, or six, or maybe seven—with sort of brown or grayish eyes, and—and rather handsome?"
"I don't know nuthin' 'bout all them colors in his eyes. I don't know nuthin' 'bout that," she repeated, "but I do 'llow he smoked them vile cigarettes till a body couldn't breathe!"