The young woman lingered wistfully. “I wisht he wouldn't go a-ridin' off that thar way 'thout lettin' we-uns know whar he air bound fur, an' when he'll kern back. He mought git hurt some ways roun' that thar fire--git overtook by it, mebbe.”
“Ef he war roasted 'twould be mighty peaceful round in Lonesome,” the old crone exclaimed, rancorously.
Her daughter stood for a moment with the bar of the door in her hand, still gazing out at the flare in the sky. The unwonted emotion had conjured a change in the stereotyped patience in her face--even anxiety, even the acuteness of fear, seemed a less pathetic expression than that meek monotony bespeaking a broken spirit. As she lifted her eyes to the mountain one might wonder to see that they were so blue. In the many haggard lines drawn upon her face the effect of the straight lineaments was lost; but just now, embellished with a flush, she looked young--as young as her years.
As she buttoned the door and put up the bar her mother's attention was caught by the change. Peering at her critically, and shading her eyes with her hand from the uncertain flicker of the tallow dip, she broke out, passionately: “Wa'al, 'Genie, who would ever hev thought ez yer cake would be _all_ dough? Sech a laffin', plump, spry gal ez ye useter be--fur all the wort' like a fresky young deer! An' sech a pack o' men ez ye hed the choice amongst! An' ter pick out Tobe Gryce an' marry him, an' kem 'way down hyar ter live along o' him in Lonesome Cove!”
She chuckled aloud, not that she relished her mirth, but the harlequinade of fate constrained a laugh for its antics. The words recalled the past to Eugenia; it rose visibly before her. She had had scant leisure to reflect that her life might have been ordered differently. In her widening eyes were new depths, a vague terror, a wild speculation, all struck aghast by its own temerity.
“Ye never said nuthin ter hender,” she faltered.
“I never knowed Tobe, sca'cely. How's enny-body goin' ter know a man ez lived 'way off down hyar in Lonesome Cove?” her mother retorted, acridly, on the defensive. “He never courted _me_, nohows. All the word he gin me war, 'Howdy,' an' I gin him no less.”
Eugenia knelt on the hearth. She placed together the broken chunks, and fanned the flames with a turkey wing. “I won't kiver the fire yit,” she said, thoughtfully. “He mought be chilled when he gits home.”