“Do you think that is it?”
“I shorely do.”
“I’m so glad.”
“An’, Miss Ruth?”
“Yes, Mr. Yerby?”
He hesitated before he made the plunge. “I won’t see you-all again for a long time, maybe never. You’re young and proud and high-heeled, like you-all got a perfect right to be. But I want to say this: If you live to be a hundred, yo’ll never meet any one that’s more of a man than Rowan McCoy. He’s white clear through. I’ve seen a right smart of men in my time. Most o’ them had a streak of lean and a streak of fat, as the old saying goes. But yore husband, he assays ’way up all the time. Good luck or bad makes no difference with him. He’s the real stuff.”
A wistful little smile touched her face. “He has one good friend, anyhow.”
“He has hundreds. He deserves them, too.”
“I’ve got to say good-bye now, Mr. Yerby.” She gave him both hands. Tears blurred her eyes so that she could scarcely see him. “Good-bye. Heaps of luck—oh, lots of it! And don’t worry about Missie and Boy.”
“I’ll not worry half so much now, little friend. And I’m hoping all that luck will come to you, too.”