“I don’t know yore fam’ly,” said David Joslin, hesitating still.
“I hain’t got no fam’ly, I told ye, an’ I don’t come o’ no fam’ly. Us two lives here together—we’re the wanderin’ wimmern—that’s what they call us in this country. Don’t ye know about us?
“Well, now”—and she turned her once bold eyes upon him with renewed defiance, as he did not reply—“I told ye I’d had seven children. Ye want to know who’s the father of Min? I kain’t tell ye rightly. She couldn’t tell ye rightly who’s the father of her girl she’s got along with her now. I’ve had seven children. Who’s their fathers?—I don’t know. What’s more, I don’t keer. What’s the difference? Who air we, back in the hills? What chancet have we got?”
Joslin stood leaning on his staff, pale, hollow-eyed, gaunt. In his eyes was a vast pity, a terrible understanding.
“Kin I wait here for a minute or so?” said he. “I’m right tired.”
“Ye’ve been hurt,” said she, pointing to his bandaged head, for which he had made such care as he might. “Well, I don’t ask ye no questions. I’ve seen plenty of men hurt, in the raftin’ times.”
“We’re stoppin’ here now,” she went on explaining. “Because, mought come a tide any time, an’ then the rafts’ll come. They tie up yander at the big tree thar—the men come acrosst. Well, here’s home for Min an’ me. She’s young. I’m gittin’ pretty old. Few cares fer such as me.”
Then she went on. “That’s our life, stranger. Ye kin guess the rest. We’re the wanderin’ wimmern. There’s no hope fer us. We never had no chancet.”