Left alone, the Honorable Calvin was the first to speak. Drawing out a delicately scented white handkerchief he wiped a slight dampness from about his lips. "I suppose the widow does not fully understand this boy has no legal claim on her," he said thoughtfully. The minister sighed, waving a fat hand. "A little remembrance, say a thousand dollars or so, as a start in life would be quite sufficient." Uncle Ambrose smiled. "I reckon you gentlemen had better talk this matter over with Mrs. Tarwater. Women have such foolish, softhearted ways of tryin' to save the innocent and help the guilty when they're able; 'taint law and 'taint gospel, mebbe, but it's woman." Then seeing that the legislator had risen to his feet with the first understanding of his suggestion the tall man laid a firm hand on him. "Better let Brother Elias have the first show, Mr. Jones," he drawled; "seems no more'n proper respect to pay the gospel." So both men waited ten minutes or more, the Honorable Calvin glowering and fidgeting, while Uncle Ambrose, whatever his inner stirrings, remained imperturbably calm until, seeing a stout figure returning to unhitch his pony, with his face wearing an expression more of sorrow than of anger, Mr. Jones waited for no further advice. Left alone, Uncle Ambrose betrayed his real feelings. First, he looked at himself in a small triple mirror on the mantel, carefully combing with a little pocket comb the thin hairs well to the front of his head over his increasing bald spot, and afterward he walked restlessly about the great room, finally arriving at the window. It was always Calvin Jones he had feared. "Good looks and a silver tongue! Lord, what a combination!" The sun was now going down at the edge of the Kentucky landscape, in the fields the grain had been cut and stacked and golden pumpkins were lying between the piled up mounds of hay and corn. Over the tips of the grass, which still showed green, autumn leaves were swirling, and hovering above, and through it all a fine, thin mist which might be the coming blight of winter or the lingering spirit of the summer's warmth. Crossing a meadow and moving toward a big red barn, Uncle Ambrose soon spied Sam driving a long line of cows toward home. With a leap his long legs carried him out the window and swiftly across the yard. "Hullo!" he cried while still some distance away. The boy's face reddened, but this time from sheer pleasure. "Hullo!" he cried, all his sullenness and resentment gone. And in a few moments the older man's lean, strong fingers held the boy's short stocky hand in a hard clasp. "I am glad fer you clean through," he said simply. The boy's head jerked toward the house. "Has she told you?" he asked. "It's powerful kind of her when she ain't even liked me."