“It's about time she was weaned,” the mother said. “I reckon you better call your father now. He must be ready for his breakfast, bendin' over that tobacco ever since sun-up.” Jane took down the tin dinner horn from its peg, and went to the back door with it, and blew a long, loud blast, crumbling away in broken sounds. The baby was beating the air with its hands up and down, and gurgling its delight in the noise when she came back. “Oh, honey, honey, honey!” she cooed, catching it up and hugging it to her. The mother looked at them over her shoulder as she put the cakes of grated corn in the skillet, and set it among the coals on the hearth. “It's a pity you ha'n't got one of your own.” “I don't want one of my own,” the girl said. “I thought, a spell back,”--the woman took up the subject again after a decent interval--“that you and Hughey Blake was goin' to make a match.” The girl said nothing, and her aunt pursued, “Was he there, last night?” “I didn't notice.” “Many folks?” her aunt asked with whatever change or fulfilment of a first intent. From kneeling over to play with the baby the girl sank back on her heels with her hands fallen before her. “I don't know.” “What did he preach?” “The Word of God; God's own words. All Scripture; but it was like as if it was the first time you ever heard it.” The girl was looking at the woman, but seemed rapt from the sight of her in a vision of the night before. “I reckon Satan could make it sound that way,” Nancy said, but her niece seemed not to hear her. Nancy stood staring at her, with words bitter beyond saying in her heart; words that rose in her throat and choked her. When she spoke she only said, “Get up, Jane; your father'll be here in a minute.” “I'm not going to eat anything. I'm going into the woods.” She staggered to her feet, and dashed from the door. The child looked after her with outstretched arms and whimpered pitifully, but she did not mind its call. “Where's Jane?” her father said, coming in at the back door. “Gone into the woods,” she said. [Illustration: Nancy stood staring at her, with words beyond saying in her heart--words that rose in her throat and choked her] “To pray, I reckon.” He sat down at the table-leaf lifted from the wall, and his sister served him his breakfast. He ate greedily, but his hand trembled so in lifting his cup that the coffee spilled from it. When he had ended and sat leaning back from the board, she asked him: “What are you going to do?” The old man cleared his throat. “Nothing, yet. Let the Lord work His will.” “And let Joseph Dylks work _his_ will, too! I'll have something to say about that.” “Be careful, woman. Be careful.” “Oh, I'll be careful. He has as much to lose as I have.” “No, not half so much.” VIII