CHAPTER XV.
THE GIRL AND THE CHURN.
The next morning Lou was churning out in the yard and near her Mrs.
Mayfield sat, sewing. The scene was inspiring. Off to the right flowed
the blue creek, and everywhere were the hills, softly purple in the
distance.
"Things look so lonesome since poor mammy died," said the girl.
"But her passing away was beautiful," the city woman made reply, sewing,
thinking, glancing up with a sigh and then permitting her gaze to wander
off among the hills. "You were very fond of her, weren't you?"
"Yes. Her black face was one of the first I ever saw. She nursed father
and me, too; and she was like a mother. I--I wish you would stay here a
long time, Mrs. Mayfield."
"I don't like to think of returning to what people almost senselessly
call the world. This is the world as God made it. And amid these
heart-throbs of genuine nature I am beginning to live anew."
"But you'd get tired of it if you had to milk a cow that can pop her
tail like a whip," and after churning vigorously for a time, she
inquired: "Did you have trouble away off yonder where so many folks
live?"
"Yes, my married life ended in misery.
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