And then he and ma walked silently out to the Pride of India tree beneath which their Molly and Azalea’s mother were buried, and stood there a few minutes before they closed up the house for the night.
The next week when pa went to town, he brought back great news.
“Them there Carsons down in the Atherton house,” he said to his family at supper, “are up to the greatest things you ever heard of. They’re making all the mountain folks welcome, and buying up their pieced bedquilts and their hand-weaving, and their baskets and chairs. Why, Mr. Carson, he and me was made acquainted by the grocer, and he asked me if I done anything in the way of hand work. Well, I allowed I made pretty good chairs, and he told me to bring down half a dozen big roomy ones for his porch. He said like as not some of his friends would want some too. Then I told him about your weaving and he said he’d like to drive his wife up to see it. Said he’d like to look over our place. I’d been telling him how sightly it was. They’ve got everybody humping. Cannaby’s making roads for him, and Fletcher’s making shoes, and he’s buying up fine hens—wants some of my guinea hens—and he’s looking for a good cow, and I don’t know what all. I ain’t seen things so lively down street since I can recollect.”
“If he comes up, he’ll bring Miss Carin, won’t he? Oh, ma, do you think he’ll bring Miss Carin?”
“Sure he will,” said Mary McBirney. “She wouldn’t let him come up here without her if she had her way, after all the liking she took to you.”
“And to Jim, ma. She liked Jim just as much as she did me.”
“Go along,” said Jim, “she wouldn’t ’a’ looked at me if you hadn’t been there, Zalie.”
“She would too! What makes him act like that, ma?”
“He’s naturally modest and retiring,” said pa with a twinkle in his eye. “He takes after me.”
“They must be awful good folks, them Carsons,” said ma admiringly.