Jane carried the milk to the spring house before she reappeared in the
cabin with a cup of it for the baby.

"It's so good for her to have it warm from the cow," she said, as she
tilted the tin for the last drop on the little one's lips. "I wish you'd
leave her here with me, Aunt Nancy."

"It's about time she was weaned," the mother said. "I reckon you better
call your father now. He must be ready for his breakfast, bendin' over
that tobacco ever since sun-up."

Jane took down the tin dinner horn from its peg, and went to the back
door with it, and blew a long, loud blast, crumbling away in broken sounds.

The baby was beating the air with its hands up and down, and gurgling its
delight in the noise when she came back. "Oh, honey, honey, honey!" she
cooed, catching it up and hugging it to her.

The mother looked at them over her shoulder as she put the cakes of
grated corn in the skillet, and set it among the coals on the hearth.
"It's a pity you ha'n't got one of your own."

"I don't want one of my own," the girl said.

"I thought, a spell back,"--the woman took up the subject again after a
decent interval--"that you and Hughey Blake was goin' to make a match."
The girl said nothing, and her aunt pursued, "Was he there, last night?"

"I didn't notice."