an's worrits hev sorter shook out a little of his sand," she
had explained. On those evenings when he attended the Board, she sought
higher consolation in prayer meeting at the Southern Baptist Church, in
whose exercises her Northern and Eastern neighbors, thinly disguised as
"Baal" and "Astaroth," were generally overthrown and their temples made
desolate.

If Uncle Ben's progress was slower, it was no less satisfactory.
Without imagination and even without enthusiasm, he kept on with a dull
laborious persistency. When the irascible impatience of Rupert Filgee
at last succumbed to the obdurate slowness of his pupil, the master
himself, touched by Uncle Ben's perspiring forehead and perplexed
eyebrows, often devoted the rest of the afternoon to a gentle
elucidation of the mysteries before him, setting copies for his heavy
hand, or even guiding it with his own, like a child's, across the paper.
At times the appalling uselessness of Uncle Ben's endeavors reminded
him of Rupert's taunting charge. Was he really doing this from a genuine
thirst for knowledge? It was inconsistent with all that Indian Spring
knew of his antecedents and his present ambitions; he was a simple
miner without scientific or technical knowledge; his already slight
acquaintance with arithmetic and the scrawl that served for his
signature were more than sufficient for his needs. Yet it was with this
latter sign-manual that he seemed to take infinite pains. The master,
one afternoon, thought fit to correct the apparent vanity of this
performance.

"If you took as much care in trying to form your letters according to
copy, you'd do better. Your signature is fair enough as it is."

"But it don't look right, Mr. Ford," said Uncle Ben, eying it
distrustfully; "somehow it ain't all there."

"Why, certainly it is. Look, D A B N E Y--not very plain, it's true, but
there are all the letters."

"That's just it, Mr. Ford; them AIN'T all the letters that ORTER be
there. I've allowed to write it D A B N E Y to save time and ink, but it
orter read DAUBIGNY," said Uncle Ben, with painful distinctness.

"But that spells d'Aubigny!"

"It are."

"Is that your name?"

"I reckon."

The master looked at Uncle Ben doubtfully. Was this only another form of
the Dobell illusion? "Was your father a Frenchman?" he asked finally.

Uncle Ben paused as if to recall the trifling circumstances of his
father's nationality. "No."

"Your grandfather?"

"I reckon not. At