"You ain't going back--you're
going to work for Auntie Kingsbury."
That was the way Deolda had. She never gave one any chance for an
illusion about her, for there was handsome Johnny Deutra still hanging
round the gate watching Deolda, and she already held my aunt's heart in
her slender hand.
My aunt went around muttering, "One-armed Manel's girl!" She appealed to
me: "She's got to live somewhere, hasn't she?"
I imagine that my aunt excused herself for deliberately, running into
foul weather by telling herself that Deolda Was her "lot," something the
Lord had sent her to take care of.
"Who was one-armed Manel?" I asked, tagging after my aunt.
"Oh, he was a queer old one-armed Portygee who lived down along," said
my aunt, "clear down along under the sand dunes in a green-painted house
with a garden in front of it with as many colors as Joseph's coat. Those
Costas lived 'most any way." Then my aunt added, over her shoulder:
"They say the old woman was a gypsy and got married to one-armed Manel
jumping over a broomstick. And I wouldn't wonder a mite if 'twas true.
She was a queer looking old hag with black, piercing eyes and a proud
way of walking. The boys are a wild crew. Why, I remember this girl
Deolda, like a little leopard cat with blue-black shadows in her hair
and eyes like saucers, selling berries at the back door!"
My uncle Ariel, Aunt Josephine's brother, came in after a while.
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