It seemed incredible that this poor, wretched skeleton by the hearth could be Becky—­but Mary knew that it was.  Back from her wandering the pitiful creature had come—­home!

She had come as Mary herself had come—­because the call of the hills never dies, but grows with absence.

“Aunt Becky!”

The crone by the hearth paused in her stirring of corn-meal in a pan, but did not turn.

“Aunt Becky!” And then the old woman staggered to her feet and faced Mary.

Not yet was the fire dead in the deep sockets—­from out the caverns the last sparks of life were making the eyes terrible.

“Yo’—­Mary Allan!” Contempt, more than fear, rang in the tones.  “What yo’ spyin’ on me for, Mary Allan?”

Mary went inside.  She was relieved by the fact that Becky knew her—­she had feared that she would find no response.  She did not intend to question or argue; she meant to control the situation from the start.

“Hit’s in the grave ‘long o’ Zalie!” Becky was on her defence.  “Zalie”—­here the befogged brain went under a cloud—­“Zalie she come a-looking—­but hit’s in the grave!  I tell yo’-all, hit’s in the grave!”

The trembling creature wavered in the firelight.  She was filled with fear—­but of what, who could tell?

Mary’s face underwent a marvellous change—­it grew tender, wistful.

“Set, Aunt Becky,” she said, compassionately, and gently pushed the woman into a deep rocker covered over with a dirty quilt; “set and don’t be frightened.  I ain’t come to hurt yo’—­I’ve come to help.”

Becky seemed to shrink.

“Hit’s in——­” she began, but Mary silenced her.

“No hit ain’t in the grave!  Zalie she knows it—­an’ I know it!”

“Where is hit—­then?” A cunning crept into Becky’s cavernous eyes.  “Where is hit?”

“Aunt Becky, no one must know!  You want it—­that way.”  Inspiration guided Mary, or was it, perhaps, that iron strain, the strong human strain of her kind that led her true?  “Zalie, she done come back; not to look for hit, but to keep you from hit!”

The stroke told.  Becky shrank farther in the chair.

“Gawd!” she moaned—­“it’s that lonely!  An’ the longin’ hurts powerful sharp.”

Mary’s face twitched.  Did she not know?

“But hit!”—­she whispered—­“don’t you love hit strong enough, Aunt Becky, to let hit alone, where hit’s happy, not knowing?”

There was something majestic about Mary as she kept her eyes upon the old woman while she pleaded with her.

The past came creeping up on the two women by the ashy hearth—­it gave Becky strength; it blinded Mary.  In the old woman’s memory a picture flashed—­the picture that once had hung on the wall of Ridge House!

She folded her bony arms over her bosom and panted: 

“Yes—­I love hit—­well enough!” The last hold was loosening.  Then: 

“It’s powerful lonesome—­and the cold and hunger bite cruel hard——­”