But Laurella turned away
from these suggestions with the hopeless, pliable obstinacy of the weak.
"I wouldn't give the rappin' o' my finger for a nasty little smudgy,
smoky grate fire," she declared rebelliously, thanklessly. "A hickory
log-heap is what I want, and if I cain't have that, I reckon I can jest
die without it."
"Now, Laurelly--now Laurelly," Pap quavered in tones none other had ever
heard from him, "don't you talk about dyin'. You look as young as
Johnnie this minute. I'll git you what you want. Lord, I'll have Dawson
build the chimbley big enough for you to keep house in, if them's
yo' ruthers."
It was almost large enough for that, and the great load of hickory logs
which Himes hauled into the yard from the neighbouring mountain-side was
cut to length. Fire was kindled in the new chimney; it drew perfectly;
and Pap himself carried Laurella in his arms and laid her on some quilts
beside the hearthstone, demanding eagerly, "Thar now--don't that make
you feel better?"
"Uh-huh." The ailing woman turned restlessly on her pallet. The big,
awkward, ill-favoured old man stood with his disproportionately long
arms hanging by his sides, staring at her, unaware that his presence
half undid the good the leaping flames were doing her.
"I wish't Uncle Pros was sitting right over there, t'other side the
fire," murmured Laurella dreamily.
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