Peggy, however, fitted into all the tender places of her heart.  She had never known her own mother; all she remembered was a face bending close and a soft hand that tucked in the coverlet one night when she couldn’t sleep.  The memory had haunted her from the days of her childhood—­clear and distinct, with every detail in place.  Had there been light enough in her mother’s bed-room, she was sure she could have added the dear face itself to her recollection.  Plump, full-bosomed, rosy-cheeked Peggy (fifteen years younger than Tom) supplied the touch and voice, and all the tenderness as well, that these sad memories recalled, and all that the motherless girl had yearned for.

And the simple, uneventful life—­one without restraints of any kind, greatly satisfied her:  so different from her own at home with Prim as Chief Regulator.  Everybody, to her delight, did as they pleased, each one following the bent of his or her inclination.  St. George was out at daybreak in the duck-blinds, or, breakfast over, roaming the fields with his dogs, Todd a close attendant.  The judge would stroll over to court an hour or more late, only to find an equally careless and contented group blocking up the door—­“po’ white trash” most of them, each one with a grievance.  Whenever St. George accompanied him, and he often did, his Honor would spend even less time on the bench—­cutting short both ends of the session, Temple laughing himself sore over the judge’s decisions.

“And he stole yo’ shoat and never paid for him?” he heard his honor say one day in a hog case, where two farmers who had been waiting hours for Tom’s coming were plaintiff and defendant.  “How did you know it was yo’ shoat—­did you mark him?”

“No, suh.”

“Tie a tag around his neck?”

“No, suh.”

“Well, you just keep yo’ hogs inside yo’ lot.  Too many loose hogs runnin’ ’round.  Case is dismissed and co’t is adjourned for the day,” which, while very poor law, was good common-sense, stray hogs on the public highway having become a nuisance.

With these kindly examples before her, Kate soon fell into the ways of the house.  If she did not wish to get up she lay abed and Peggy brought her breakfast with her own hands.  If, when she did leave her bed, she went about in pussy-slippers and a loose gown of lace and frills without her stays, Peggy’s only protest was against her wearing anything else—­so adorable was she.  When this happy, dreamy indolence began to pall upon her—­and she could not stand it for long—­she would be up at sunrise helping Peggy wash and dress her frolicsome children or get them off to school, and this done, would assist in the housework—­even rolling the pastry with her own delicate palms, or sitting beside the bubbling, spontaneous woman, needle in hand, aiding with the family mending—­while Peggy, glad of the companionship, would sit with ears open, her mind alert, probing—­probing—­trying to read the heart of the girl whom she loved the better every day.  And so there had crept into Kate’s heart a new peace that was as fresh sap to a dying plant, bringing the blossoms to her cheeks and the spring of wind-blown branches to her step.