s that?' I enquired.

'Be scairt t' death,' he answered,' 'fore they've hed time t' start
Ye want t' step right up t' the rack jes' if ye'd bought an' paid fer
yerself an' was proud o' yer bargain.'

I took his advice and when I found Hope alone in the parlour I came and
asked her, very awkwardly as I now remember, to go with me.

She looked at me, blushing, and said she would ask her mother.

And she did, and we walked to the schoolhouse together that evening, her
hand holding my arm, timidly, the most serious pair that ever struggled
with the problem of deportment on such an occasion. I was oppressed with
a heavy sense of responsibility in every word I uttered.

Ann Jane Foster, known as 'Scooter Jane', for her rapid walk and stiff
carriage, met us at the corners on her way to the schoolhouse.

'Big turn out I guess,' said she. 'Jed Feary 'n' Squire Town is comin'
over from Jingleville an' all the big guns'll be there. I love t' hear
Jed Feary speak, he's so techin'.'

Ann Jane was always looking around for some event likely to touch her
feelings. She went to every funeral in Faraway and, when sorrow was
scarce in her own vicinity, journeyed far in quest of it.

'Wouldn't wonder 'f the fur flew when they git t' going',' she remarked,
and then hurried on, her head erect, her body motionless, her legs
flying. Such energy as she gave to the pursuit of mourning I have never
seen equalled in any other form of dissipation.

The schoolhouse was nearly full of people when we came in. The big boys
were wrestling in the yard; men were lounging on the rude seats, inside,
idly discussing crops and cattle and lapsing into silence, frequently,
that bore the signs both of expectancy and reflection. Young men
and young women sat together on one side of the house whispering and
giggling. Alone among them was the big and eccentric granddaughter of
Mrs Bisnette, who was always slapping some youngster for impertinence.
Jed Feary and Squire Town sat together behind a pile of books, both
looking very serious. The long hair and beard of the old poet were now
white and his form bent with age. He came over and spoke to us and
took a curl of Hope's hair in his stiffened fingers and held it to the
lamplight.

'What silky gold!' he whispered.' 'S a skein o' fate, my dear girl!'

Suddenly the schoolteacher rapped on the desk and bade us come to order
and Ransom Walker was called to the chair.

'Thet there is talent in Faraway townshi