divergence in the conversation. "D'you know," he said, "they aint _no_
place whur I'd drur be than Mizzourah ceppen only one."

"Where's that?" asked Bruce, and to his immense astonishment the boy
answered quickly:

"Italy."

"Why, how does that happen, Piney? Ever been there?"

"Nope. Hearn Unc' Bernique tell abaout it, thass all. It 'ud suit me,
though. I know that." His eyes grew dreamy and he seemed to be looking
far beyond Missouri. One could almost see the fine, illusory spell of
the far Latin land upon him, the spiritual bond, the pull of temperament
that made the hill boy at one with Italy, blest of poetry. "I d'n know
huccome I want to go so bad," he went on with a deep breath, "wouldn'
turn araoun' th'ee times on my heels to go anywhur else, but I shoo do
want to go to Italy."

"Were your people Italians, Piney?"

"Nope. Kim f'm S'loois. But still, I got that feelin' abaout Italy.
Simlike I'd be--oh, sorta at home tha'. Had that same feelin' ev' since
Unc' Bernique begand to tell me abaout Italy. I'm a-goin' tha', tew,
some day, all righty," he concluded at last, waking up from his little
dream slowly. "Goin' to be long over to Poetical, Mist' Steerin'?" he
diverged again, with his lively mental agility.

"No, son. From Poetical I am going on to"--Bruce stopped to gather
strength to project the word with the large and cadenced inflection he
had enjoyed in the hill farm people,--"going on to Canaan!"

"Gre't gosh!" said the boy, and something in the way he said it made
Bruce look at him quickly. Piney's brows were lifted and his lips were
pulled back. He seemed to try to be as much impressed as Bruce expected
him to be. To Steering this sort of comradeship was growing golden.

"Well, now," he said, playing with the little joy of being understood,
"haven't they the court-house at Canaan? And the railroad? And haven't
they Miss Betsy,--or Miss--Miss----"

"Sally."

"Ah, yes, Sally! Know Sally, son?"

"Ev'body in the Tigmores knows her."

"I am beginning to want to know Sally myself." Bruce let his eyes go
drowsing toward the pale river up which the slow rain was beating, and
talked foolishness idly: "Red-cheeked Sally! Freckled Sally! Roly-poly
Sally! What's a Missouri girl like anyway, Piney?"

"Wy, people think she's purty," protested the boy with a quick palpitant
shyness, "an' most people l----," he stopped trying to talk, laughing
brusquely and flushing with a very young man's self-conscious