with the sun all through it; these eyebrows o' his'n that's lifted in the
middle o' his forred, like he cain't see why some onkindness was did him;
and little slim hands and feet; all mighty furrin to the mountains. I give
'er a lift--she was goin' to Hepzibah, huntin' fer some kind o' charity
she'd heard could be got there; and this little trick he tuck to me right
then."

The woman bent over and looked long at the small olive face, so delicately
cut, the damp rings of hair on his forehead, the tragic lift of the brows
above the nose bridge, the thin-lipped scarlet mouth. "My baby," she
murmured; then lifted her glance with the question: "An' how come ye to
have him? Did she--did that womern--"

"No, no. 'Twas this-a-way," Pap interrupted her. "When I came back from Big
Turkey Track, I went down through Hepzibah--I couldn't git this chap's
eyes--ner his little hands--out o' my head; I found myse'f a-studyin' on
'em the hull enjurin' time. She was dead when I got thar. She'd died to
Squire Cannon's, and they was a-passellin' out the chillen 'mongst the
neighbors. No sooner I put foot on the po'ch 'n this little soul come
a-runnin' to me, an' says: W'y, here's my pappy, now. I tole you-all I did
have a pappy. Now look--see--here he is.' Then he peeked up at me, and he
put up his little arms, an' he says, jest as petted, and yit a little
skeered, he says, 'Take me, pappy.' When I tuck him up, he grabbed me round
the neck and dug his little face into mine. Then he looked around at all
the folks, and sort o' shivered, and put his face back in my neck--still ez
a little possum when you've killed the old ones an' split up the tree an'
drug out the nest."

Both faces were wet with tears now. Pap went on: "I had the papers made
right out--I knowed you'd say yes, Cornely. He's Samuel Ephraim Overholt.