Ransie Bilbro stared out at the Cumberlands, clear blue now in the sunlight. He did not look at Ariela.
“I ’low it might be lonesome,” he said; “but when folks gits mad and wants a divo’ce, you can’t make folks stay.”
“There’s others wanted a divo’ce,” said Ariela, speaking to the wooden stool. “Besides, nobody don’t want nobody to stay.”
“Nobody never said they didn’t.”
“Nobody never said they did. I reckon I better start on now to brother Ed’s.”
“Nobody can’t wind that old clock.”
“Want me to go back along ’ith you in the cart and wind it fur you, Ranse?”
The mountaineer’s countenance was proof against emotion. But he reached out a big hand and enclosed Ariela’s thin brown one. Her soul peeped out once through her impassive face, hallowing it.
“Them hounds shan’t pester you no more,” said Ransie. “I reckon I been mean and low down. You wind that clock, Ariela.”
“My heart hit’s in that cabin, Ranse,” she whispered, “along ’ith you. I ai’nt a-goin’ to git mad no more. Le’s be startin’, Ranse, so’s we kin git home by sundown.”