"Plays superbly on the guitar?"
"On the git-tar? Yer may say he does, strenger. When he plays onto the git-tar, I calls hit a pickin' onto the git ther', and the Colonel he ken git ther' with the bes' chunes 'at ever split the wind, dead sartaing."
White's sallow face betrayed, as he finished speaking, a perfect faith in the legitimacy of his humor, and Moreton felt bound to laugh.
At this point the girl came shyly to the door and said:
"Pap, dinner air ready."
Moreton could not refrain from looking boldly, even searchingly, into that sweet, innocent, half-vacant face. He felt an obscure pang enter his breast, as if in some way her pathetic, hopeless prettiness accused him. She was probably sixteen, and, though rather slight, remarkably well-formed and graceful. Her scant, coarse drapery served to indicate more than to hide her body's curves and the outlines of her supple limbs. It was her face, however, that had in it the power of leaving in Moreton's memory a haunting, elusive impression that would not go out. She did not take a seat with her parents and their guest at the table, but filled the place of serving maid, passing silently behind their chairs, offering the dishes of ill-cooked coarse food and anticipating with swift movements the needs of each.
"Ef the Colonel wus here now," said White, poising a piece of fried bacon between his plate and his mouth, "ye'd never git him to eat this yere kind er victuals. Nary time, sir. He'd hev br'iled chicken, er squir'l, an' white bread an' milk an' I don't know what all. The Colonel he air high tony dinktom 'bout what he chaws, le' me tell ye. He keeps a lot o' wine in 'is closet, 'an hit air outdacious fine liquor, too."
Moreton, whose eyes followed Milly at every fair opportunity, saw her lean over White's chair and heard her say in a low, earnest tone:
"Hush, Pap, John he wudn' like hit ef ye said so much 'bout his doin's. I wush ye'd keep still 'bout him anyhow."
It was little more than a pretense of eating with Moreton. The corn bread, collards, sweet potatoes and fat fried bacon, which were to be washed down with bitter coffee, did not suit his English appetite. Then, too, he was so busy with the thought of Reynolds and so troubled by the wistful face of this strangely beautiful mountain girl, that even the choicest dinner might not have tempted him.