“Yes, why don’t he?” demanded Granny Joslin savagely. “I taken that all up with Davy, an’ I kain’t do a damn thing with him. He says—well, what do you-all think he says to me?” “I kain’t guess,” said Granny Williams. “He’s always been odd.” “He says he ain’t _good_ enough to preach!” exclaimed the fierce old woman who turned towards her. “He says, ‘I hain’t got my edication yit,’ says he to me.” “Men is natural cantankerous,” said Granny Williams, nodding her head sagely. “Why the Lord made ‘em that way, the Lord only knows.” “Davy won’t have no chance to preach anyhow if he goes to the war,” resumed Granny Joslin. “I reckon the school’ll all go to hell now. Has he said ary thing to ye about the school, Ma’am?” She turned suddenly now to Marcia Haddon. “No,” rejoined that individual, somewhat startled; “nothing at all. I’ve not seen him for several days.” “He tolt me ye was the wife of the man that owned the Company—an’ the Company owns all this land in here. Well, like I said, I reckon that school’ll have to go to hell now—an’ yit we certainly did need it—that school. Hit was—_our_ school, the fustest in the Cumberlands.” Marcia Haddon vouchsafed no comment, and presently old Granny Joslin rose. “Well, I got to be gittin’ on, Sarah Alice,” said she to her friend. “I want to find Davy somewhar—I’ve brung him down some caraway cookies. He always liked ‘em. An’ I brung him a clean handkerchief—he’s got to have a heap of things if he’s a-goin’ off ter the war. I don’t know who them Dutch air—fer’s I know thar hain’t no Dutch in these mountings noways—but if we’ve got to lick ‘em, I reckon we’d just as well be about it. Damn ‘em anyways, whoever they air!” With which candid comment she hobbled on out the door, and never gave a parting glance as she faced up the street and started for her cabin home. Granny Williams looked through the window after her departing guest. “Ho hum!” said she. “Thar goes the last of the Joslins—of the real Joslins. She was the fightin’est one of ‘em all, but she allus was a good Christian womern.” “Why hain’t Davy come down here no more lately, Ma’am?” she asked suddenly of her silent guest. “I don’t know in the least,” replied Marcia Haddon. “Does it matter?” Then, relenting: “I wish he would come! I ought to see him before he goes away, or before I go.” “Why?” asked Granny Williams directly. “I’ve got to be going. I’m a widow, you see, now, Granny—I’m alone! I’ve been thinking a good deal.” “What ye been thinkin’, child?” Marcia Haddon, with a strange humility, laid one of her soft white hands upon the wrinkled one reposing in the old dame’s lap. “I’ll tell you—I’ve been thinking about that little child we met up there in the cave.” The old woman nodded. “What will that child and all the others do if the school stops?” “Oh, Davy’ll come back,” said Granny Williams—“he’s got to come back.” “If we had buildings, and teachers, and everything,” mused her guest, “we could take care of any number.”