"No. Can't use 'em. Get hung up in the trees. What time you want to start out? Nine o'clock? See you at nine."
"That's too early. Make it ten. I'm busy. Besides, it's Sunday."
"Comin' at nine," he called over his shoulder and started for the gate.
She watched his retreating figure as he darted along through the shadow, and then she slowly turned and entered the sitting room. A dim yellow light from a single oil lamp on the table over against the right wall was feebly penetrating the deep shadows in far corners. The low-ceilinged room seemed huge and cavernous, with deep niches and crannies and bulky, shadowy objects. Miss Susie sat by the table with her knitting, her face yellower than ever, her hands feverishly restive. She raised her head as Mary Louise closed the door, and the tiny lines, accentuated by the lamplight, covered her face like markings upon an ancient scroll.
"Why didn't he come in, honey?"
"I don't know, Aunt Susie. He was in a hurry."
"What's he doing in town? Thought he'd gone back to work in Louisville."
"I don't know, Aunt Susie."
Miss McCallum picked up her knitting. She sniffed. "No, I s'pose not."
Mary Louise went over and kissed her aunt lightly upon the forehead, and then disappeared through a shadowy door back into shadowy depths. Directly came a sound of clattering tinware and then the faint echoes of a song, hummed, and slightly nasal. A smile flickered across Miss Susie's lips as she watched her fingers—the needles flitting swiftly in and out.