Once she looked around, fancying she saw a smile on his sober face. Their eyes came near meeting, and she turned quite away.
“Ever seed a body out'n his head?”
The girl's eyes rounded with a start of surprise.
“Well, it's plumb cur'us. Isom's been that way lately. Isom's sick, ye know. Uncle Gabe's got the rheumatiz, 'n' Isom's mighty fond o' Uncle Gabe, 'n' the boy pestered me till I come down to he'p him. Hit p'int'ly air strange to hear him talkin'. He's jes a-ravin' 'bout hell 'n' heaven, 'n' the sin o' killin' folks. You'd ha' thought he hed been convicted, though none o' our fambly hev been much atter religion. He says as how the wrath uv a livin' God is a-goin' to sweep these mount ins, ef some mighty tall repentin' hain't done. Of co'se he got all them notions from Gabe. But Isom al'ays was quar, 'n' seed things hisself. He ain't no fool!”
The girl was listening. Morbidly sensitive to the supernatural, she had turned toward him, and her face was relaxed with fear and awe.
“He's havin' dreams 'n' sech-like now, 'n' I reckon thar's nothing he's seed or heerd that he don' talk about. He's been a-goin' on about you,” he added, abruptly. The girl's hands gave a nervous twitch. “Oh, he don't say nothin' ag'in' ye. I reckon he tuk a fancy to ye. Mam was plumb distracted, not knowin' whar he had seed ye. She thought it was like his other talk, 'n' I never let on-a-knowin' how mam was.” A flush rose like a flame from the girl's throat to her hair. “But hit's this,” Rome went on in an unsteady tone, “that he talks most about, 'n' I'm sorry myself that trouble's a-comm'.” He dropped all pretence now. “I've been a-watchin' fer ye over thar on t' other shore a good deal lately. I didn't know ye at fust, Marthy”—he spoke her name for the first time— “'n' Gabe says y'u didn't know me. I remembered ye, though, 'n' I want to tell ye now what I tol' ye then: I've got nothin' ag'in you. I was hopin' ye mought come over ag'in—hit was sorter cur'us that y'u was the same gal—the same gal—”
His self-control left him; he was halting in speech, and blundering he did not know where. Fumbling an empty bag at the hopper, he had not dared to look at the girl till he heard her move. She had risen, and was picking up her bag. The hard antagonism of her face calmed him instantly.
“Hain't ye goin' to have yer grist ground?”
“Not hyeh,” she answered, quickly.
“Why, gal—” He got no further. Martha was gone, and he followed her to the bank, bewildered.