Sammy shook her head. “Ain’t ’nother man or woman in the whole country would dast spend the night here, Dad; except Pete, of course. Not even Young Matt, nor my Daddy would do it; and I don’t guess they’re afraid of anything—anything that’s alive, I mean. You’re sure different, Dad; plumb different. I reckon it must be the city that does it. And that’s what I’ve come to see you about this evenin’. You see Ollie’s been a tellin’ me a lot about folks and things way over there.” She waived her hand toward the ridges that shut in the Hollow. “And Ollie he’s changed a heap himself since he went there to live. I got a letter to-day, and, when I went home, I hunted up the first one he wrote, and I can tell there’s a right smart difference already. You know all about Ollie and me goin’ to get married, I reckon?” Mr. Howitt admitted that he had heard something of that nature; and Sammy nodded, “I ’lowed you’d know. But you don’t know how mighty proud and particular Ollie always is. I figure that bein’ in the city with all them one folks ain’t goin’ to make him any less that way than he was. And if he stays there and keeps on a changin’, and I stay here, and don’t change none, why it might be that I—I—” She faltered and came to a dead stop, twisting her bonnet strings nervously in her confusion. “Ollie he ain’t like Young Matt, nohow,” she said again. “Such as that wouldn’t make no difference with him. But Ollie—well you see—” There was a twinkle, now, in the shepherd’s eye, as he answered; “Yes, I see; I am quite sure that I see.” The girl continued; “You know all about these things, Dad. And there ain’t nobody else here that does. Will you learn me to be a sure ’nough lady, so as Ollie won’t—so he won’t—” Again she paused in confusion. It was evident, from the look on Mr. Howitt’s face, that, whatever he saw, it was not this. “I feel somehow like I could do it, if I had a chance,” she murmured. There was no answer. After a time, Sammy stole a look at her quiet companion. What could the man in the chair be thinking about? His pipe was neglected; his gray head bowed. “Course,” said the young woman, with just a little lifting of her chin; “Course, if I couldn’t never learn, there ain’t no use to try.” The old scholar raised his head and looked long at the girl. Her splendid form, glowing with the rich life and strength of the wilderness, showed in every line the proud old southern blood. Could she learn to be a fine lady? Mr. Howitt thought of the women of the cities, pale, sickly, colorless, hot-house posies, beside this mountain flower. What would this beautiful creature be, had she their training? What would she gain? What might she not lose? Aloud he said, “My dear child, do you know what it is that you ask?”