Arrived at the door he stomped the snow from his well-greased boots and went in. Untying the flaps of the coonskin cap he moved across the floor. "Good evening, boys," he greeted cheerily, unwinding now the muffler from his throat. "Good evening, sir!" the early birds, Jonathan and Ephraim Scaggs, answered together. It wasn't Mathias Oneby, after all, whose shadow he had seen against the wall. At once the singing master knew why Ephraim Scaggs was there. His sister, Tizzie Scaggs, was head-over-heels in love with Jonathan Witchcott. She was trying every scheme to get him away from Drusilla Osborn. Yes, Tizzie had sent her brother Ephraim along with Jonathan to make the fire so he could drop in a few words about her; how apt she, Tizzie, was at many tasks, what a fine wife she'd make for some worthy fellow. Philomel Whiffet knew the way of young folks. And Drusilla knew the ways of Tizzie. She was really wary of her and watchful, though Dru would never own it to Jonathan Witchcott. Even though the snow was nearly knee-deep it didn't keep folks from singing school. Already they were crowding in. So by the time old Whiffet was ready to begin every bench was filled. Young men and old in homespun and high boots, mothers and young girls in shawls and fascinators, talking and laughing at a lively clip as they took their places: sopranos in the front benches opposite the bass singers; behind them, altos and tenors. "I'm sorry to see that some of our high singers are not here this evening." The old singing master from his place behind the stand surveyed the gathering, squinting uncertainly by the light of the oil lamp. High on the wall it hung without chimney, its battered tin reflector dimmed by soot of many nights' accumulation. He picked up the notebook from the little stand which served as pulpit for the preachers on Sundays, and casually remarked, "We kinda look to the high singers to help us through, to pitch the tune and carry it. Too bad"--he squinted again toward the gathering--"that Drusilla Osborn is not here. Dru is a extra fine singer. A fine note-singer is Dru. Takes after the Osborns. Any of you heard if Osborns' folks have got sickness?" A titter passed over the singing school and just then Tizzie Scaggs, leering at Dru, piped out, "Why, yonder's Dru Osborn in the back seat!"