Beyond the cabin was a bit of garden and a little cornfield, where the ripened corn stood in yellow shocks bound with grapevines. The shocks were small, such as a woman could reach around. About, on the bench, were a grove of sugar trees, scarred with the marks of an auger, and among them, here and there, a great hickory. Beyond the grove one heard the faint tinkling of a bell where a cow moved in the forest.
The woman set the bucket of water on the porch and turned to take the child.
The little boy drew back in the man's arms.
“But, sonny,” the woman continued, “the Teacher's goin' away down the road.”
The woman coaxed, “Won't sonny stay with Jim and mother?”
“No,” said the woman, “Jim an' mother ain't goin' down the road. Will sonny go an' leave Jim an' mother?”
The little boy looked over the man's shoulder at the rough-haired yellow dog. Jim was his housemate and his brother. A decision was a sore trial, but he finally made it. He turned about in the man's arms.
The man now entered the conversation. “Let him go with me.”
“No, he will not bother me. He will help me.”
“He will remind me of the little children in my father's house.”
“Yes,” replied the School-teacher, “that is it. He will keep me from getting homesick.”
“Well,” said the woman, “if I let him go, you'll take care of him, won't you?”
“An' you'll bring him back before sundown.”
“Well, it'll be powerful lonesome, but I reckon I can finish gatherin' the beans. I will fix him somethin' to eat. You can put it in your pocket.”
The woman went into the house, got a flat bottle, such as a cheap sort of liniment is sold in at the mountain stores, scalded it out with water and filled it with fresh milk. Then she cut some thin slices of a white bread called “salt rising” and spread it with butter. She stopped with the knife in her hand, considered a moment, and then cut two larger pieces of bread, buttered them, and wrapped them all in a piece of homespun linen towel. She went out to the man with the folded towel and the bottle in her hand.
“Here's his milk an' here's his bread. I put in two pieces for you.”
The man put the bottle and the bread into his pocket. The light of his great gray-blue eyes deepened.
“I didn't see you carryin' any dinner.” replied the woman, “an' the bread's nice. I had powerful good luck yesterday. I don't allers have such luck, but everything turned out right with the bakin' somehow.”