Instantly he rose and began rapidly to descend.

Decatur was away. He had got a “job of hauling,” his wife said, and had to be away all day, but she willingly set herself to bake a fresh corn-cake and make him coffee. He had already taken a little of his buttermilk, but he did not care for raw salt pork alone. He wanted his corn-bread and coffee, — the staple of the mountaineer.

She talked much, in a languid way, as she worked, and he sat in the doorway. Now and then she asked questions about his home and “Cassandry,” which he answered evasively. She gossiped much about all the happenings and sayings of her neighbors far and near, and complained much, when she came to take pay from him for what she provided, of the times which had come upon them since “Cate had hurt his foot.”