The mother looked at them over her shoulder as she put the cakes of grated corn in the skillet, and set it among the coals on the hearth. “It's a pity you ha'n't got one of your own.”
“I don't want one of my own,” the girl said.
“I thought, a spell back,”—the woman took up the subject again after a decent interval—“that you and Hughey Blake was goin' to make a match.” The girl said nothing, and her aunt pursued, “Was he there, last night?”
“I didn't notice.”
“Many folks?” her aunt asked with whatever change or fulfilment of a first intent.
From kneeling over to play with the baby the girl sank back on her heels with her hands fallen before her.
“I don't know.”
“What did he preach?”
“The Word of God; God's own words. All Scripture; but it was like as if it was the first time you ever heard it.”
The girl was looking at the woman, but seemed rapt from the sight of her in a vision of the night before.