“Ye lie still, now,” said aunt Jemima sternly, laying a hand upon each shoulder. A vague squirm, a sleepy chuckle, and Rosamond was eclipsed for the night. “Waal, that beats my time,” said the grim aunt Jemima softly. “Asleep a’ready!” She sat down and resumed her knitting. Hiram Guyther was mopping his brow with his handkerchief. “I feel like ez ef I’d los’ ten pound o’ flesh,” he said. And Ike thought it not unlikely. His mother was washing the dishes; the blind man was reflectively smoking his pipe; the dogs came and disposed themselves with reproachful sighs prominently about the hearth. Jerry Binwell did not share their relief. He stirred uneasily in his chair, the legs grating on the puncheon floor, as if he feared that with this distraction removed the more unfriendly attention of the family might be directed to him. No one spoke for a moment, all listening to the tumult of the rain on the roof; they had not before noticed that the violence of the storm had subsided into a steady downpour. Then, after a glance at the sleeping face, pensive now and ethereal and sensitive, framed in the yellow hair that streamed over the red quilt, aunt Jemima turned a long calculating gaze on Jerry Binwell. As its result she observed bluntly, “Her mother mus’ hev been a mighty pritty woman.” If the inference that Rosamond inherited none of her beauty from her father was apprehended by Jerry, he did not resent it. His eyes filled with tears. “Yes, she war,” he said, dropping his voice to a husky undertone. “She war a plumb beauty whenst she war young, afore she tuk ter ailin’.” Another pause ensued. The rain beat monotonously; the eaves dripped and dripped; the trees on the mountain slopes swayed, and creaked, and crashed together.