“You needn’t tell me that,” said Wakeman, sharply. “I know that; but that ain’t no reason fer ’er to throw ’er money away gittin’ a divorce.” Lucinda filled her hand with salt and began to sprinkle it on a side of meat. “Law me,” she tittered, “I ’ll bet you hain’t heerd about Marty an’ Jeff Goardley.” “Yes, I have. Meddlin’ busybodies has writ me about that, too,” said Wakeman, sitting down on the hopper of a corn-sheller and idly swinging his foot. “He’s a-courtin’ of ’er like a broom-sedge field afire,” added the sister, tentatively. “She’s got too much sense to marry ’im after ’er promises to me,” said the convict, firmly. “She lets ’im come reg’lar ev’ry Tuesday night.” Wakeman was not ready with a reply, and Lucinda began to salt another piece of pork. “Ev’ry Tuesday night, rain or shine,” she said. The words released Wakeman’s tongue. “Huh, he’s the most triflin’ fop in the county.” “Looks like some o’ the neighbors is powerful bent on the match,” continued Lucinda, her tone betraying her own lack of sympathy for the thing in question. “Marty was a-standin’ over thar at the fence jest ‘fore you come an’ whirled all of a sudden an’ went up to the house. She said she was afeered her cracklin’s would burn, but I ’ll bet she seed you down the road. I never have been able to make ’er out. She ain’t once mentioned yore name sence you went off. Dick, I’m one that don’t, nur never did, believe you meant to steal Williams’s hoss, kase you was too drunk to know what you was a-doin’, but Marty never says whether she does ur doesn’t. The day the news come back that you was sentenced I ketched ’er in the back room a-cryin’ as’ ef ’er heart would break, but that night ‘Lonzo Spann come in an’ said that you had let it out in the court-room that you’d be glad even to go to the penitentiary to git a rest from Marty’s tongue, an’--” “Lucinda, as thar’s a God on high, them words never passed my lips,” the convict interrupted. “I ‘lowed not,” the old maid returned. “But it has got to be a sort of standin’ joke ag’in Marty, an’ she heers it ev’ry now an’ then. But I’m yore friend, Dick. I’ve had respect fer you ever sence I noticed how you suffered when Annie got sick an’ died. Thar ain’t many men that has sech feelin’ fer their dead children.” Wakeman’s face softened. “I was jest a-wonderin’, comin’ on, ef--ef anybody has been a-lookin’ after the grave sence I went off. The boys in the penitentiary used to mention the’r dead once in a while, an’ I’d always tell ’em about my grave. Pris ‘ners, Lucinda, git to relyin’ on the company o’ the’r dead about as much as the’r livin’ folks. In the four years that I was in confinement not one friend o’ mine ever come to ax how I was gittin’ on.”