moon shinin' in an' fallin' on her whar she knelt by the bed, clost nigh to me. I can see hit now, that long line o' white light streamin' acrost the floor an' fallin' on her, makin' her look like a white ghost spirit, an' her two hands held up with that thar book 'twixt 'em.
"I knew hit war maw, fer I'd seed her pray before, but I war skeered fer all that. I lay right still an' held my breath, an' heered her thank the Lord fer keerin' fer we-uns whilst she war gone, an' fer 'lowin' her to get that thar book.
"I don't guess she knew I seed her, fer she got up right still an' soft, like not to wake we-uns, an' began to light the fire an' make some yarb tea. She war that wet an' cold I could see her hand shake whilst she held the match to the light'ud stick. Them days maw made coffee out'n burnt corn-bread, an' tea out'n dried blackberry leaves an' sassafrax root." She paused and turned her face toward the open door. David thought she had lost somewhat the appearance of age; certainly, what with the long rest, and Cassandra's loving care, she had no longer the weary, haggard look that had struck him when he saw her first.
Following the direction of her gaze, he went to the shelf and took down the old spelling-book, and turned the leaves, now limp and worn. So this was Cassandra's inheritance—part of it—the inward impulse that would urge to toil all day, then walk miles in rain and darkness through a wilderness, and thank the Lord for the privilege—to own this book—not for herself, but for the generations to come.