"I will give you the price of an honest, independent supper" she continued, "that is better than begging it. You will relish it, I know."
"It's done ma'am" said he, kicking his dusty toes against the step where he stood. "Show me the work."
Cousin Bessie looked significantly at me and led him out to where his occupation lay. As she turned to leave him, with a strict injunction to do it well, he raised his hat from his head and turned reverently towards her.
"I'll do it as well as mortal hands can do it ma'am" he said with a tremor in his hoarse husky voice. "You're the first woman as has spoken a kind word to me since—since—I buried the one that 'ud have made my life different if she'd lived."
"Your mother?" Asked Cousin Bessie gently.
"No, ma'am, she was more, she was my wife, but only for a year. When I lost her I lost my luck and my courage, and everything. I've hardly done a day's good since."
He drew the back of one brawny, dirty hand across his eyes and turned away his head. Cousin Bessie was looking at him with a great pity in her countenance.
"Have you a child?" she next asked.
"One, ma'am, a little girl, but not like the mother."
"Where is she?"