"I'll fetch a chair." She brought a
comfortable rustic rocking-chair from the farther end of the porch; then
disappeared into the house, to return a moment later with a heavy shawl.
"Hit'll be a-turnin' cold directly, now the sun's plumb down," she said,
"an' you-all mustn't get to chillin', nohow."
Auntie Sue thanked her with gentle courtesy, and, reaching up, caught
the girl's hand as Judy was awkwardly arranging the wrap about the thin
old shoulders. "Won't you bring a chair for yourself, and sit with
me awhile, dear?" As she spoke, Auntie Sue patted the hard, bony hand
caressingly.
But Judy pulled her hand away roughly, saying: "You-all ain't got no
call ter do sich as that ter me. I'll set awhile with you but I ain't
a-needin' no chair." And with that, she seated herself on the floor, her
back against the wall of the house.
The last of the evening was gone from the sky, now. The soft darkness of
a clear, star-light night lay over the land. A gentle breeze stole over
the mountains, rustled softly through the forest, and, drifting across
the river, touched Auntie Sue's silvery hair.
Judy was first to break the silence: "I took notice neighbor Tom brung
you-all a right smart bunch of letter mail this evenin'," she said,
curiously.
There was a troubled note in Auntie Sue's gentle voice as she returned,
"The letter from the bank did not come, Judy.
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