“Laws-a-massy!” he exclaimed, unheeding. “Yes, sir! same old Jerry; the wuss fur wear; some _de_-lapidated; but—same old Jerry!” “I ’lowed he war in Texas; folks said he went thar arter the war.” “I hailed him; he purtended not ter know me a-fust, an’ he stopped, an’ we talked awhile. He ’lowed he had never been ter Texas. Jes’ down the kentry a piece in Persimmon Cove. I dunno whether he war tellin’ the truth.” “I reckon he war,” said the storekeeper. “It air a mighty out-o’-the-way place—Persimmon Cove; Satan hisself mought hid out in Persimmon an’ folks in gineral never be the wiser ez the Enemy war enny nigher.” “He ’lowed he married thar,” continued Corbin. “An’ what d’ye reckon he hed along o’ him?” He looked at his crony with a broad grin. “A—leetle gal! Thar they war a-travelin’ along the slope. Hed a leetle ox-cart an’ a steer geared up in it; he hed a cow critter too; calf followed; an’ sech cheers an’ house-stuff ez he owned piled in the cart, an’ settin’ a-top o’ it all this hyar leetle gal—’bout ez big ez a shingle. She rid, bein’ ez she hain’t got no weight sca’cely.” “An’ whar’s the ’oman?” asked the storekeeper, missing an important factor in the family circle. Corbin lowered his voice and his humorous wrinkles strove to retire themselves. “Dead,” he said gravely. Peter Sawyer, bethinking himself of his pipe, filled it anew with a crumpled leaf of tobacco, relighted it, and with the pipe-stem between his teeth resumed the conversation. “An’ what sorter welcome do he reckon he air goin’ ter find ’mongst the mountings hyar. Do he ’low we hev furgot his sheer in the war, kase it hev been right smart time since? Naw sir. I ’members like yestiddy whenst old Jeemes Guyther—Abner’s dad, ye know—kem ter my store, lookin’ ez ef he hed buried all his kin on yearth, an’ tole ez Abner hed run off ter jine the Secesh along o’ Jerry Binwell. An’ the old man said he hoped Ab mought die afore he reached the Rebel lines, kase he’d ruther mourn him dead ’n know he hed raised his hand ag’in the Nunion.” “But he wouldn’t, though,” said Corbin prosaically. “Them war days when men talked mighty big.” “An’ they acted mighty big too, sometimes,” retorted Sawyer. “Waal, Abner war the apple o’ the old man’s eye,” said Corbin; “I b’lieve he’d turn in his grave ef he could know how Ab war hurt. The whole fambly jes’ the same, too. Look how Ab air pompered now. Ef Abner war blind sure enough he couldn’t be better treated. His dad always put the blame o’ Ab’s goin’ on Jerry. An’ Jerry war a wuthless chance! He kem back inside o’ a year—deserted! But Ab never kem back till arter the s’render.” “What makes ye ’low ez Abner hev got his vision same ez common?” Sawyer demanded again. “That notion ’pears powerful cur’ous ter me—seein’ him led about hyar fur nigh on ter twenty year, now by Ike, an’ now by his brother, an’ then ag’in by a dog an’ sech.”