Just now the gimlet eyes were turned on the slim, fair girl who sat shelling peas on the porch steps at her feet. Mellie stirred uneasily, as under compulsion, but offered no answer in words. From her childhood she had been much given to silence, an unconscious refuge from the commonplace world of Cache Bayou that misunderstood her of necessity. A sweet, shy creature with a rare color easily moved to paint charming pictures of maidenly embarrassment, one might well wonder how this daughter of the swamps had come to be endowed with so alien a beauty. She suggested a native refinement foreign alike to her training and her environment. Her stepmother repeated the question with exactly the same inflection as before. “Don’t yo’, please,” implored the girl, the color sweeping into her face. Then, as if feeling the futility of protest, she added, “I cayn’t, Maw. Yo’ know I ain’t that-a-way.” “I reckon yo’ kin if yo’ try. You-all air turned nineteen now. Do yo’ ’low nevah to marry? Trouble is, you-all air so meachin’ an’ touch-me-not. Hit don’t do to be dumb’s a wild hawg the whole enjurin’ time when men folks is ’round. Yo’ got to brisk up an’ be peart.” The widow’s experience entitled her to speak with authority. “Gittin’ a man” had become almost a habit with her. It spoke volumes for her efficiency that men naturally gravitated her way, despite her lack of feminine graces. Temporarily, by reason of a dispensation of Providence, she happened to be husbandless, but it was a condition she expected to change as soon as she could decide on a suitable successor for the late Shep Chunn. To this selection she was giving her judgment with cool detachment, quite unhampered by the superfluous baggage of sentiment. As a preliminary she purposed to do her duty by her stepdaughter and make her happy whether she wanted to be or not.