She had been sitting on the porch and rose to greet him when he drove up and descended from his conveyence rather stiffly.
"Ye wasn't oneasy, was ye?" he asked.
"No," she answered; "only it seemed strange to know you were away."
"I haint done it but three times since me an' Ianthy was married," he said. "Two o' them times was Conference to Barnsville, an' one was when Marcelly died."
When he mounted the porch steps he looked up at her with a smile on his weather-beaten face.
"Was ye lonesome?" he asked. "I bet ye was."
"A little," she replied. "Not very."
She gave him his chair against the wooden pillar, and watched him as he tilted back and balanced himself on its back legs. She saw something new and disturbed in his face and manner. It was as if the bit of outside life he had seen had left temporary traces upon him. She wondered very much how it had impressed him and what he was thinking about.
And after a short time he told her.
"Ye must be lonesome," he said, "arter stayin' down thar. It's nat'ral. A body don't know until they see it theirselves. It's gay thar. Lord, yes! it's gay, an' what suits young folks is to be gay."