The cabin was small, one-roomed, with a loft above, the rough, unbarked logs brown as a beech nut. The mud and stick chimney at one end looked ready to collapse at the first brisk wind. There was no glass in the two shuttered openings which served as windows. The interior of the cabin was scarcely more attractive. Wide cracks showed in the puncheon floor, the walls were smoke-stained. In a corner near the fireplace,—there was no stove,—were several rude shelves filled with coarse, nicked dishes. The loom, warping bars, spinning wheel, a deal table, with three or four chairs and a couple of benches, nearly filled the room. A row of last year’s pepper pods and a bunch of herbs still hung from the dingy ceiling.
Outside, two children romped among the geese and chickens. Presently a woman, spare and stooping, appeared, and toiled springward for a bucket of water. Tears filled Talitha’s eyes as she went on. Her mother was not old, yet she was as careworn and bent as women twice her age in the village. To the girl, Bentville stood for the world which lay beyond her mountains, and the longing to transform her home life into something like the comfort and harmony of those she had just left was almost overwhelming.
Talitha rode up to the door amid the joyful shrieks of the children and the squawks of the fowls as they flew precipitately in every direction. Dismounting, she released herself as soon as possible from small embracing arms and hurried to her mother who had set down the bucket and was eyeing her daughter perplexedly.
“Hit ’pears ter me you’ve growed a heap sence you war gone,” was all the comment Mrs. Coyle made upon Talitha’s changed appearance. “Whar’s Mart?” with sudden misgiving as the girl picked up the bucket of water and stepped briskly along at her side.
“He’s coming. Dan Gooch gave me a lift on his sorrel and he footed it with Mart.”
Talitha went on into the cabin, but her mother lingered outside. She had caught sight of a young, stalwart figure beside their neighbour. She smoothed her old homespun gown with worn, calloused hands, and wished she had the “tuckin’ comb” Talitha had sent her for Christmas in her hair.
“Hello, mammy!” Martin put his arms around his mother and kissed her awkwardly.
After Dan Gooch had accepted the hospitable invitation to stay for supper, the three repaired indoors. Talitha had rallied the younger members of the family to her assistance, and was already dishing up the evening meal. A fresh cloth had been laid, and a handful of mountain laurel, in a tin can on the window-sill, transferred to the centre of the table. At this juncture Sam Coyle appeared from the “fodder patch.” After a hasty greeting he retreated to the basin of water outside with a bewildered, company feeling he had not experienced since a college settlement worker had visited them the year before.
At the table he listened with silent pride to the answers which Dan Gooch’s volley of questions elicited. He learned that a mountain farm could bring its owner a good living if rightly cultivated, that Talitha had made with her own hands the dress and apron of “store goods” she was wearing. Perhaps his wife had been in the right after all when she insisted on the two older children going to school, although it was against his judgment.
“And you-uns hev been a-larnin’ carpenterin’?” continued their neighbour, addressing Martin.