'When I set here by myself on this po'ch so much these days an' think.'
She always seemed to see me in him—but I never could. Far ez I can see, he never taken nothin' from me but his sect—an' yo' name, son, of co'se. 'Cep'in' for me, you couldn't 'a' been no Jones—'t least not in our branch.
Put yo' hand on my forr'd, son, an' bresh it up'ards a few times, while I shet my eyes.
Do you know when he does that, doc', I couldn't tell his hand from hers.
He taken his touch after her, exact—an' his hands, too, sech good firm fingers, not all plowed out o' shape, like mine. I never seemed to reelize it tell she'd passed away.
That'll do now, boy. I know you want to go in an' see where the little wife is, an' I've no doubt you'll find her with a wishful look in her eyes, wonderin' what keeps you out here so long.
Funny, doctor, how seein' him and little Mary Elizabeth together brings back my own youth to me—an' wife's.
From the first day we was married to the day we laid her away under the poplars, the first thing I done on enterin' the house was to wonder where she was an' go an' find her. An' quick ez I'd git her located, why, I'd feel sort o' rested, an' know things was all right.
Heap of his ma's ways I seem to see in Sonny since she's went.
An' what do you think, doc'? He's took to kissin' me nights and mornin's since she's passed away, an' I couldn't tell you how it seems to comfort me.