"I didn't believe she'd go back on me too," Mr. Lindsay murmured, with his cheek on the little one's red-brown hair.
"Been anybody at your house today?" asked astute Henrietty.
"Jest old man Brock."
"Did he stay all day?"
"Yes, staid until milkin' time."
"Wuz he primped up?" persisted Henrietty, with a glance at Jim.
"Yes, in an inch of his life," scoffed Mr. Lindsay, with the high collar in mind: "ever'theng he had on, as fur as I could see, wuz new. Miss Lucy," he concluded with burning sarcasm, "she told him he looked like a preacher!"
"Must 'a' been a courtin' rig," reflected Jim.
"Well Jim," expostulated Henrietty, "and poor Callie not been in her grave more'n six months! Ef I wuz Mr. Brock, I'd let my wife's tracks rain out before I took to courtin'!"
Mr. Lindsay laughed—a mirthless jeering laugh.