"Did you see that medder grass's high's a man's knee?" he asked. "Waded in it, Deacon," replied Mr. March; "but that isn't all: I've got a wisp of it in my pocket." Long Billy chuckled, as Mr. March drew the crumpled green wisp out of his pocket, and handed it to the Deacon. "'Twas I put him up to bringin' that," said Billy. "Sez I, 'there ain't nothin' so good for folks's seein' with their own eyes.' I kind o' misgave that the old man wouldn't be for believin' it all." The Deacon unfolded the grass; back and forth, back and forth, he bent it, and straightened it out across his knees. He looked at it in silence for a minute; then he said:-- "Well, that beats me! Acres like this, you say?" "Miles, Deacon," said Mr. March. "Miles 'n' miles," said Billy; "'s fur's you can see it wavin' in the wind; 't looks like wheat, only puttier. P'raps you'd better show him the wheat now?" Mr. March pulled out of his other pocket a similar wisp of wheat, and handed it to the Deacon. This he straightened out, as he had the grass, across his knees, and looked at it in silence for a moment; then he tasted the kernel; then he rolled up both wheat and grass together, and handed them back to Mr. March, saying: "I've got nothin' more to say. Seein' 's believin'." Long Billy nodded his head triumphantly, and winked at Mr. March. "But," continued the Deacon, "for all that I don't feel it clear in my mind about our goin'. 'Twouldn't make any difference to ye, Parson, anyway, if Elizy 'n' I didn't go; would it?" Mr. March was much surprised. "Why, Deacon!" he said, "we should be very sorry to have you separate from us. You surely can't stay on in this place!" "Oh, no!" replied the Deacon; "we hain't the least idea o' that. The fact is, I expect we ought to go home: Elizy's so poorly. We've been thinkin' on't for some time. But we was so kind o' settled here, and all so home-like, we hated to stir. But if you're goin' to break up, and go to a new place, I expect we'd better take that time to go home." This was not wholly a surprise to Mr. and Mrs. March, for they had themselves felt that old Mrs. Plummer would after all be better off in her comfortable home in Mayfield. They saw that she was growing slowly more feeble: the climate did not suit her. "I reckon we're kind o' old for this country," said the Deacon. "It don't seem to me's I feel quite so fust-rate's I did at home. Trees gets too old to transplant after a while." "That's so! that's so!" exclaimed Billy. "I've never yet seen the fust time, old folks adoin' well here. The air's too bracin' for 'em. They can't get used to it,--no offence to you, sir,"--looking at Deacon Plummer.