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The sick man sank lower in his chair, his face working, his heart crying the same pleading cry as cried the heart of Rachel of old for her children—a cry understood only by the heart in which it was born—and God. "Yep," he replied, "we saw that steer, too. We've been waitin' here, hopin' we'd hear your whistle. I wonder what time it's gettin' to be?" "That Jim Scroggie, the heir, has come back, an' he's rented the Stanley house," Mrs. Wilson was saying. "They say he's goin' to cut down the big woods an' sell the timber. I guess he intends stayin' right on, 'cause he brought his housekeeper an' his two children, a boy and a girl, with him.".
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Wilson picked up his pails and carried them to the fence. Seeing Billy emerge from the house he placed them on the top step of the stile and waited. "You shall never find me one!" he cried with impetuosity. "But I am to win you, and will you tell me the poet or the philosopher who has ever spoken of the strategies employed in love as villainy?" Anson, still sniffling, finished his undressing. Billy nursed his knee in his hands and watched him. "'Course," he remarked, at length, "you'll be for tellin' Ma soon's she calms down a bit an' is ready to listen, but Anse I wouldn't do it if I was you." Below his window sounded a whippoorwill's call. From the opposite side of the room came the long, regular snores of Anson. Billy sat up in bed and started to remove the tacks from the window screen..
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