“Yes, they’ll come through here before long,” said Marcia Haddon. “I’m not sure I’m glad—usually when a railroad comes into a new country it changes it so much.” “Hit’s had changes a-plenty already, seems to me,” said Granny. “Thar hain’t been a killin’ in here fer two year; sence the big meetin’ down at the mill house nobody’s been ridin’ fer nobody else, an’ nobody layin’ out—the old fam’ly diffikilties seemed to jest come to stop right suddent. An’ as fer liquor—why, of course ye know here, Ma’am, everybody makes his own liquor, as much as he wants. An’ now ye kain’t hardly git a bottle of liquor in lessen four er five hours, an’ I declar’, ye have to look around a heap to find that! How come that? Well, it was Davy Joslin done that—him an’ his school. Like ye, I dunno if I’m glad er not.” “He’s a good man,” said her listener vaguely. “Yes, an’ odd as Adam’s off ox. Kain’t nobody explain Davy noways. While ago, couple of year back, he was called to be a preacher. Then he goes Outside fer a couple of year, an’ comes back, an’—ye never seen sech a change in no human man in all yer borned life, Ma’am—his clothes is different, he walks different, an’ he talks different. Kain’t hardly nobody understand him no more. But he hain’t done preached onct! But everybody knows that if Davy says he’s a-goin’ to run that school, it’ll _run_, some time. “Ye see,” she went on, “accordin’ to Davy’s count, it’s the Lord that does things.” “Maybe he’s right,” said Marcia Haddon slowly. “Which one of us shall say?” “Well,” said Granny Williams after a while, thrusting her needles through her ball of yarn, “Ef I was ye, I wouldn’t bother much about nothin’ fer a time yit. Ye got plenty of money anyways—yore man was plumb rich, accordin’ to all I hear. Like enough he done lef ye a thousand dollar, Ma’am? Davy’s tolt me about how ye an’ him lived. But ontel ye git ready to go home, Ma’am, ye’re welcome here, jest as welcome as the flowers, an’ as long as ye like. “When ye kin begin to walk around a bit,” she concluded, “we’ll take ye an’ show ye whar we buried yore man. Hit’s up in the old buryin’ ground on the hill—my folks is buried thar, an’ my daddy’s folks, years an’ years back, an’ plenty of others—fifty or maybe a hundred year, fer’s I kin tell. Hit’s right qu’ite an’ purty up thar.” CHAPTER XXII WHEN GHOSTS ARISE