"So were you."
"Not as desperate as I might have been."
In her equable unconsciousness she threw off the meaning of his retort.
"But I like desperateness."
She had crossed the threshold and stood now in the ambient glow, gazing across the quiet pasture, where a stray sheep bleated. She reached up and broke a bunch of red leaves from the oak, fastening them in her belt as they descended the narrow path.
In the road they came upon Uncle Ish, who was hobbling slowly towards them. He was wrinkled with age and bent with rheumatism, and his voice sounded cracked and querulous.
"Is de Lawd done sont dem vittles?" he demanded suspiciously. "Ef He ain', I dunno how I'se gwine ter git mo'n a'er ash cake fur supper. 'Pears like He's gittin' monst'ous ondependible dese yer las' days. I ain' lay eyes on er dish er kebbage sence I lef dat ar patch on Hick'ry Hill, en all de blackeye peas I'se done seen is what I raise right dar behint dat do'. Es long es Gord A'mighty ondertecks ter feed you, He mought es well feed you ter yo' tase."
"There are some eggs in the cupboard," said Eugenia seriously. "You must cook some for supper."
Uncle Ish grunted.
"En egg's er wishwashy creeter es ain' got ernuff tase er its own ter stan' alont widout salt," he remarked contemptuously; after which he grew hospitable.