"Is terribly sot in his ways, I know; but he don’t mean to do wrong. He jest thinks he knows what is best for ever’body," said Mrs. Hurd, loyally. "John was always the sweetest, lovin’est child," returning to the subject absorbing her, "an’ he never wus one to stay away from home much, even when he’d growed up. I never keered fer no better comp’ny than his’n; an’ if a good son makes a good husband, then any girl might be proud to git him. It’s turrible lonesome ’thout him ever comin’ in or goin’ out. Hurd says nothin’ ’bout it, an’ ’pears to sleep like a log; but I’m pestered at all hours o’ the night, an’ git up to look in John’s room, an’ when I see the bed all white an’ smooth I feel like he’s dead." The cow ate up her food and went browsing along the fence corners again. Mrs. Harding’s heart waxed soft within her. What religion failed to do, human sympathy accomplished. By her own experiences of motherhood she could understand the yearning and heartache of this other woman. It created a bond between them far easier of comprehension to her than the spiritual tie the preacher talked about. That seemed a mere cold abstraction—this a warm, living thing. "I’m real sorry Sarah Betsy hain’t heard nothin’ from him," she said softly. "I ’lowed maybe she would. Well, well, I won’t pester you any longer." Involuntarily their hands met through the bars in a quick close grip. "I’m in hopes there ain’t no bad news a-waitin’ fer you, Mis’ Hurd." "I hope so; but a scritch owl lit nigh the door last night an’ wouldn’t hardly be driv’ off, an’ that’s a bad sign, you know," she said mournfully, and turned to retrace her steps along the path through the woods, the dawn shining fair upon her bent gray head and slight figure. Mrs. Harding stood by the bars and watched her with a mingling of perplexity and compassion. She heard the voices of her own sons at the house, and sighed. "It ’ud go mighty hard with me if they wus tuk away. I hain’t nothin’ ag’in’ Mis’ Hurd nor John, but old Killus would rile the angel Gabr’el hisself." She finally stooped and picked up her milk pail. "It ain’t fer me to fergit my pride an’ be crowed over by him." Mrs. Hurd went on her way home. As she passed through a laurel brake, absorbed in her sad thoughts, she came face to face with Sile Ed’ards. He looked worn and hollow-eyed, as though he, too, had passed through sleepless nights and troubled days; but she was too preoccupied to be very observant. A minister must ever be ready to comfort and counsel his flock, no matter what his own feelings may be, so Mrs. Hurd poured out the story of her anxiety, and Ed’ards said what he could to reassure her. "I’m goin’ up to Bush Mountain, an’ I’ll see if I can hear anything o’ John for you," he said kindly.