“There’s kindlin’ to last a week,” he said, “the ax is in the barn, an’ ye’ll find a bin full o’ corn meal there an’ a side o’ bacon in the cellar. Them hens,” he added wistfully “is Dominickers. She was fond o’ them—an’ the Chiny ducks, too.”
“I’ll be kind to them,” she said.
He rested his lean jaw in one huge hand, musing, dim-eyed, silent. Far away a cow bell tinkled, and he turned his head, peering out across the tangled pasture lot.
“We called our caow Jinny,” he said. “She’s saucy and likes to plague folks. But I don’t never chase her; no, ma’am. You jest set there by them pasture bars, kinder foxin’ that you ain’t thinkin’ o’ nothin’, and Jinny she’ll come along purty soon.”
The girl nodded.
“Waal,” he muttered, rousing up, “I guess it’s time to go.” He looked at her, his eyes resting upon the clothing of his dead wife.
“You see,” he said, “I’ve give all I’ve got to the Union. Now, ma’am, what shall I tell our boys if I git through?”
In a low, clear voice she gave him the message to Reynolds, repeating it slowly until he nodded his comprehension.
“If they turn you back,” she said, “and if they follow you here, remember I’m your daughter.”
He nodded again. “My Cynthy.”