"Why didn't you keep up your relatives' acquaintance?"

"Well, Aunt Amanda died, later, and her husband never cared much for me,
anyhow. So we drifted apart, and never drifted together again."

"Wasn't your aunt your mother's sister?"

"Oh, Lord, no! She was not really my aunt, at all. She was a cousin of my
father's and when she took me in, I called her auntie. But they only took
me because they wanted my help on the place, and I worked hard for them
four years. They gave me no affection, nor even thanks for my services,
and as I couldn't learn anything or make any sort of progress in that
God-forsaken valley, I left them and shifted for myself."

"And made a great success of the shifting!" Patty's eyes glowed as she
looked at her big handsome husband.

"Yes, I found you! And, incidentally that little flower of loveliness
that's going to sleep against your breast."

"So she is! Pretty thing!" Patty gazed adoringly at the baby and then
handed her over to the nurse, who returned for her charge.

"Tell me more about Horner's Corners," Patty resumed, as they remained
seated on the porch, after Fleurette's departure.

"Not much to tell. It consisted of a store and post-office,--a church and
school,--and forty or fifty small houses. Uncle Thorpe's place was a mile
out from the Corners, proper, and I used to trudge back and forth every