“Well,” the Squire summed up, “I don't see but what your reports agree, and I reckon there must be some truth in 'em. Who's that up there at the pike-crossing?” He did not trouble himself to do more than frown heavily in the attempt to make out the passer. Mrs. Reverdy jumped from her chair and ran out to look. “Well, as sure as I'm alive, if it ain't that Gillespie girl! I bet she'll know all about it. I'll just ketch up with her and git the news out of her, if there is any. Say, say, Jane!” she called to the girl, as she ran up the road with the cow-like gait which her swirling skirt gave her. The girl stopped for her; then in apparent haste she moved on again, and Sally moved with her out of sight; her voice still made itself heard in uncouth cries and laughter. Braile called into the kitchen where Reverdy had remained in the enjoyment of Mrs. Braile's patient hospitality, “Here's your chance, Abel!” “Chance?” Reverdy questioned back with a full mouth. “To get that corn of yours ground, and beat Sally home.” “Well, Squire,” Reverdy said, “I reckon you're right.” He came out into the open space where Braile sat. “Well, I won't fergit _this_ breakfast very soon,” he offered his gratitude to Mrs. Braile over his shoulder, as he passed through the door. “You're welcome, Abel,” she answered kindly, and when he had made his manners to the impassive Squire and mounted his claybank and thumped the horse into motion with his naked heels, she came out into the porch and said to her husband, “I don't know as I liked your hinting him out of the house that way.” Braile did not take the point up, but remained thoughtfully smiling in the direction his guest had taken. “The idea is that most people marry their opposites,” he remarked, “and that gives the children the advantage of inheriting their folly from two kinds of fools. But Abel and Sally are a perfect pair, mental and moral twins; the only thing they don't agree in is their account of what became of that snorting exhorter. But the difference there isn't important. If an all-wise Providence has kept them from transmitting a double dose of the same brand of folly to posterity, that's one thing in favor of Providence.” He took up his wife's point now. “If I hadn't hinted him away, he'd have stayed to dinner; _you_ wouldn't have hinted him away if he'd stayed to supper.” “Well, are you going to have some breakfast?” his wife asked. “I'll get you some fresh coffee.” “Well, I _would_ like a little--with the head on--Martha, that's a fact. Have I got time for another pipe?” “No, I don't reckon you have,” his wife said, and she passed into the kitchen again, where she continued to make such short replies as Braile's discourse required of her.