“’Deed I is,” the old sister declared, dropping her basket of lettuce and peas on the floor and taking a chair next to the table in the kitchen. “An’ I ain’t sold much neither. Seems like folks ain’t got no buyin’ appetite after all that storm an’ wind last night—but de Lawd will provide! I ain’t worried.”

“That’s right,” agreed Hager. “Might o’ been me blowed away maself, ’stead o’ just ma porch, if Jesus hadn’t been with us. . . . You Sandy! Make haste and wash yo’ hands, sir. Rest o’ you chillens go on home, ’cause I know yo’ ma’s lookin’ for you. . . . Huh! This wood fire’s mighty low!”

Hager uncovered a pot that had been simmering on the stove all morning and dished up a great bowlful of black-eyed peas and salt pork. There was biscuit bread left from breakfast. A plate of young onions and a pitcher of lemonade stood on the white oilcloth-covered table. Heads were automatically bowed.

“Lawd, make us thankful for this food. For Christ’s sake, amen,” said Hager; then the two old women and the child began to eat.

“That’s Elvira’s boy, ain’t it—that yaller-headed young-one was here playin’ with Sandy?” Sister Whiteside had her mouth full of onions and beans as she asked the question.

“Shsss! . . . That’s her child!” said Hager. “But it ain’t Eddie’s!” She gave her guest a meaning glance across the table, then lowered her voice, pretending all the while that Sandy’s ears were too young to hear. “They say she had that chile ’fore she married Eddie. An’ black as Eddie is, you knows an’ I knows ain’t due to be no golden hair in de family!”

“I knowed there must be something funny,” whispered the old sister, screwing up her face. “That’s some white man’s chile!”

“Sho it is!” agreed Hager. . . . “I knowed it all de time.... Have some mo’ meat, Whiteside. Help yo’self! We ain’t got much, but such as ’tis, you’re welcome.... Yes, sir, Buster’s some white man’s chile. . . . Stop reachin’ cross de table for bread, Sandy. Where’s yo’ manners, sir? I declare, chillens do try you sometimes.... Pass me de onions.”

“Truth, they tries you, yit I gits right lonesome since all ma young-ones is gone.” Sister Whiteside worked her few good teeth vigorously, took a long swallow of lemonade, and smacked her lips. “Chillen an’ grandchillen all in Chicago an’ St. Louis an’ Wichita, an’ nary chick nor child left with me in de house.... Pass me de bread, thank yuh. . . . I feels kinder sad an’ sorry at times, po’ widder-woman that I is. I has ma garden an’ ma hens, but all ma chillens done grown and married.... Where’s yo’ daughter Harriett at now, Hager? Is she married, too? I ain’t seen her lately.”

Hager pulled a meat skin through her teeth; then she answered: “No, chile, she too young to marry yet! Ain’t but sixteen, but she’s been workin’ out this summer, waitin’ table at de Stanton County Country Club. Been in de country three weeks now, since school closed, but she comes in town on Thursdays, though. It’s nigh six miles from here, so de women-help sleeps there at night. I’s glad she’s out there, Sister. Course Harriett’s a good girl, but she likes to be frisky—wants to run de streets ’tendin’ parties an’ dances, an’ I can’t do much with her no mo’, though I hates to say it.”