"The poor, poverty stricken dears, all of them," Jane tenderly exclaimed. "But that's a common custom in some parts of the mountains, Nan. I've seen it when a circuit-rider had come through, and was going to hold church somewhere; nearly all who possessed shoes would carry them across their shoulders that way during their long walk to attend, and then sit on the meetinghouse steps and put them on. Shoes have to last a long time up there," she added wistfully. "They mustn't be worn out by walking on them." "I thought it was awful funny when I saw her do it," Nancy whispered. "You don't look like you ever went barefoot, Miss Jane!" "I never did," Jane laughed. "I hated it so that I used to pick blackberries and sell them to keep myself supplied. My poor old Dad thought it a wicked extravagance, but I'd rather have gone without clothes than shoes." "I hated it, too," Nancy quietly replied, "but never thought of makin' money. I wish I had!" Mrs. Owsley stepped down from the doorway and crossed to them. In approaching her teacher she scorned any subterfuge, and spoke directly to the point. "What'd ye git, ef yeou wuz me, Miss Jane? I got shoes, a'ready--these here'n; but this ole gingham's the onlies' dress I got, an' hit's a sorry lookin' thing! Mr. Bowser sez ef I don't hanker arter shoes I don't hev ter hev 'em;--he sez his store'll leave me take their wu'th outen sumthin' else. I reckon hit'll be all right ter the trustee!" "What trustee do you mean?" Jane asked. There was a pucker of mystification between her eyes as she looked up at Mrs. Owsley. But that countenance did not change. It never changed. The same yellowish face, rather long and horse-like, beneath the same hair plainly brushed back, looked at Jane now as it had looked at the world's multitude of privations and pittance of joys, this last score of years. "The trustee," she answered, "what sees as how we-uns goin' ter school gits shoes--outen the school fund, I reckon 'twuz he said, or sumthin' that a-way. He's a-stayin' down thar by the Cunnel's, some-un says, so mebbe ye knows 'im. Not as I allow ter be beholden ter no one:--but commencement's commencement!" "Why, Mrs. Owsley!" an accusing voice cried from the window. "He made us promise not to tell who he was!" "'N' I don't kyeer what he done!" the imperturbable one answered. "I want ye-all ter know I don't take nuthin' underhand from nobody, less'n hit's my man, Bill!" The accuser ducked from sight. "Do you mean," Jane asked, "a man about twenty-four, or five, or six, or maybe seven--with sort of brown or grayish eyes, and--and rather handsome?" "I don't know nuthin' 'bout all them colors in his eyes. I don't know nuthin' 'bout that," she repeated, "but I do 'llow he smoked them vile cigarettes till a body couldn't breathe!"