“We meant,” explained Uncle Dan’l, “to lay Nathe by his fust wife, Ponnie, but when we dug down there we struck a rock that would ’a’ had to be blasted out, an’ we’s afeard it would shake up the graves. We couldn’t lay him t’other side o’ her, ’cause her two childern wuz there, an’ then come Lindy, his last wife, so we decided to dig jest beyant Lindy. But about four feet down we come to water that turned ever’thing inter mud--it wuz that spring, I reckon, that sinks inter the ground above the graveyard--an’ we had to go to the upper row where Callie an’ little Rufe an’ Lu wuz layin’. We couldn’t put him by Lu, ’cause she wuz in the aidge o’ the Ponder lot, right next to Randy Hayes in Bill Hayes’s lot, an’ it jest had to be Callie er nothin’.” Comments followed, various and spirited, with citations of other instances, historic and contemporary, and the dinner was over. Mr. Jenkins regretted that he must leave us. He was urged to stay, in the politest highland manner, but when the door had closed behind the respected “furriner,” the immediate relaxation in the air showed that the hour of restraint had been heroically prolonged. “Harmony!” exclaimed Aunt Lizy. “An’ there’s Angie Sue claimin’ ever’thing her daddy had. There won’t be a scrap left when they all git through fightin’.” The general glance slanted toward me, and I began to think that I ought to have disappeared with Mr. Jenkins, though the fact that I was under Serena’s native wing had done much to vouch for me. “I don’t reckon Bake Lindsay’ll mix up in anything,” said Pole Andrews, with an eye carefully diverted. “I seen he wuz at the buryin’.” “Wonder what he’s back here fer?” said another, equally disinterested. “He’s come to git his mother,” Serena easily announced. “Ann!” came from several voices. “That’s what he said. You heard him, Mis’ Dolly.” She turned to me with careless confidence, and I responded with an uncritical smile that embraced the company. “Oh, yes! He has come in for his mother. She is going to live with him and Jenny.” I knew everything then! There was a stir of abandon, and an eager voice asked: “You don’t think that Bake can tech any o’ the property, do you?” “’Course he kain’t,” said Aunt Lizy, before I could recover from the direct appeal. “Anybody knows that.” “You are right, Mrs. Haynes,” said I, now clothed in authority. “He is not entitled to a single thing. Though, of course, I’ve never heard the whole story. I’ve been wishing some of you would tell me everything just as it happened.” “Ranz there’ll tell ye,” said Aunt Lizy. “He thinks his tongue’s got a mortgage on ever’thing abody could say about Nathe Ponder.” “Ef I’ve got sech a mortgage, Lizy, you’re always scrappin’ to git yer name on it.” Then he turned to me. “If I tell it, I’ll have to start at the fust of it. I never could hit the middle an’ go on.”