"I neber sed erlong wid dat, honey, 'en you'd be de fus' one caught.' Well, if I never sect dat, thar's nuffin' sartin erbout who I means when I sez 'lay o'ers ter ketch meddlers'; you musen jump et conclugeons, honey. Ennyhow, you ax me ergin, en see what I'll say dis time."
She asked him, her eager eyes uplifted to his face, her small hands clasped, wondering and hope bursting into instant full dawn. A way hope has of doing in youth.
The old man went through his accustomed facial pantomime, slapped himself on the thigh, and blurted out:
"In town wid de Unions. He is Kyurnel Robert Marsden now."
"Who told you, Uncle Squire?" Her eyes were filled with sudden gathered tears, and her scarlet lips trembled.
"Jim, dat is Kyurnel Tadlock's man, telled me. He seed him en know'd him. But he is mity sick, honey, mity sick."
"O, Uncle Squire," cried the delighted child, "won't mamma go right straight in town and take me?"
"Well, now, dat's er gray hoss ob ernuther color. Mebbe she mout, en mebbe she mouten."
The child's countenance fell, her sensitive nature touched. Already a womanly intuition, wonderful in one so childlike and ignorant of the world's ways, begun to stir faintly.
"If mamma can't leave Aunt Betsy, don't you reckon she will let me go with you in town to see him, Uncle Squire?"