He thought of other women who had sat with him on hotel verandas, at fashionable watering places; women gowned in silks and laces; women whose soft hands knew no heavier task than the filmy fancy work they toyed with, and whose greatest care, seemingly, was that time should leave upon their faces no record of the passing years.
"And this is the stuff," said he to himself, "that makes possible the civilization that produces them." Aloud, he said, "Do you ever talk of going back to your old home ?" "No, sir, not now;" she rested her wet hands idly on the edge of the pan of potatoes, and turned her face toward the clump of pines.

"We used to think we'd go back sometime; seemed like at first I couldn't stand it; then the children come, and every time we laid one of them over there I thought less about leavin', until now we never talk about it no more.

Then there was our girl, too, Mr.Howitt.No, sir, we won't never leave these hills now." "Oh, you had a daughter, too?
I understood from Mr.Matthews that your children were all boys." Aunt Mollie worked a few moments longer in silence, then arose and turned toward the house.

"Yes, sir, there was a girl; she's buried under that biggest pine you see off there a little to one side.
We--we--don't never talk about her.

Mr.Matthews can't stand it.
Seems like he ain't never been the same since--since--it happened.
'Tain't natural for him to be so rough and short; he's just as good and kind inside as any man ever was or could be.