Standing a few paces from her he hung low his head. "Yes, I thought I'd better cut my stay a little short. My people need me."
As someone far away she saw him, though he was nearer now. "But don't we—don't your uncle need you?"
He was not too big, not awkward now—his hands were not in his way, and thinking not upon how to stand, stood gracefully; and the breeze that came down the creek brought cool perfume from the nestling coves where all the day and the night the wild rose nodded.
"No, ma'm; my work lies away over among the mountains." She turned to walk away from him, but looking up, was closer. "I beg yo' pardon, ma'm, but haven't you got a picture of yo'se'f you would give me?"
"A picture of me? What do you want with it, Mr. Reverend?"
"My cabin is under the hill, and in the winter time it is dark there and I would like to have—have a never-failing lamp to lighten it."
"Oh," and her hands were pressed to her bosom, "You can't mean that."
"Ma'm, I don't joke about sacred things."
"Mr. Reverend—"
"If you would call me Jim one time—just once, I should have something to dream about."