"Oh, no, not that! You're too much alive for that. We'll see about it to-morrow. Good night." "Hoyle may show you the way," said the girl, rising. "Your bed is in the loom shed. I'm right sorry it's so cold. I put blankets there, and you can use all you like of them. I would have given you Frale's place up garret--only--he might come in any time, and--" "Naw, he won't. He's too skeered 'at--" Hoyle's interruption stopped abruptly, checked by a glance of his sister's eye. "I hope you'll sleep well--" "Sleep? I shall sleep like a log. I feel as if I could sleep for a week. It's awfully good of you. I hope we haven't eaten all the supper, Hoyle and I. Come, little chap. Good night." He took up his valise and followed the boy, leaving her standing by the uncleared table, gazing after him. "Now you eat, Cassandry. You are nigh about perished you are that tired," said her mother. Then old Sally brought more pork and hot pone from the ashes, and they sat down together, eating and sipping their black coffee in silence. Presently Hoyle returned and began removing his clumsy shoes, by the fire. "Did he ax ye a heap o' questions, Hoyle?" queried the old woman sharply. "Naw. Did'n' ax noth'n'." "Waal, look out 'at you don't let on nothin' ef he does. Talkin' may hurt, an' hit may not." "He hain't no government man, maw." "Hit's all right, I reckon, but them 'at larns young to hold ther tongues saves a heap o' trouble fer therselves." After they had eaten, old Sally gathered the few dishes together and placed all the splint-bottomed chairs back against the sides of the room, and, only half disrobing, crawled into the far side of the bed opposite to the mother's, behind the homespun curtain. "To-morrow I reckon I kin go home to my old man, now you've come, Cass." "Yes," said the girl in a low voice, "you have been right kind to we-all, Aunt Sally."