His wife did not often condescend to a dialogue with him alone. But this was the only prospect of covering her retreat with dignity, as she relinquished her attack on Jepson. She turned her face with a commingling animation and benignity toward her husband, and rejoined in a tone of interest, “Yes, folks say so; but what s’prised me war the cur’ous way he behaved hyar this evenin’. I wisht ye or Teck, one, hed been hyar, jes’ ter see how he ’peared. He sot thar in that cheer,—’twar gittin’ on toward dark,—an’ his face war sharp an’ clear, somehows, an’ white, an’ his hair so slick an’ shinin’, an’ his looks so keen, like he war studyin’ ’bout a heap he never would tell in this worl’. An’ he say, ‘I ain’t got no mo’ use fur religion, Mis’ Bowles. I hev got no use fur rivers, ’ceptin’ ter go swimmin’ in ’em.’ An’ I say, ‘Hev ye traded off yer soul, ez ye don’t ’pear ter ’low ye hev got none ter save?’ An’ he say, ‘Ye look out fur me at the Jedgmint Day, Mis’ Bowles, an’ ye’ll ’low I stan’ toler’ble high amongst the n’angels.’ He say, ‘I hev got suthin’ else ter look arter now. Folks in the mountings dunno ez much ez they think they do, Mis’ Bowles. I fund that out whilst I war in jail in Glaston an’ larnin’ so much o’ town ways.’ An’ I say, ‘It’s good ye air pleased with yer smartness, Jake, fur ye air the fust one I ever hearn accuse ye o’ sech.’ An’ I jes’ up-ed an’ set about gittin’ supper, an’ lef him thar ter brag by hisself. An’ whenst I looked at him, arter a minit, he hed tuk a paper out’n his pocket an’ war a-purtendin’ ter read. His eyes war jes’ set sorter cross-eyed onter it, an’ his lips a-movin’ like he war a-talkin’ ter hisself, an’ he looked so plumb foolish ez I jes’ drapped the bowl what I war stirrin’ batter in, an’ hollered an’ laffed. An’ he say, ‘Ye don’t b’lieve I kin read, Mis’ Bowles; jes’ listen, an’ I’ll read ye ’bout a man what got tired o’ livin’ in the world, an’ got onter a raft on the ruver.’ An’ sure enough Jake did.” Jepson suddenly lifted his head. “What did the man do?” His eyes were alert with the interest of the incomplete suggestion, the promise of a narrative; he held his pipe in his hand; the feeblest tissue of smoke stole upward from it. He had forgotten her antagonism. She broke into a discordant laugh. “Laws-a-massy, ye reckon I kin remember all that thar! Naw, sir. I didn’t mo’n half listen, bein’ all tuk up ter see Jake readin’ like a preacher! An’ Jake say, ‘I reckon ye won’t see Teck no mo’, Mis’ Bowles, bein’ as they mus’ hev ’rested him by this time. Else I wouldn’t hev kem inter this house, it bein’ sorter his’n, ez he lives hyar an’ hev put his stock with yourn. An’ I’ll say ye air mighty well rid o’ him, in my idee.’ Arter that he went.”