"Heah's 'nuther pone, honey," she said to Fortner, as she handed both of them segments of another disk of corn-bread, to replace that which they had ravenously devoured."An' le' me fill yer bowls agin.Hit takes a powerful sight o' bread an' milk ter do when one's rale hongry.But 'tain't like meat vittels.Ye can't eat 'nuff ter do ye harm."She took from its place behind the rough stones that formed the jam of the fireplace a rude broom, made by shaving down to near its end long slender strips from a stick of pliant green hickory, then turning these over the end and confining them by a band into an exaggerated mop or brush.With this she swept back from the hearth of uneven stones the live coals flung out by the fire.
"Thar's some walnut sticks amongst thet wood," she said as she replaced the hearth-broom, "an' they pops awful."From a pouch-like basket, made of skilfully interwoven hickory strips, and hanging against the wall, she took a half-finished stocking and a ball of yarn.Drawing a low rocking-chair up into the light, she seated herself and began knitting.
As he neared the last of his second bowl of milk Fortner bethought himself, and glanced at Aunt Debby.Her work had fallen from her nervous hands and lay idly in her lap, while her great eyes were fixed hungrily upon him.
"They've bin fouten over ter Wildcat to-day," he said, answering their inquiry, without waiting to empty his mouth.
"Yes, I heard the cannons," she said with such gentle voice as made her dialect seem quaint and sweet."I clim up on Bald Rock at the top o' the mounting an' lissened.I could see the smoke raisin', but I couldn't tell nothin'.Much uv a fout?""Awful big'un.Biggest 'un sence Buner Vister.Ole Zollicoffer pitched his whole army onter Kunnel Gerrard's rijimint.Some other rijiments cum up ter help Kunnel Garrard, an' both sides fit like devis fur three or fur hours, an' the dead jess lay in winrows, an'---"The demands of Fortner's unappeased appetite here rose superior to his desire to impart information.He stopped to munch the last bit of corn-bread and drain his bowl to the bottom.
"Yes," said Aunt Debby, inhospitably disregarding the exhaustion of the provender, and speaking a little more quickly than her wont, "but which side whipt?""Our'n, in course," said Fortner, with nettled surprise at the question."Our'n, in course.Old Zollicoffer got ez bad a licken ez ever Gineral Zach Taylor gi'n the Mexicans.""Rayally?" she said.Gratification showed itself in little lines that coursed about her mouth, and her eyes illumined as when a light shines through a window.
"Yes," answered Fortner."Like hounds, and run clean ter the Ford, whar they're now a-fouten an' strugglin to git acrost, and drowndin' like so many stampeded cattle.""Glory! Thank God!" said Aunt Debby.Her earnestness expressed itself more by the intensity of the tone than its rise.
"Evidently a tolerable regular attendant at Methodist camp-meetings,"thought Harry, rousing a little from the torpor into which he was falling.
Her faded check flushed with a little confusion at having suffered this outburst, and picking up her knitting she nervously resumed work.
Fortner looked wistfully at the bottom of his emptied bowl.Aunt Debby took it away and speedily returned with it filled.She came back with an air of eager expectancy that Fortner would continue his narrative.But unsatisfied hunger still dominated him, and he had thoughts and mouth only for food.She sad down and resumed her knitting with an apparent effort at composing herself.
For a full minute the needles clicked industriously.Then they stopped; the long, slender fingers clenched themselves about the ball of yarn; she faced Fortner, her eyes shining with a less brilliant but intenser light.
"Jim Fortner," she said with low, measured distinctness, "why don't ye go on? Is thar somethin' that ye'r afeered ter tell me? What hez hapened ter our folks? Don't flinch from tellin' me the wust.
