It started like this: She leaned over with her hand cupped around her mouth, and with her soft low voice against my ear, she whispered: "Wear yore darkest clothes, chile, an' meet me right here jus' 'fore dark. We're gonna git some rose maller seeds." "Aunt Bett, marshmalla seeds? Marshmallas don't . . . " That hand clamped itself over my mouth before I could say another word or even take a breath. Her next whisper was a little louder: "Hush yore mouth, chile, ya cain't grab seeds if ya cain't keep quiet!" The night got worse before it got better.