“Well,” explained Chan Bullock, resting his hands for the time on the top of his mattock handle. “While he may have been a heap like the rest of us one way of speakin’, Davy hain’t never been profligate. If he had been, I don’t reckon he’d of been called.”
CHAPTER XVII
THESE TWAIN
ONE day, without explanation to his fellows, Joslin ceased in his labors, and started down the hill. No one asked him his intention, for he rarely spoke of his own plans. They saw his tall figure passing by the road beyond the forks of the river—the direction of his home. A half-hour before dusk that day, he arrived at the little gap in the fence, which made the gate of his own scant acres, unvisited for two years.
He walked steadily up to his own door, and, without announcement, pushed it open.
Two women stared at him without speech, as he stood in the half-light. One of these was his wife, the other his grandmother—the latter had come in upon one of her not infrequent visits, for in the Cumberlands kinship is held a sacred thing, and the ravens of the Lord have never forgotten their ancient errand.
Old Granny Joslin was the first to speak. “Well, Davy?” said she, as though she had been expecting him.