heap o' fambly ovah thar, jest like we do here in the mounting. Leastways, hit's all we do have—some of us. My fambly war all good stock, capable and peart; an' now heark to me. Wharevah you go, just you hold your hade up. The' hain't nothin' more despisable than a body 'at goes meachin' around like some old sheep-stealin' houn' dog. Now if he sure 'nough have sont fer ye, go, an' I'll help ye, but if he haven't, bide whar ye be."
Cassandra drew in her breath sharply, no longer able to evade the question, with her mother's keen eyes searching her face. All her reasons for going flashed through her mind in a moment's space of time. The book she had been reading—what were English people really like? And David—her David—her boy's father—what shameful things were they saying of him all over the mountain that Frale should dare come to her as he had done? She could not stay now; she would not. Her cheeks flamed, and she walked silently into the canvas room and stood by her baby's cradle. Her mother began wrapping up the silver pot.
"I guess I'll take this back an' lock hit up again. You sure hain't to go if ye can't give me that word."
Cassandra went quickly and took it from her mother's hand. "No, mother, give it to me. I told Frale David had sent for me, and I'm going."
"And he have sont fer ye?"
"Yes, mothah." Her reply was low as she turned again to her