“Yes, I wonder why the Lord didn’t take shif’less ol’ Med Pace ’stead of a good man like Uncle Nathe, but I reckon He don’t want _all_ the culls. ’Course Uncle Nathe had his way ’bout most things, but he was shore a good man. Never was a widder that couldn’t go to his mill an’ git a bushel o’ meal when she didn’t know where else to go. They got to callin’ the bottom o’ the meal-sack ‘Uncle Nathe,’ round in Silver Valley where he lived. When the meal was out they’d say: ‘We’re gittin’ down to Uncle Nathe.’ The Freemasons ought to give him a proper funeral ef they’d give it to anybody. Len says Arn Weaver wants to take a load o’ folks in his car, ef it don’t rain. Ef it rains he kain’t git over Red Hog Gap. I’ve never stept inter a car, an’ it would put heart inter me to git to go. I didn’t even see the baptizin’ on Nighthawk when they’s fifteen hit the water. An’ there’s Sis Long’s baby I ain’t ever looked at. It’s the first one she’s had in three year an’ they’re all so proud they’re buttin’ stumps about it. Hit don’t seem right to lay sech store by eatin’. Ef we ain’t got time fer dyin’ an’ bein’ born, what _hev_ we got time fer?” “Serena, how big is that car of Arnold Weaver’s?” “It’ll hold seven scrouged in the seats, an’ you can pack in as many young-uns as you want to.” “I don’t suppose you could get the children ready to go to the funeral to-morrow.” “No, I’d have to wash their clo’s all around, an’ do some mendin’. I couldn’t git ’em ready if I stayed up all night.” “When Len comes in I want you to tell him to get word to Arn that we’ll go in his car to-morrow. We’ll leave Ben with the children and take Lonie with us.” “You kain’t git Len to stop fodder-pullin’. He never done that in his life. Him an’ Sam ain’t brothers when it comes to takin’ fodder.” “He’ll stop, Serena.” Her eyes were like great jewels. “Them gooseberries’ll sour ’fore I git back.” But, as if afraid that I would take second thought, she appended hastily: “I don’t think much o’ gooseberries anyway. They’ll look about as good to me a-spilin’ as a-keepin’.” III We went to the funeral, and Serena and I remained in Silver Valley for a day and night, the guests of Aunt Lizy Haynes. When we returned it was the old Serena who came home. The factitious disguise of the past twelve months had dropped utterly away. She assumed my acquiescence, and received it. Her utmost effort had been given, and my way had proved a failure. Therefore her own was better, and she returned to it with conscientious abandon. Her silence, in regard to her long, faithful struggle, grew, I think, out of her gentle pity for my defeat. Possibly she loved me more, but that was the crowning seal of my descent, marking the fall of authority. With time and tact and no mistakes I might again give oracular advice, but for the present my “mouth was growed up.”