For once the old women hushed up their prophecies of evil, although in the beginning they had shaken their wise old turbaned heads and predicted that marriage with such a flighty creature as Viney could come to no good. They had said among themselves that Ben would better marry some good, solid-minded, strong-armed girl who would think more about work than about pleasures and coquetting. "I 'low, honey," an old woman had said, "she'll mek his heart ache many a time. She'll comb his haid wid a three-legged stool an' bresh it wid de broom. Uh, huh--putty, is she? You ma'y huh 'cause she putty. Ki-yi! She fix you! Putty women fu' putty tricks." And the old hag smacked her lips over the spice of malevolence in her words. Some women--and they are not all black and ugly--never forgive the world for letting them grow old. But, in spite of all prophecies to the contrary, two months of unalloyed joy had passed for Ben and Viney, and to-night the climax seemed to have been reached. Ben hurried along, talking to himself as his hoe swung over his shoulder. "Kin I do it?" he was saying. "Kin I do it?" Then he would stop his walk and his cogitations would bloom into a mirthful chuckle. Something very pleasant was passing through his mind. As he approached, Viney was standing in the door of the little cabin, whose white sides with green Madeira clambering over them made a pretty frame for the dark girl in her print dress. The husband bent double at sight of her, stopped, took off his hat, slapped his knee, and relieved his feelings by a sounding "Who-ee!" "What's de mattah wid you, Ben? You ac' lak you mighty happy. Bettah come on in hyeah an' git yo' suppah fo' hit gits col'." For answer, the big fellow dropped the hoe and, seizing the slight form in his arms, swung her around until she gasped for breath. "Oh, Ben," she shrieked, "you done tuk all my win'!" "Dah, now," he said, letting her down; "dat's what you gits fu' talkin' sassy to me!" "Nev' min'; I'm goin' to fix you fu' dat fus' time I gits de chanst--see ef I don't." "Whut you gwine do? Gwine to pizen me?" "Worse'n dat!" "Wuss'n dat? Whut you gwine fin' any wuss'n pizenin' me, less'n you conjuh me?" "Huh uh--still worse'n dat. I'm goin' to leave you." "Huh uh--no you ain', 'cause any place you'd go you wouldn' no more'n git dah twell you'd tu'n erroun' all of er sudden an' say, 'Why, dah's Ben!' an' dah I'd be." They chattered on like children while she was putting the supper on the table and he was laving his hot face in the basin beside the door. "I got great news fu' you," he said, as they sat down. "I bet you ain' got nothin' of de kin'." "All right. Den dey ain' no use in me a tryin' to 'vince you. I jes' be wastin' my bref." "Go on--tell me, Ben." "Huh uh--you bet I ain', an' ef I tell you you lose de bet." "I don' keer. Ef you don' tell me, den I know you ain' got no news worth tellin'." "Ain' go no news wuff tellin'! Who-ee!"