"What do you mean?" said Mary Warren. She caught emotion in this man's voice. "Whatever can you mean?"
"Well," said Sim Gage, "take me like I am, setting right here, I ain't fitten to be setting here. But I don't want you to see. I got that advantage of you, ma'am. I can see you, ma'am"; and he undertook a laugh which made a wretched failure.
"How far is it to your—our—the place where we're going?" she asked after a time.
"About twenty-three mile, ma'am," he answered cheerfully. "Road's pretty fair now. I wish't you could see how pretty the hills is—they're gitting green now some."
"And the sky is blue?" Her eyes turned up, sensible of no more than a feeling that light was somewhere.
"Right blue, ma'am, with leetle white clouds, not very big. I wish't you could see our sky."
"And trees?"
"Dark green, ma'am—pine trees always is."
She heard the rumble of the wheels on planks, caught the sound of rushing waters.
"This is the bridge over the West Fork, ma'am," said her companion. "It's right pretty here—the water runs over the rocks like."