“Why, hit’s—hit’s—jest a caring fer somebody more’n fer ary one else in th’ whole world.”
“Is that all?” The knot was still stubborn.
“No, hit ain’t all. Hit’s a goin’ t’ live with somebody an’ a lettin’ him take care o’ you, ’stead o’ your folks.” Sammy was still struggling with the knot. “An’ hit’s a cookin’ an’ a scrubbin’ an’ a mendin’ fer him, an’—an’—sometimes hit’s a splittin’ wood, an’ a doin’ chores, too; an’ I reckon that’s all.”
Just here the knot came undone, and the shoe dropped to the floor with a thud. Sammy sat upright. “No, it ain’t, Mandy; it’s a heap more’n that; it’s a nursin’ babies, and a takin’ care of ’em ’till they’re growed up, and then when they’re big enough to take care o’ themselves, and you’re old and in the way, like Grandma Bowles, it’s a lookin’ back over it all, and bein’ glad you done married the man you did. It’s a heap more’n livin’ with a man, Mandy; it’s a doin’ all that, without ever once wishin’ he was somebody else.”
This was too much for Mandy; she blushed and giggled, then remarked, as she gazed admiringly at her friend, “You’ll look mighty fine, Sammy, when you get fixed up with all them pretties you’ll have when you an’ Ollie git married. I wish my hair was bright an’ shiny like yourn. How do you reckon you’ll like bein’ a fine lady anyhow?”
Here it was again. Sammy turned upon her helpless friend, with, “How do I know if I would like it or not? What is bein’ a fine lady, anyhow?”
“Why, bein’ a fine lady is—is livin’ in a big house with carpets on th’ floor, an’ lookin’ glasses, an’ not havin’ no work t’ do, an’ wearin’ pretty clothes, with lots of rings an’ things, an’—an’,” she paused; then finished in triumph, “an’ a ridin’ in a carriage.”
That wide questioning look was in Sammy’s eyes as she returned, “It’s a heap more’n that, Mandy. I don’t jest sense what it is, but I know ’tain’t all them things that makes a sure ’nough lady. ’Tain’t the clothes he wears that makes Mr. Howitt different from the folks we know. He don’t wear no rings, and he walks. He’s jest different ’cause he’s different; and would be, no matter what he had on or where he was.”
This, too, was beyond Mandy. Sammy continued, as she finished her preparations for retiring; “This here house is plenty big enough for me, least wise it would be if it had one more room like the cabin in Mutton Hollow; carpets would be mighty dirty and unhandy to clean when the men folks come trampin’ in with their muddy boots; I wouldn’t want to wear no dresses so fine I couldn’t knock ’round in the brush with them; and it would be awful to have nothin’ to do; as for a carriage, I wouldn’t swap Brownie for a whole city full of carriages.” She slipped into bed and stretched out luxuriously. “Do you reckon I could be a fine lady, and be as I am now, a livin’ here in the hills?”
The next day Mandy went back to her home on Jake Creek. And in the evening Sammy’s father, with Wash Gibbs, returned, both men and horses showing the effects of a long, hard ride.