“Dish yer livin’ is moughty hard, marster, but I reckon we’se all got ter come ter hit.”

“Well, you manage to raise a little good corn anyway, so you ought to be thankful instead of complaining.”

“Dar ain’ nuttin’ ’tall ter be thankful fur in dat, suh, case de Lawd He ain’ had no mo’ ter do wid dat ar co’n den ole Marse Hawtrey way over yonder at Pipin’ Tree.  I jes’ ris dat ar con’ wid my own han’ right down de road at my f’ont do’, an’ po’d de water on hit outer de pump at my back un.  I’se monst’ous glad ter praise de Lawd fur what He done done, but I ain’ gwine ter gin ‘im credit fur de wuk er my own fis’ en foot.”

“Are you going by Jordan’s Journey, uncle?  I’d like to send Reuben Merryweather’s buckwheat to him.”

“Naw, boss, I ain’t a-gwine by dar, caze dat ar Jerdan’s Jerney ain got a good name ter my years.  I ain’t a-feard er ha’nts by daylight, but I’se monst’ous feared er badness day er nightime, en hit sutney do pear ter me like de badness er ole Marse Jonathan done got in de a’r er dat ar Jerdan’s Jerney.  Hit’s ha’nted by badness, dat’s what ’tis, en dar ain nobody cep’n Gawd A’mought Hisse’f dat kin lay badness.”

He went out, stooping under the weight of his bag, and picking up a grey turkey’s wing from the ledge, Abel began brushing out the valve of the mill, in which the meal had grown heavy from dampness.

“The truth is, Moses,” he remarked, “you are a fool to want what you can’t have in life.”  The puppy looked up at him inquiringly, its long ears flapping about its soft foolish face.  “But I reckon we’re all fools, when it comes to that.”

When the grinding was over for the day, he shut down the mill, and calling Moses to heel, went out on the old mill-race, where the upper gate was locked by a crude wooden spar known as the “key.”  He was standing under the sycamore, with this implement in his hand, when he discerned the figure of Molly approaching slowly amid the feathery white pollen which lay in patches of delicate bloom over the sorrel waste of the broomsedge.  Without moving he waited until she had crossed the log and stood looking up at him from the near side of the stream.

“Abel, are you still angry with me?” she asked, smiling.

Dropping the key into the lock, he walked slowly to the end of the mill-race, and descended the short steps to the hillside.

“No, I’m not angry—­at least I don’t think I am—­but I’ve taken your advice and given you up.”

“But, Abel—–­”

“I suppose you meant to take Mr. Mullen all the time that you were making a fool of me.  He’s a better man for you, probably, than I am.”

“Do you really think that?” she asked in a tone of surprise.  “Would you like to see me married to him?”

He hesitated an instant and then answered:  “I honestly believe that it is the best thing for you to do.”

Instead of producing the effect he had foreseen his advice brought a luminous moisture to her eyes.