“Well, ye’ll see a moughty big building up on yon hill, Ma’am,” said Granny Williams with pride. “Davy, he’s a-buildin’ it. Hit sartin is bigger’n arything ye ever seen in New York. Hit’s bigger’n ary church house ever was knowed in these mountings. I reckon it was part of the boarding they had in that load of lumber they brung yore man in on. “But Davy,” she went on, “he’s changed a heap, these last two years. Used to be as natteral fer him to swear as to take a drink—an’ in buildin’ a house swearin’ comes natteral to ary man. But thar hain’t nary man heerd Davy Joslin say one cuss word sence he come back from the North. All the trouble he’s had with his wife, too—— Ye know about his wife?” “I knew he was married.” “He was, an’ he hain’t,” said Granny Williams. “Well, Meliss’, she tuk an’ up an’ went over to the railroad an’ seen the new lawyer that’s come in thar, an’ last term of co’te she got her a divorce—that’s what she done. That was a few weeks ago, while ye was sick.” “Divorce? He didn’t tell me——” “That must of been a right inter_est_in’ term of co’te, Ma’am. Thar was only two men kilt, an’ this here one _di_vorce—but it’s the fust _di_vorce ever knowed in this country. They say he didn’t make no furse at all about her leavin’ of him. Somebody was a-tellin’ me that that leaves her free to marry agin if she wants to, or him either. Nuvver was such a thing knowed in these mountings afore, fur as I can tell—there shorely wasn’t nuvver such a thing knowed among my people, nor my dad’s people, nor my mammy’s neither. “Of course, they didn’t have no children—er only leastways two puny ones, that died. An’ ye said ye never had no children at all, Ma’am?” “No,” said Marcia Haddon, her face flushed. “Well, ye look to me right triflin’,” said Granny Williams with calm candor. “Ye kain’t knit, ye kain’t spin, an’ I reckon ye couldn’t hoe corn noways. Maybe the Lord knows His business—what could a womern like ye do with children if she had ‘em? “I was merried when I was sixteen year an’ eight month old,” she ran on. “I had eighteen children that lived, an’ three that died. Like I said, I could of tolt ye how many grandchildren I had in all, ef someone hadn’t been so keerless with that air countin’ stick of mine. “Air ye goin’ to merry agin arter a while maybe?” she added. “Some does.” She spoke in a wholly matter-of-fact way. “You mustn’t talk to me about such things, Granny,” said Marcia Haddon, a faint flush still on her cheek. “How comes I mustn’t?” rejoined Granny. “Hain’t yore man dead?” “I know you mean it well”—Marcia Haddon reached out a hand to the gnarled hand of the old woman who sat close by. “All my life—it’s been so different, that’s all.” “Davy tolt us something about them things,” said the old woman gravely. “I’m content to live right here the way we always done—leastways, I will be if I ever git to take jest one ride on them railroad keers.”