“Set down a minute, mammy,” said Chris, dropping on the log on one side of St. Hilda, and obediently the mother sat down on the other side.
“Mammy,” he said abruptly, “I'll stop drinkin' if you will.”
St. Hilda almost gasped. The woman lifted her eyes to the mountainside and dropped her gaze presently to her hands, which were twisting the switch in her lap.
“I'll stop if you will,” he repeated.
“I'll try, Chris,” she said, but she did not look up.
“Gimme yo' hand.”
Across St. Hilda's lap she stretched one shaking hand, which the boy clasped.
“Put yo' hand on thar, too, Miss Hildy,” he said, and when he felt the pressure of her big, strong, white hand for a moment he got up quickly and turned his face.
“All right, mammy.”