“Thank you ever so much. I’ll see Mr. Dodd about it to-night.” Martin’s eyes kindled at the thought of putting his knowledge to such immediate use. “I reckon thet school’d be a fine place fer my Abner and Gincy,” mused Dan. “Oh, it would,” urged Talitha delightedly. “And Gincy could room with me if I go back next year,” with an appealing glance at her father. Sam Coyle frowned. “I reckon a year’s schoolin’s ’nough fer any gal. Hit’s a sight more’n I ever had,” he said surlily. His neighbour gave a derisive laugh. “Can’t neither of us read or write no more’n if we war blind as bats. I hain’t any mind ter stand in the way of my chil’ren gettin’ larnin’, ’specially if hit ain’t costin’ me nothin’.” The thrust went home, as the speaker intended, for it was well known that Martin and Talitha had paid for their year at school by their own exertions. Also that Sam Coyle had taken little of the added burdens—during their absence—upon his own shoulders. “Gincy would like it ever so much,” pursued Talitha, anxious to preserve peace. “She’d especially like the singing.” “She would, I reckon,” agreed her father proudly. “Gincy has a purty ear for a tune, and I’m aimin’ ter give her a chanct if I didn’t hev one myself,” he said, rising to take his departure. Martin watched him disappear down the slope in silent astonishment. He had supposed Dan Gooch would be the last one to see the “needcessity of larnin’,” and here he was the champion of their cause against their own father. Talitha was briskly clearing away the supper dishes when a couple mounted on one horse rode up to the door. “Howdy!” greeted Sam Coyle, lounging forward with a show of cordiality. “Shad ’lowed he seen a gal and boy tromp-in’ ’cross the mounting this mornin’, and I sez hit wan’t nobody but Mart and Tally,” said the old woman, slipping cautiously to the ground. “You war a true prophet fer once, Ann, but I’d be bound nobody’d known ’em anywhere else,” declared her brother. “Plumb spiled, most likely,” grumbled Ann. From the depths of her black, slatted sunbonnet the gimlet eyes keenly scrutinized her nephew and niece. “Well, you air growed up fer sure, and I reckon you know more’n the old schoolmaster hisself. Thar ain’t nothin’ like the insurance o’ young-uns thet’s got a leetle larnin’,” pursued the old woman with acerbity. “Now what I want ter know is, what kin you do thet the gals and boys what never seen Bentville, can’t?” Ann Bills had seated herself before the fireplace, removed her sunbonnet, and was lighting the pipe she had taken from her pocket. “Lawsy,’ Ann,” protested Mrs. Coyle indignantly, “their pappy and me air terrible pleased with what they’ve larned, and I don’t see no call fer you ter be so powerful ornery. If all your six boys hed been gals I’ll be bound thar couldn’t one of ’em make a gown like thet Tally’s wearin’, and she tuk every stitch herself. As fer Mart, you’ll know what he kin do ’fore long, I reckon.”