"He all but died wi’ the measles when he was a sucklin’ baby not more’n three months old, an’ then ’long come the whoopin’-cough on the heels er that, an’ liked to ’a’ tuk him off. Then you remember ther time he was snake-bit on his big toe, an’ how the pizen flew all over him like lightnin’, an’ he would er died ef we hadn’t er happened ter have some dram in the house. Then he tuk cramp once in Punkin Vine Creek, an’ would er drownded right on the spot ef Providence hadn’t er sent the singin’-school teacher along fer ter fish him out." The half-forgotten incidents of childhood and youth crowded fresh upon her memory. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees—a favorite attitude with many country women when they are smoking their pipes, dipping snuff, or are lost in deep thought—and thrust a knitting-needle through her hair. But her reminiscences did not impress her husband very deeply. He eyed her kindly, and with a slight touch of pity. "You hain’t seen him sence the war, Peggy. What’s got inter you that yer mind keeps er runnin’ onter him ter-day?" "I’m shore I don’t know, Sam, but it’s er fact. I ain’t thought as much erbout him these twenty years an’ more as I have ter-day. Mebby Ab’s a-comin’." "Mebby he is, but ’tain’t likely at this late day, an’ I wouldn’t be a-botherin’ erbout it, Peggy," said the farmer, shaking the ashes out of his pipe before placing it in his pocket. "I ain’t exactly botherin’, Sam, but I dreamed erbout him las’ night, an’ takin’ it all tergether it jes’ pesters me er little." Mr. Upchurch got up slowly from his resting-place, and stepping into the west room, took down his gun from over the door. "B’lieve I’ll go a-huntin’, Peggy." "Well," she answered, absently, still thinking of her brother, and wondering if she would ever see him again. "He’s that onfortunit, he might ’a’ wandered off an’ er died among strangers, with not er soul ter look arter him, or ter put him erway decently," she murmured in a troubled undertone. "I can’t fergit the time he stood between me an’ old Miss Whitlock’s dog, that run mad when me an’ him was little fellers. He was always sorter sickly an’ quare, but I knowed then he had grit, for there he stood as calm as could be, an’ that dog a-comin’ straight fer him, or so it ’peared like, jest er-foamin’ at the mouth. I thought shore Ab ’ud be bit plum’ through, but the critter passed by without techin’ him. Them days is all over, but I ain’t fergot that, I orter love him, poor feller!" And she looked away to those blue mountains with eyes grown dim with sudden tears. It was Saturday afternoon, and therefore a holiday among the farmers. A man must be hard pushed indeed who will not "knock off" Saturday afternoon. The Upchurch family were thrifty, industrious people, took care of their not too fertile farm, lived honest lives, and kept peace with their neighbors.