Panther, it appeared, could talk but little. He shook his head despairingly at Keefe’s speech, and made a strange, inarticulate sound in his throat.
“Nothing won’t help him,” said his wife. “A tree fell on him and he’s got the paraletics. He ain’t going to git well.” She made the statement calmly. She was used to the idea; it was her house-companion and always with her.
“Where’s Pete?” asked Paralee. “Ain’t he ’round?”
“He’s done lit out,” said Mrs. Panther, still in that dead voice.
“Lit out?” cried Paralee. “You don’t mean he’s gone and run away?”
Mrs. Panther nodded again; and again the eyes of her husband rolled wildly.
“Did he leave you all alone, ma?” persisted Paralee. “’Th’out anybody to do for you?”
“My childer has all done that,” said the woman. “Thar ain’t nary one left.”
“Oh, but Paralee didn’t mean to desert you, ma’am,” cried Azalea, unable to endure the spiritual bleakness of that home another minute. “It was only that she might find some way to help you that she left. She’s going to be a teacher; she—”
Mrs. Panther lifted her sun-faded eyes and looked at Azalea with unspeakable scorn.