CHAPTER XV.
THE GIRL AND THE CHURN.
The next morning Lou was churning out in the yard and near her Mrs. Mayfield sat, sewing. The scene was inspiring. Off to the right flowed the blue creek, and everywhere were the hills, softly purple in the distance.
"Things look so lonesome since poor mammy died," said the girl.
"But her passing away was beautiful," the city woman made reply, sewing, thinking, glancing up with a sigh and then permitting her gaze to wander off among the hills. "You were very fond of her, weren't you?"
"Yes. Her black face was one of the first I ever saw. She nursed father and me, too; and she was like a mother. I—I wish you would stay here a long time, Mrs. Mayfield."
"I don't like to think of returning to what people almost senselessly call the world. This is the world as God made it. And amid these heart-throbs of genuine nature I am beginning to live anew."
"But you'd get tired of it if you had to milk a cow that can pop her tail like a whip," and after churning vigorously for a time, she inquired: "Did you have trouble away off yonder where so many folks live?"
"Yes, my married life ended in misery."
Lou ceased to churn and for a time stood musing. "Did you' husband tell you a lie?"