"Yes. I don't know what Hurd would do or say, if he knowed it; but he started to mill 'fore daylight, an' I crope out, 'lowin' it 'ud be a good time fer seein' you." She paused, absently untied her bonnet-strings, passed a trembling hand over her gray hair, then looked wistfully at Mrs. Harding.
"Mis' Harding, has Sarah Betsy heard anything from John lately?"
"Heard from John!" with a flash of indignation. "Didn't I tell Mister Hurd you needn't be a pest'rin' 'bout Sarah Betsy? It 'pears to me—"
"It's all 'long o' me bein' so troubled about him that I asked," said the old woman, hastily. "One o' the Brown boys wus down in the Cove t'other day an' he 'lowed John was sick, an' yesterday I begged his pa to go over there an' see 'bout him, but he 'lowed it wusn't no use; if John thought he could take keer o' hisself, let him do it. Men fo'ks, Mis' Harding, hain't got the feelin's o' women. There is such a weight here," laying one hard, withered hand on her breast, "that sometimes it 'pears to me I can't git my breath. If he hadn't a-gone off to the 'stillery. Them revenue officers will git him, shore, an' he'll die in jail; for he never could bear to be shut up. Why, he always sleeps with the door o' his room open. I hain't got nothin' ag'in' Sarah Betsy, Mis' Harding. I'd much ruther John an' her would marry th'n fer him to go off."
Her shrunken lips trembled piteously; some large tears rolled down her face. The frigidness of Mrs. Harding's attitude relaxed. She moved nearer the bars.
"I hain't nothin' ag'in' John, either, but Mister Hurd—"
"Is terribly sot in his ways, I know; but he don't mean to do wrong. He jest thinks he knows what is best for ever'body," said Mrs. Hurd, loyally. "John was always the sweetest, lovin'est child," returning to the subject absorbing her, "an' he never wus one to stay away from home much, even when he'd growed up. I never keered fer no better comp'ny than his'n; an' if a good son makes a good husband, then any girl might be proud to git him. It's turrible lonesome 'thout him ever comin' in or goin' out. Hurd says nothin' 'bout it, an' 'pears to sleep like a log; but I'm pestered at all hours o' the night, an' git up to look in John's room, an' when I see the bed all white an' smooth I feel like he's dead."
The cow ate up her food and went browsing along the fence corners again. Mrs. Harding's heart waxed soft within her. What religion failed to do, human sympathy accomplished. By her own experiences of motherhood she could understand the yearning and heartache of this other woman. It created a bond between them far easier of comprehension to her than the spiritual tie the preacher talked about. That seemed a mere cold abstraction—this a warm, living thing.
"I'm real sorry Sarah Betsy hain't heard nothin' from him," she said softly.
"I 'lowed maybe she would. Well, well, I won't pester you any longer."