Presently her aunt came out to her.
She hid her face in her arm and waited for the new harshness to
strike.
"Get up and come in, Susie." The voice was kind, was
pitying--not with the pity that galls, but with the pity of one
who understands and feels and is also human, the pity that
soothes. At least to this woman she was not outcast.
The girl flung herself down again and sobbed--poured out upon the
bosom of our mother earth all the torrents of tears that had been
damming up within her. And Sallie knelt beside her and patted
her now and then, with a "That's right. Cry it out, sweetie."
When tears and sobs subsided Sallie lifted her up, walked to the
house with her arm round her. "Do you feel better?"
"Some," admitted Susan.
"The men folks have went. So we kin be comfortable. After you've
et, you'll feel still better."
Gorge Warham had made a notable inroad upon the food and drink.
But there was an abundance left. Susan began with a hesitating
sipping at a glass of milk and nibbling at one of the generous
cubes of old-fashioned cornbread. Soon she was busy. It
delighted Sallie to see her eat. She pressed the preserves, the
chicken, the cornbread upon her. "I haven't eaten since early
this morning," apologized the girl.
"That means a big hole to fill," observed Sallie. "Try this buttermilk."
But Susan could hold no more.
"I reckon you're pretty well tired out," observed Sallie.
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