The cur rose up from the hearth with a wag of his stumpy tail, and gave the visitor a glance of welcome from his mild, friendly eyes. There were only two chairs in the room, and ’Zeki’l placed the best one before the fire for his guest, then threw on some fresh pieces of wood. Outside the dusky twilight deepened to night, the orange glow fading from the west, and the stars shining brilliantly through the clear atmosphere. The chill wind whistled around the chimney-corners and through the chinks in the log walls. Between the men a constrained silence fell. The meeting had been painful beyond the open acknowledgment of either. The dog crept to his master’s side and thrust his nose into his hand. The touch roused ’Zeki’l. From the jamb he took a cob pipe and a twist of tobacco. "Will you smoke, ’Lijy?" "I believe not; but I’ll take a chew." He cut off a liberal mouthful, and then ’Zeki’l filled and lighted his pipe. It seemed to loosen his tongue somewhat. "Is Marthy Ann well enough?" "She’s tolerable." "How many children have you?" "Three; the girls, Cynthy an’ Mary—" "I remember them." "An’ little Zeke." ’Zeki’l’s face flushed. "Named him for me, ’Lijy?" "Yes; for you. Cynthy’s about grown now, an’ a likely girl, I can tell you." His face softened; his eyes grew bright with pride and tenderness as he spoke of his children. ’Zeki’l watched him, noting the change in his countenance, and perhaps feeling some pain and regret that he had missed such pleasure. ’Lijy reached out his hand and laid it on his knee. "’Zeki’l, you must come live with us now. I’ll tell these folks we are brothers, an’—" "I don’t know as I would," said ’Zeki’l, gently. "It would only make talk, an’ I’m settled here, you know." His unimpassioned tone had its effect on his brother. He protested, but rather faintly, finally saying: "Well, if you’d rather not—" "That’s just it. I’d rather not." They both rose, and ’Lijy groped uncertainly for his hat. "Your life ain’t worth much to you, ’Zeki’l, I know it ain’t," with uncontrollable emotion. "It’s worth more ’n you think, ’Lijy, more ’n you think." He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and cleared his throat as though to speak again, but his brother had reached the door before he called to him. "’Lijy." "Well?" "What became o’ ’Lizabeth?" "She’s still livin’ with us." He peered into the bowl of the pipe. "She’s never married?" "No. She had a fall about ten years ago which left her a cripple, an’ she’s grayer than I am. You ’re not comin’ to see us, ’Zeki’l?" "I reckon not, ’Lijy." And while ’Lijy stumbled through the darkness home—his errand to the store forgotten—’Zeki’l stood before the fire, one arm resting against the black, cobwebby mantel. "Crippled an’ gray! O ’Lizabeth, ’Lizabeth!" he groaned, and put his head down on his arm, the twelve years rolling backward upon him.