“Sho! I’m glad to see yo’!” Mrs. Caope cried, wrapping her arms around the young woman as she stepped down to the sand, and kissing her. “How is yo’ maw?”
“Very well, indeed!” Nelia laughed, clinging to the big river woman’s hand. “I’m so glad to find someone I know!”
“You’ll know us all d’rectly. Hyar’s my man, Mr. Caope—real nice feller, too, if I do say hit—an’ hyar’s Mrs. Dobstan an’ her two darters, an’ this is Mr. 57 Falteau, who’s French and married May, there, an’ this feller—say, mister, what is yo’ name?”
“Rasba, Elijah Rasba.”
“Mr. Rasba, he’s a parson, out’n the Tug Fork of the Big Sandy, comin’ down. Miss Nelia Crele, suh. I disremember the name of that feller yo’ married, Nelia.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Nelia turned to the mountain man, her face flushing. “A preacher down this river?”
“I’m looking for a man,” Rasba replied, gazing at her, “the son of a widow woman, and she’s afraid for him. She’s afraid he’ll go wrong.”
“And you came clear down here to look for him—a thousand, two thousand miles?” she continued, quickly.
“I had nothing else to do—but that!” he shook his head. “You see, missy, I’m a sinner myse’f!”
He turned and walked away with bowed head. They all watched him with quick comprehension and real sympathy.