"Why—no, I reckon not—if—I—" Her face flamed, and she drew on her bonnet, hiding the crimson flush in its deep shadow. She knew that without the promise he had asked, the boy would as surely return as that the sun would continue to rise and set.
"He must stay," she spoke desperately and hurriedly. "If he can just make out to stay long enough to learn a little—how to live, and will keep away from bad men—if I—he only knows enough to make mean corn liquor now—but he nevah was bad. He has always been different—and he is awful smart. I can't think how came he to change so."
Taking the empty basket with her, she walked toward the door, and David followed her. "Thank you for that good dinner," he said.
"Aunt Sally fetched the pa'triges. Her old man got them for mothah, and she said you sure ought to have half. Sally said the sheriff had gone back up the mountain, and I'm afraid he'll come to our place again this evening. Likely they're breaking up Frale's 'still' now."
"Well, that will be a good deed, won't it?"
The huge bonnet had hid her face from him, but now she lifted her eyes frankly to his, with a flash of radiance through her tears. "I reckon," was all she said.