she spoke.

"I don't call him good-looking at all," said the old woman; "dreadful
white-livered."

Sarah said nothing at all, but the face of the man, Hyacinthus Ware, was
before her eyes still, as beautiful and grand as the face of a god.

"Never heerd such a name, either," said the old woman. "His mother was
dreadful flowery. She had some outlandish blood. I don't know whether
she was Eyetalian or Dutch."

"Her mother was Greek, I always heard," said Mrs. Lynn. "I dun'no' as I
ever heard of any other Greek round these parts. I guess they don't
emigrate much."

"I guess it was Greek, now you speak of it," said the old woman. "I knew
she was outlandish on one side, anyhow. An' as fur callin' him
good-lookin'--" She looked aggressively at her great-granddaughter,
whose beautiful face was turned toward the moonlit night.

It was a long time that they sat there. It had been a very hot day, and
the cool was grateful. Hardly a remark was made, except one from Mrs.
Lynn that it was a blessing there were so few mosquitoes and they could
sit outdoors such a night.

"I ain't heerd but one all the time I've been settin' here," said the
old woman, "and I ketched him."

Sarah, the girl, continued to drink, to eat, to imbibe, to assimilate,