She was a woman above medium height, and rather dignified in appearance and manner, with a kind, homely face, yellowed and hardened by sun and wind, and with honest, steadfast eyes. She had on a stout, plain cotton dress, and an old brown veil was drawn around her head and tied under her chin. Summer and winter she wore it, to ward off that greatest enemy of her peace—neuralgia.
"He always was an onfortunit creetur," she said abruptly, and with a sigh.
"Who now, Peggy?" inquired Mr. Upchurch in some surprise.
"Why, Ab," and laying her knitting down on her knee, she smoothed it out thoughtfully.
"That brother o' your'n?"
"Yes; I said he always was an onfortunit creetur."
"Yes, onfortunitly lazy," her husband dryly observed.
"He all but died wi' the measles when he was a sucklin' baby not more'n three months old, an' then 'long come the whoopin'-cough on the heels er that, an' liked to 'a' tuk him off. Then you remember ther time he was snake-bit on his big toe, an' how the pizen flew all over him like lightnin', an' he would er died ef we hadn't er happened ter have some dram in the house. Then he tuk cramp once in Punkin Vine Creek, an' would er drownded right on the spot ef Providence hadn't er sent the singin'-school teacher along fer ter fish him out."
The half-forgotten incidents of childhood and youth crowded fresh upon her memory. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees—a favorite attitude with many country women when they are smoking their pipes, dipping snuff, or are lost in deep thought—and thrust a knitting-needle through her hair. But her reminiscences did not impress her husband very deeply. He eyed her kindly, and with a slight touch of pity.
"You hain't seen him sence the war, Peggy. What's got inter you that yer mind keeps er runnin' onter him ter-day?"