"He hadn't ought to of told ye, Sally. If I'd been plumb sartin in my mind, I'd a-told ye myself--not but what I knows," he hastily amended, "thet he meant hit friendly." "Air ye a-goin'?" "I'm studyin' about hit." He awaited objection, but none came. Then, with a piquing of his masculine vanity, he demanded: "Hain't ye a-keerin', Sally, whether I goes, or not?" The girl grew rigid. Her fingers on the crumbling plank of the stile's top tightened and gripped hard. The moonlit landscape seemed to whirl in a dizzy circle. Her face did not betray her, nor her voice, though she had to gulp down a rising lump in her throat before she could answer calmly. "I thinks ye had ought ter go, Samson." The boy was astonished. He had avoided the subject for fear of her opposition--and tears. Then, slowly, she went on as though repeating a lesson painstakingly conned: "There hain't nothin' in these here hills fer ye, Samson. Down thar, ye'll see lots of things thet's new--an' civilized an' beautiful! Ye'll see lots of gals thet kin read an' write, gals dressed up in all kinds of fancy fixin's." Her glib words ran out and ended in a sort of inward gasp. Compliment came hardly and awkwardly to Samson's lips. He reached for the girl's hand, and whispered: "I reckon I won't see no gals thet's as purty as you be, Sally. I reckon ye knows, whether I goes or stays, we're a-goin' ter git married." She drew her hand away, and laughed, a little bitterly. In the last day, she had ceased to be a child, and become a woman with all the soul-aching possibilities of a woman's intuitions. "Samson," she said, "I hain't askin' ye ter make me no promises. When ye sees them other gals--gals thet kin read an' write--I reckon mebby ye'll think diff'rent. I can't hardly spell out printin' in the fust reader." Her lover's voice was scornful of the imagined dangers, as a recruit may be of the battle terrors--before he has been under fire. He slipped his arm about her and drew her over to him. "Honey," he said, "ye needn't fret about thet. Readin' an' writin' can't make no difference fer a woman. Hit's mighty important fer a man, but you're a gal." "You're a-goin' ter think diff'rent atter awhile," she insisted. "When ye goes, I hain't a-goin' ter be expectin' ye ter come back ... But" --the resolution in her voice for a moment quavered as she added--"but God knows I'm a-goin' ter be hopin'!" "Sally!" The boy rose, and paced up and down in the road. "Air ye goin' ter be ag'inst me, too? Don't ye see that I wants ter have a chanst? Can't ye trust me? I'm jest a-tryin' to amount to something. I'm plumb tired of bein' ornery an' no 'count." She nodded. "I've done told ye," she said, wearily, "thet I thinks ye ought ter do hit."