On the third night, toward morning, Nettie started up with a cry. She had heard something moving outside the shack. They gripped their rifles and sat up listening intently. Then Angella declared that it was only the wind, and Nettie said:
"It sounds like thunder, doesn't it? Maybe we're goin' to have another storm."
"Let it storm," said Angella, glad of the other's voice in the darkness. "Our crop's harvested, and no hail can hurt us now. Is the light still going in the kitchen?"
"Yes." After a moment, Nettie said:
"I ain't afraid of nothing now for myself, but I don't want nothing to happen to you—and my baby."
"My baby you mean," corrected Angella, pretending to laugh. But with all the tenderness of her maternal heart, she drew the baby close to her side.
After another long tense pause, when they again imagined things stirring about the place, Angella said suddenly:
"Let's talk. I can't sleep and neither can you, and we never do talk much."
"I expect that's because we've always had to work most o' the time," said Nettie. "Isn't it queer that you and me should be such friends."