“If you’d set it up, please sir,” said Jim, “I’d run all over the mountain in no time, telling the folks about it. There’s lots of folks on this mountain—more’n you’d think. They’d pay you money.” But the head man, Sisson, had come up and begun talking about the dead woman. “I’m just figuring,” he said, “whether to take her down to a burying ground in the next town, or to make a grave up here.” Just then Jim’s father came up. “My wife says for you-all to leave that poor woman right up here,” he said. “She can be buried out there by that Pride of India tree beside our little girl, and ma will keep everything looking fine—plant roses, you know, and all that.” The men didn’t seem to care much about roses. “Thanks,” said Sisson shortly; “that’ll be all right.” “How could it be ‘all right’?” Jim wondered. Now that he had stopped talking about the show he could hear that girl again, and it made him feel very, very queer. The lump came back in his throat and things sort of shook before his eyes. He felt as if something in him was going to burst. And just then some one touched him on the shoulder. He looked up and saw his mother standing there. Her face seemed unusually thin and white and her eyes very large, and there was something so kind—so terribly, heart-breakingly kind—in them, that the something in him did burst, and he found himself crying in his mother’s dress. “I reckon if you feel as sorry as that for the poor girl, you’ll like to do something to help.” Jim nodded, not being able to speak. “Well, you get a cup of fresh milk and carry it to my bedroom. I’m going to get the poor child in there and coax her to lie down.” Jim ran to the spring house—tormented all the while with those sobs in his throat—and filled the tall horn cup with milk. When he carried it into his mother’s room he found the girl lying on the bed, with Ma McBirney bathing her face and talking to her softly. “I’m unplaiting your hair, dear,” she was saying in a voice so soft that it made Jim think of the pigeons out at the barn, “and I’m going to smooth it. You don’t mind, do you?” “No’m,” said the girl brokenly. “And here’s the milk, all nice and cold. If it would please you to drink a little of that!” She half-lifted the little figure in her arms and held her so while the girl let the cool milk run down her hot throat. Jim noticed that when she lay down again, she took the edge of ma’s apron between her fingers and held on to it. Jim understood why. He felt just like doing that himself. “My little girl that died,” said ma, still in that soft, cooing voice, “had yellow hair. Yours is brown, but it’s just as pretty.” The girl twisted ma’s apron in and out around her fingers; she could think of nothing to say. “My little Molly’s eyes was blue, but yours is just the color of Job’s tears.” “Job’s tears?” asked the girl. “What are they, please ma’am?”