"I wouldn' tell you the trouble ef I could he'p it, Miss Sally," he said pleadingly, his hands shut about his knees, his eyes beseeching as a fawn's. "Ef they wuz inny way to make things come aout rat lessen I told, I wouldn' tell. But I don' see no way." It was easier to talk up to the thing and around the thing, than to get directly into it.
"Is it your own trouble, Piney?" she asked, helping again.
"No'm."
"Whose trouble, Piney?"
"Mist' Steerin's, Miss Sally."
"Ah!" She leaned nearer Piney. "Tell me quickly, dearie," she said, "is he ill?"
"Well'm, it's your trouble, too, Miss Sally."
"Yes, surely, Piney, go on, go on!"
"And your father's trouble, Miss Sally."
"Something about the Tigmores, I suspect, then, Piney, go on."