“I never resked nuthin,” protested Ethelinda. “I stopped at the head of a bluff far off, an’ hollered down ter ‘em in the clearin’ an’ held up the kittle. An’ two or three rebs war out of thar tents in the clearin’--thar be a good sight o’ new graves up thar!--an’ them men war hollerin’ an’ wavin’ me away, till they seen what I war doin’; jes’ settin’ down the kittle an’ startin’ off.” She gazed meditatively into the fire, of set purpose avoiding the eyes fixed upon her, and sought to justify her course. “I knowed ez we-uns hed got used ter doin’ ‘thout coffee, an’ don’t feel the need of it now. We-uns air well an’ stout, an’ live in our good home an’ beside our own h’a’th-stone; an’ they air sick, an’ pore, an’ cast out, an’ I reckon they ain’t ever been remembered before in gifts. An’ I ‘lowed the coffee, bein’ unexpected an’ a sorter extry, mought put some fraish heart an’ hope in ‘em--leastwise show ‘em ez God don’t ‘low ‘em ter be plumb furgot.” She still gazed meditatively at the fire as if it held a scroll of her recollections, which she gradually interpreted anew. “I looked back wunst, an’ one o’ them rebs had sot down on a log an’ war sobbin’ ez ef his heart would bust. An’ another of ‘em war signin, at me agin an’ agin, like he was drawin’ a cross in the air--one pass down an’ then one across--an’ the other reb war jes’ laffin’ fur joy, and wunst in a while he yelled out: ‘Blessin’s on ye! Blessin’s! Blessin’s!’ I dun’no’ how fur I hearn that sayin’. The rocks round the creek war repeatin’ it, whenst I crossed the f oot-bredge. I dun’no what the feller meant--mought hev been crazy.” A tricksy gust stirred at the door as if a mischievous hand twitched the latch-string, but it hung within. There was a pause. The listening children on the hearth sighed and shifted their posture; one of the hounds snored sonorously in the silence. “Nuthin’ crazy thar ‘ceptin’ you-uns!--one fool gal--that’s all!” said her grandmother, with her knitting-needles and her spectacles glittering in the firelight. “That is a pest camp. Ye mought hev cotch the smallpox. I be lookm’ fur ye ter break out with it any day. When the war is over an’ the men come back to the Cove, none of ‘em will so much as look at ye, with yer skin all pock-marked--fair an’ fine as it is now, like a pan of fraish milk.” “But, granny, it won’t be sp’ilt! The camp war too fur off--an’ thar warn’t a breath o’ wind. I never went a-nigh ‘em.” “I dun’no’ how fur smallpox kin travel--an’ it jes’ mulls and mulls in ye afore it breaks out--don’t it, S’briny?” “Don’t ax me,” said Mrs. Brusie, with a worried air. “I ain’t no yerb doctor, nor nurse tender, nuther. Ethelindy is beyond my understandin’.”