Not yet was the fire dead in the deep sockets—from out the caverns the last sparks of life were making the eyes terrible.
"Yo'—Mary Allan!" Contempt, more than fear, rang in the tones. "What yo' spyin' on me for, Mary Allan?"
Mary went inside. She was relieved by the fact that Becky knew her—she had feared that she would find no response. She did not intend to question or argue; she meant to control the situation from the start.
"Hit's in the grave 'long o' Zalie!" Becky was on her defence. "Zalie"—here the befogged brain went under a cloud—"Zalie she come a-looking—but hit's in the grave! I tell yo'-all, hit's in the grave!"
The trembling creature wavered in the firelight. She was filled with fear—but of what, who could tell?
Mary's face underwent a marvellous change—it grew tender, wistful.
"Set, Aunt Becky," she said, compassionately, and gently pushed the woman into a deep rocker covered over with a dirty quilt; "set and don't be frightened. I ain't come to hurt yo'—I've come to help."
Becky seemed to shrink.
"Hit's in——" she began, but Mary silenced her.
"No hit ain't in the grave! Zalie she knows it—an' I know it!"