“Well, now”—and she turned her once bold eyes upon him with renewed defiance, as he did not reply—“I told ye I’d had seven children. Ye want to know who’s the father of Min? I kain’t tell ye rightly. She couldn’t tell ye rightly who’s the father of her girl she’s got along with her now. I’ve had seven children. Who’s their fathers?—I don’t know. What’s more, I don’t keer. What’s the difference? Who air we, back in the hills? What chancet have we got?” Joslin stood leaning on his staff, pale, hollow-eyed, gaunt. In his eyes was a vast pity, a terrible understanding. “Kin I wait here for a minute or so?” said he. “I’m right tired.” “Ye’ve been hurt,” said she, pointing to his bandaged head, for which he had made such care as he might. “Well, I don’t ask ye no questions. I’ve seen plenty of men hurt, in the raftin’ times.” “We’re stoppin’ here now,” she went on explaining. “Because, mought come a tide any time, an’ then the rafts’ll come. They tie up yander at the big tree thar—the men come acrosst. Well, here’s home for Min an’ me. She’s young. I’m gittin’ pretty old. Few cares fer such as me.” Then she went on. “That’s our life, stranger. Ye kin guess the rest. We’re the wanderin’ wimmern. There’s no hope fer us. We never had no chancet.” “Kin ye read?” asked David Joslin quietly. “Kin ye write? Kin yore darter?” She shook her head. “I kin read jest a little bit,” said he himself slowly. “I kin write jest a little bit. Ye say ye’ve had no chancet. That’s true. What chancet have ary of us here? Whar can we learn anything? I’m a-goin’ Outside. I’m a-goin’ on a journey.” “Set down an’ eat,” said she, with the unfailing hospitality of the mountains. “We hain’t got much. I kin parch ye some corn, maybe. Min’s down below trying to find some hickernuts an’ some corn. Folks don’t mind our foragin’ around. Why, even sometimes I’ve slept in a cabin now an’ then. They don’t mind if we sleep in the corn cribs sometimes when the weather’s cold. The husks is right warm—warmer’n leaves, I kin tell ye that.” Joslin looked about him. A ragged gunny sack or so, a quilt or two, were heaped into one corner over a pile of leaves—there was no other sign of couch. In another corner of the cavern a blackened spot showed where they built their fire. With flint and steel the old woman now began her fire anew. There was a broken bit of iron, once a skillet. In this she managed to parch some grains of corn for the traveler. “Eat, stranger,” said she. “Hit’s from Annie, the wanderin’ womern, that never had a chancet.” He ate, and drank from a broken gourd of water which she gave to him. For a time he sat looking across the pageant of the hills, still radiant in their autumn finery. At length he placed a hand in his pocket. “Take this,” said he. “I’ve got just thirty-five cents. I’ll keep the dime, fer I mought need it. I know the people in the mountings don’t take pay fer what they give to eat, but won’t ye please take this?”