“Yes, William and I went there when 'twas all new country,” she went on, after a pause. “We worked hard, and we laid up a little money. Then, three years ago, William took sick. He was sick for a year, and we had to live up most of what we'd saved. That's why I ain't got none now. It ain't that William didn't provide.”
The girl nodded.
“We seen some hard days. But we was always harmonious—William and I was. And William had a great fondness for the mountains. The night before he died he made them take him over by the window and he looked out and watched the darkness come stealin' over the daylight—you know how it does in them mountains. 'Mother,' he said to me—his voice was that low I could no more 'an hear what he said—'I'll never see another sun go down, but I'm thankful I seen this one.'”
She was crying outright now, and the girl did not try to stop her.
“And that's the reason I love the mountains,” she whispered at last. “It ain't just that they're grand and wonderful to look at. It ain't just the things them tourists sees to talk about. But the mountains has always been like a comfortin' friend to me. John and Sarah is buried there—John and Sarah is my two children that died of fever. And then William is there—like I just told you. And the mountains was a comfort to me in all those times of trouble. They're like an old friend. Seems like they're the best friend I've got on earth.”
“I know what you mean,” said the girl, brokenly. “I know all about it.”
“And you don't think I'm just notional,” she asked wistfully, “in pinin' to get back while—whilst I can look at them?”
The girl held the old hand tightly in hers with a clasp more responsive than words.
“It ain't but I'd know they was there. I could feel they was there all right, but”—her voice sank with the horror of it—“I'm 'fraid I might forget just how they look!”
“Oh, but you won't,” the girl assured her. “You'll remember just how they look.”