"Not by my leave," she said firmly. "It's only right that a body gets his worth."
"I'll swap even for a look at some of your other tapestries."
"My what?"
"Your cloth pictures, like the cat."
"Land! I'll get some."
She bounced from her chair, bustled into an adjoining room, and they heard her open a trunk. A moment later she was back with two tapestries under her arm. She spread one, a yard long by about twenty inches wide, and Jeff gasped.
It was The Last Supper, but instead of following conventional patterns, Granny had drawn inspiration from the life around her. Jesus and His disciples were seated at a wooden table that was innocent of any adornment or finery whatsoever, but the table was so finely done that a sliver thrusting out from it seemed both real and symbolic. There was an air of dignity that rose above mere human dignity, and the dyes had been applied with a touch so delicate that holy light seemed to emanate from the picture. Its message was one of hope. Judas was not to be abandoned.
"Do you like it?" Granny asked.
"It—" Jeff was at a loss for words. "It's wonderful!"
"Preacher Skiles thinks the Lord ain't right."