red firelight. Their mouths chattered with talk, all at one time, nobody listening to anybody else. Bright faces, white teeth, slim bodies, quick-moving hands and feet filled Mary's eyes. These were all her children, the fruit of her body. Healthy, strong younglings, all growing fast.
But her heart had that heavy dull aching, the same old aching of those first years when July left her. Her whole breast hurt, it was hard to catch air enough when she breathed.
She stepped out into the yard and looked toward the evening star. Such a hot bright star, standing in the path of the slim new moon.
"How-come you duh star-gaze, gal?"
Budda Ben was on his wood-pile, so still and black she had not noticed him until he spoke. With the night blotting out his poor body his voice had a different sound. It was a man's voice and his words had warmth and tenderness.
"Budda Ben" She stumbled over a piece of wood as she went toward him, and sat down beside him heavily.
"Mind, gal," he warned her, "don' fall down an' broke you leg. I ain' able to cook for no house o chillen."
She knew he was trying to boost her, to make her laugh, but she couldn't do it. Not yet.
