and, stooping between him and the fire, pulled something from among the hot ashes. The fire made the only light in the room, and David never forgot the supple grace of her as she bent thus silhouetted — the perfect line of chin and throat black against the blaze, contrasted with the weird, witchlike old woman with roughly knotted hair, who still squatted in the heat, and shook the skillet of frying pork.

“Thar, now hit’s done, I reckon,” said old Sally, slowly rising and straightening her bent back; and the woman from the bed called her orders.

“Not that cup,” she cried, as Sally began pouring black coffee into a cracked white cup. “Git th’ chany one. I hid hit yandah in th’ cornder ‘hind that tin can, to keep ‘em f’om usin’