cent o' money in hand these days 'thout that, only
what chick'ns 'nd aigs she can raise fer the hotel, too. Hit's only in
summah. I don't rightly see how we can spare Hoyle."

"Where's Miss Cassandra now?" he asked, only more determined on his
course the more he was hampered by circumstances.

"She's in the loom shed weavin'. I throwed on the warp fer a blue and
white bed kiver 'fore I war hurt, an' she hain't had time to more'n half
finish hit. I war helpin' to get the weavin' done whilst she war at
school this winter, an' come spring she war 'lowin' to come back an'
help Frale with the plantin' an' makin' crap fer next year. Here in the
mountains we-uns have to be forehanded, an' here I be an' can't crawl
scarcely yet."

After the thrifty soul had taken a few steps, instead of realizing her
good fortune in being able to take any, she was bitterly disappointed to
find that weeks must still pass ere she could walk by herself. She was
seated on her little porch where David had helped her, looking out on
the growing things and the blossoming spring all about--a sight to make
the heart glad; but she saw only that the time was passing, and it would
soon be too late to make a crop that year.

She was such a neat, self-respecting old woman as she sat there. Her
work-worn old hands were not idle, for she turned and mended Hoyle's
funny little trousers, home-made, with suspenders attached.

"I don't know what-all we can do ef we can't make a crap. We won't have
no corn nor nothin', an' nothin' to feed stock, let alone we-uns. We'll
be in a fix just like all the poor white trash, me not able to do a
lick."

David came and sat beside her a few moments and said a great many
comforting things, and when he rose to go the world had taken on a new
aspect for her eyes--bright, dark eyes, looking up at him with a gleam
of hope.

"I believe ye," she said. "We'll do anything you say, Doctah."

Thryng walked out past the loom shed and paused to look in on the young
girl as she sat swaying rhythmically, throwing the shuttles with a sweep
of her arm, and drawing the great beam toward her with steady beat,
driving the threads in place, and shifting the veil of warp stretched
before her with a sure touch of her feet upon the treadles, all her
lithe body intent and atune. It seemed to him as he sat himself on the
step to watch, that music must come from the flow of her action. The
noise of the loom prevented her hearing his approach,