Uncle Eb told her something about my father and mother being dead and our going west Then she hugged and kissed me and made me very miserable, I remember, wetting my face with her tears, that were quite beyond my comprehension. 'Jethro,' said she, as the men came into the yard, 'I want ye t' look at this boy. Did ye ever see such a cunnin' little critter? Jes' look at them bright eyes!' and then she held me to her breast and nearly smothered me and began to hum a bit of an old song. 'Yer full o' mother love,' said her husband, as he sat down on the grass a moment 'Lost her only baby, an' the good Lord has sent no other. I swan, he has got putty eyes. Jes' as blue as a May flower. Ain't ye hungry? Come right in, both o' ye, an' set down t' the table with us.' They made room for us and we sat down between the bare elbows of the hired men. I remember my eyes came only to the top of the table. So the good woman brought the family Bible and sitting on that firm foundation I ate my dinner of salt pork and potatoes and milk gravy, a diet as grateful as it was familiar to my taste. 'Orphan, eh?' said the man of the house, looking down at me. 'Orphan,' Uncle Eb answered, nodding his head. 'God-fearin' folks?' 'Best in the world,' said Uncle Eb. Want t' bind 'im out?' the man asked. 'Couldn't spare 'im,' said Uncle Eb, decisively. 'Where ye goin'?' Uncle Eb hesitated, groping for an answer, I suppose, that would do no violence to our mutual understanding. 'Goin' t' heaven,' I ventured to say presently--an answer that gave rise to conflicting emotions at the table. 'That's right,' said Uncle Eb, turning to me and patting my head. 'We're on the road t' heaven, I hope, an' ye'll see it someday, sartin sure, if ye keep in the straight road and be a good boy.'