Sam Busby shouted through the door that he was in a hurry; that he had to leave her at home, and get out to Grant’s Heading. There was trouble there. A messenger had just caught him.
Mrs. Busby’s farewell to Mrs. Parrish had to be casual. She clambered up into the seat beside her short stubby master. Sam had a short blackened pipe between his teeth, obviously his own. No store or dentist would acknowledge them. His sombrero, battered and sunburned, was pulled low over his jolly blue eyes.
She opened a large black cotton umbrella.
“She’ll never grasp it,” she was thinking aloud.
“Grasp what?” the humorous eyes turned toward her.
“The new thoughts. If I could only get her to throw away that shelf of medicines.”
“Now, for the lord’s sake, don’t go proselyting, Maria.”
“How can I, when I haven’t learned to hold a thought yet, myself?”
“Hold a—what? Whatever you are talking about?”
“You hold a good thought—it’s like the Catholics crossing themselves with holy water, only it isn’t. It keeps off bad thoughts—trouble. It sounds easy, but it’s terribly hard.”