"No—he wasn't sassy," was the answer.
Sandy breathed a sigh of relief.
"Them city fellers is mighty apt to be sassy, and this time o' year they'se allers prowlin' 'round," and bestowing another rough caress on the baby he went his way.
That evening as they sat together before the door Sandy said:
"O Molly, I'm agoin' over ter Jim Barker's by sun-up ter-morrer, ter help him out with his hoein'. Ye won't be lonesome nor nothin'?"
"No—I reckon not," replied his wife. "'Twon't be the first time I've been here alone."
Involuntarily the eyes of the husband and wife met, in his furtive questioning look which she met with a steady gaze. In the dusky twilight her face showed pale as marble and her throat pulsated strangely. The man turned his eyes away; there was something in that face which he could not bear.
And at "sun-up" Sandy departed.
Molly went about her work as usual. Nothing was forgotten, nothing neglected. The two small rooms shone with neatness and comfort, and at last the child slept.