"'Tain't from ch'ice I've lived single, David. I've ben able to take keer of myself, but I allers hed a hankerin' same as any woman, as is a woman, hez fer a man, but I never got no chanst to meet men folks. I wuz raised here, and folks allers hed it all cut out fer me to be an old maid. When a woman onct gets that name fixt on her, it's all off with her chances. No man ever comes nigh her, and she can't git out of her single rut. I never could get to go nowhars, and I wa'n't that bold kind that makes up to a man fust, afore he gives a sign." David pondered over this wistful revelation for a few moments, seeking a means for her seemingly hopeless escape from a life of single blessedness, for David was a sympathetic young altruist, and felt it incumbent upon him to lift the burdens of his neighbors. Then he suggested encouragingly: "Miss Rhody, did you know that there was a paper that gets you acquainted with men? That's the way they say Zine Winters got married." "Yes, and look what she drawed!" she scoffed. "Bill! I don't know how they'd live if Zine hadn't a-gone in heavy on hens and turkeys. She hez to spend her hull time a-traipsin' after them turkeys, and thar ain't nuthin' that's given to gaddin' like turkeys that I know on, less 't is Chubbses' hired gal. No, David, it's chance enough when you git a man you've knowed allers, but a stranger! Well! I want to know what I'm gittin'. Thar, the last stitch in M'ri's waist is took, and, David, you won't tell no one what I said about Mart Thorne and her, nor about my gittin' merried?" David gave her a reproachful look, and she laughed shamefacedly. "I know, David, you kin keep a secret. It's like buryin' a thing to tell it to you. My, this waist'll look fine on M'ri. I jest love the feel of silk. I'd ruther hev a black silk dress than--" "A husband," prompted David slyly. "David Dunne, I'll box yer ears if you ever think again of what I said. I am allers a-thinkin' of you as if you wuz a stiddy grown man, and then fust thing I know you're nuthin' but a teasin' boy. Here's the bundle, and don't you want a nutcake, David?" "No, thank you, Miss Rhody. I ate a big breakfast." A fellow feeling had prompted David even in his hungriest days to refrain from accepting Miss Rhody's proffers of hospitality. He knew the emptiness of her larder, for though she had been thrifty and hard-working, she had paid off a mortgage and had made good the liabilities of an erring nephew. When David returned he found Miss M'ri in the dairy. It was churning day, and she was arranging honey-scented, rose-stamped pats of butter on moist leaves of crisp lettuce. "David," she asked, looking up with a winning smile, "will you tell me why you didn't want to go to school?" The boy's face reddened, but his eyes looked frankly into hers. "Yes, Miss M'ri." "Before you tell me, David," she interposed, "I want you to remember that, from now on, Barnabas and I are your uncle and aunt."