The man got up from his chair and came and stood beside her. Unconsciously she shrank away from his nearness.
"Ain't you used to that by now;—ain't you?"
She turned toward him;—all but her eyes. Her eyes were still riveted out there upon the motionless chow chained in the center of the run.
"It ain't the noise; that,—that don't mean so much, James. It ain't the noise."
"Then what's the matter,—huh?"
She pointed a trembling forefinger at that yellow mass tied to the dog-house.
"Him," she whispered. "He don't make no racket, James."
The man peered over her shoulder.
"The chow?"
"Yes;" her voice was still. "China-Ching. He don't make no racket, James."