“I'll fetch you another bunch when I come back, Pet,” he called.
“You'd better fetch her somethin' to eat, instead of prayin' aroun' with old fools that's always dyin',” called Mrs. Watts to him from the kitchen door where she was scrubbing the cans.
“The Lord will always provide, Tabitha—he has never failed me yet.”
She watched him drive slowly over the hill: “That means I had better get a move on me an' go to furagin',” she said to herself.
“Hillard Watts has mistuck me for the Almighty mighty nigh all his life. It's about time the blackberries was a gittin' ripe anyway.”
The Bishop found the greatest distress at Uncle Dave Dickey's. Aunt Sally Dickey, his wife, was weeping on the front porch, while Tilly, Uncle Dave's pretty grown daughter, her calico dress tucked up for the morning's work, showing feet and ankles that would grace a duchess, was lamenting loudly on the back porch. A coon dog of uncertain lineage and intellectual development, tuned to the howling pitch, doubtless, by the music of Tilly's sobs, joined in the chorus.
“Po' Davy is gwine—he's most gone—boo—boo-oo!” sobbed Aunt Sally.
“Pap—Pap—don't leave us,” echoed Tilly from the back porch.
“Ow—wow—oo—oo,” howled the dog.
The Bishop went in sad and subdued, expecting to find Uncle Davy breathing his last. Instead, he found him sitting bolt upright in bed, and sobbing even more lustily than his wife and daughter. He stretched out his hands pitiably as his old friend went in.