Many days passed after Frale's departure before David learned more of the young man's unhappy deed. He had gone down to give the old mother some necessary care and, finding her alone, remained to talk with her. Pleased with her quaint expressions and virile intellect, he led her on to speak of her youth; and one morning, weary of the solitude and silence, she poured out tales of Cassandra's father, and how, after his death, she "came to marry Farwell." She told of her own mother, and the hard times that fell upon them during the bitter days of the Civil War.
The traditions of her family were dear to her, and she was well pleased to show this young doctor who had found the key to her warm, yet reserved, heart that she "wa'n't no common trash," and her "chillen wa'n't like the run o' chillen."
"Seems like I'm talkin' a heap too much o' we-uns," she said, at last.
"No, no. Go on. You say you had no school; how did you learn? You were reading your Bible when I came in."
"No. Thar wa'n't no schools in my day, not nigh enough fer me to go to. Maw, she could read, an' write, too, but aftah paw jined the ahmy, she had to work right ha'd and had nothin' to do with. Paw, he had to jine one side or t'othah. Some went with the North and some went with the South,—they didn't keer much. The' wa'n't no niggahs up here to fight ovah. But them war cruel times when the bushwackers come searchin' 'round an' raidin' our homes. They were a bad lot—most of 'em war desertahs from both ahmies. We-uns war obleeged to hide in the bresh or up the branch—anywhar we could find a place to creep into. Them were bad times fer the women an' chillen left at home.
"Maw used to save ev'y scrap of papah she could find with printin' on hit to larn we-uns our lettahs off'n. One time come 'long a right decent captain and axed maw could she get he an' his men suthin' to eat. He had nigh about a dozen sogers with him; an' maw, she done the bes' she could,—cooked corn-bread, an' chick'n an' sich. I c'n remember how he sot right on the hearth where you're settin' now, an' tossed flapjacks fer th' hull crowd.
"He war right civil when he lef', an' said he'd like to give maw suthin', but they hadn't nothin' but Confed'rate money, an' hit wa'n't worth nothin' up here; an' maw said would he give her the newspapah he had. She seed the end of hit standin' out of his pocket; an' he laughed and give hit out quick, an' axed her what did she want with hit; and she 'lowed she could teach me a heap o' readin' out o' that papah, an' he laughed again, an' said likely, fer that hit war worth more'n the money. All the schoolin' I had war just that thar papah, an' that old spellin'-book you see on the shelf; I c'n remembah how maw come by that, too."
"Tell me how she came by the spelling-book, will you?"
"Hit war about that time. Paw, he nevah come home again. I cyan't remembah much 'bouts my paw. Maw used to say a heap o' times if she only had a spellin'-book like she used to larn out'n, 'at she could larn we-uns right smart. Well, one day one o' the neighbors told her 'at he'd seed one at Gerret's, ovah t'othah side Lone Pine Creek, nigh about eight mile, I reckon; an' she 'lowed she'd get hit. So she sont we-uns ovah to Teasley's mill—she war that scared o' the Gorillas she didn't like leavin' we-uns home alone—an' she walked thar an' axed could she do suthin' to earn that thar book; an' ol' Miz Gerret, she 'lowed if maw'd come Monday follerin' an' wash fer her, 'at she mount have hit. Them days we-uns an' the Teasleys war right friendly. The' wa'n't no feud 'twixt we-uns an' Teasleys then—but now I reckon thar's bound to be blood feud." She spoke very sadly and waited, leaving the tale of the spelling-book half told.
"Why must there be 'blood feud' now? Why can't you go on in the old way?"