“You’ve followed the right road,” said Maria; “you’ve come at a day of reck’nin’; everythin’ in the house, the best, you shall have.”
She snatched the light from Silas and slammed the barn door, leaving Tige contentedly champing his oats, wondering if he was still dreaming, and if his wild swim had been a nightmare followed by a vision of plenty. In the kitchen Maria filled the stove, lit two lamps and began making new tea.
“Thet was a good strong drorin’ we hed fur supper, M’ri,” said Silas, plaintively, keenly conscious of previous economies; “’pears to me you don’t need no new.” She paid no heed to him, but set the table with the best dishes, the preserves—Silas noted with a groan—and then with quick, skillful hand began cutting generous slices of ham.
“I hope you’re hungry, sir?” she asked eagerly.
“Wal, I be, marm,” said the stranger; “an’ if it ain’t no trouble, I’ll set this ere basket nigh the stove, there’s things in it as will spile. I be consederable hungry, ain’t eat a bite sence yesterd’y.”
Silas’s face grew longer and longer; he looked at the hamper hopefully. That might contain a peddler’s outfit and “M’ri” could get paid that way.
“An’ I hain’t money nor nawthin’ to pay fur my vittles ’less there was wood-sawin’ to be done.”
“Wood’s all sawed,” said Silas bitterly.
“I wouldn’t take a cent,” went on Maria, with flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes. “Ann Kirk thet hed the name of bein’ as mean as me, was berried to day, and folks that keered nawthin’ fur her is a goin’ to hev her money an’ make it fly. They say ’round here no grass will ever grow on her grave, fur ev’ry blade will be blarsted by the curses of the poor.”
“M’ri, you a perfessed Christian!” cried Silas.