“Oh!” said he, after a pause. “And what's she like?”
“She's beautiful,” I said; “she's been very kind to me. She took me home with her from the settlements when I had no place to go. She's good.”
“And a sharp tongue, I reckon,” said he.
“When people need it,” I answered.
“Oh!” said he. And presently, “She's very merry, I'll warrant.”
“She used to be, but that's gone by,” I said.
“Gone by!” said he, his voice falling, “is she sick?”
“No,” said I, “she's not sick, she's sad.”
“Sad?” said he. It was then I noticed that he had a cut across his temple, red and barely healed. “Do you reckon your Polly Ann would give me a little mite to eat?”
This time I jumped up, ran into the house, and got down some corn-pone and a leg of turkey. For that was the rule of the border. He took them in great bites, but slowly, and he picked the bones clean.