“‘Price,’ says Wiggamore. ‘Money.’
“‘It hain’t for sale,’ says she.
“‘Wouldn’t you rather have good money than that old meadow that’s good for nothing but to pasture pigs?’
“‘To be sure,’ says she, ‘but ’tain’t for sale.’
“‘Why not?’
“‘It was left to me and my brother George,’ says she, ‘and I can’t sell it without him. Neither kin he sell it without me. We both own it,’ says she.
“‘But you would be willing to sell if George would?’
“‘Certain,’ says she.
“‘Where’s George?’ he says.
“‘If you was to tell me that,’ says she, ‘I calc’late I’d be a heap obleeged. I hain’t seen hide nor hair of him this six months.’