His grimy woolen shirt was open across his broad breast, and his sleeves were rolled up high, showing his powerful, brawny arms. But he looked weary. His face was lined, his lips droopy, and the hand that held his pipe was a bit unsteady. He looked different from himself, somehow.
"How you do to-day?" he asked her coldly, his eyes still taking account of her.
She met his question boldly and with a smile.
"Fine, Cun Andrew, fine. Same like a lamb a-jumpin."
More than once those same keen searching eyes had embarrassed her miserably and shamed her until she could not hold up her head, for Andrew was the deacon next in power to Brer Dee, and when they turned her out of the church, he scolded her before all the people at meeting. His reproof had cut her deeply and ever since then she had kept out of his way.
But she was older now and more experienced. She could face him easily without batting an eyelash, and she smiled pleasantly as she inquired, "How do you do yousef, Cousin? You ain' lookin so spry to-day. How-come so?"
Almost unconsciously her fingers began toying with the tiny soiled rag tied on a string around her neck, for such polite indifference as An-
