rt, he opened the door of his
simple dwelling. He had never doubted her, nor believed the nonsense he
had heard about her, but he had just had his faith refreshed. He carried
the baby to the one little bedroom of his house, scuffing a wooden rocking
chair behind him across the rough floor. He established Elizabeth in it
beside Sadie, and then placing the sleeping child in its mother's arms
went back to the potato field, hurrying his work to finish before dark. He
understood in a measure why this was Elizabeth's first visit to them, and
he did not resent it. Luther never resented. He lived his own kindly,
industrious life. If people did not like Sadie he accepted it as a fact,
but not as a thing to be aggrieved about. He could wait for Sadie to grow,
and others must wait also. In the meantime, Luther watched Elizabeth and
desired growth for her; her smallest movement was of interest to him.
Elizabeth as a mother was a new feature. He remembered the deft way she
had nestled the baby to her as he had relinquished it a few moments
before, and thought with a sigh, of the cowhide-covered trunk filled with
little garments under the bed by which she sat. Not even Sadie knew what
the loss of that first child meant to Luther. A new love for women's ways
with babies grew up in him as he thought of Elizabeth's cuddling.

In the house, Elizabeth was getting into touch with the young mother who
was childless. Sadie, in spite of a determination not to do so, was
warming to that touch reluctantly. After all, it was pleasant to be
telling Elizabeth about it, and to have her asking as if she wanted to
know.

"Yes--I took bad about a week ago," she was saying. "I'd been kind of
miserable for several days. I got a fall that last rain we had, an' I
didn't seem t' get over it."

"I'd have come sooner if I'd known it," Elizabeth said, thinking of
Luther's acceptance of a similar statement. "Jake didn't even tell us last
night what was the matter."

"I guess he didn't know. Would you 'a' come if you'd 'a' known, Lizzie?"
Before Elizabeth could reply, she continued, "Ma used t' think it'd be
kind o' nice for me t' live close t' you, but I knew you wouldn't never
come t' see me. I used t' be kind o' jealous cause Luther liked you s'
much. I said everything mean I could think of about you, t' him--but law!
Luther ain't got no pride. He don't care. He defends you from everybody,
whether you come t' see us 'r not."

It was a curious little con