“Do you suppose the mother of that child would let her go away to school?”
“Do I suppose so?” ejaculated Granny Williams fiercely. “Don’t I know she would? We been waitin’, here in the Cumberlands. Jest waitin’. Lord ha’ massy on us.
“Look what Davy done,” she went on. “He war only out a couple of year, an’ yit he changed complete, ye mought say. I kain’t hardly understand him talk no more, he talks so furrin, same’s ye. If Davy has went furrin, ‘pears like we all mought as well chirk up some an’ git more furrin, too. The new railroad’ll sartinly change a heap of things.
“Well, here we air at the gate of my cousin, right on beyant. We’ll light down an’ stop here overnight,” concluded Granny Williams at last, knocking the ashes out of her pipe and thrusting it into her pocket. “Was ye ever to school much in yore life, Ma’am?” she demanded as she stood, her lean arm across her mule’s neck.
“Yes, Granny,” replied the “furrin woman” gently. “But I’ve learned more to-day, I think, than in all my life before.”
CHAPTER XXIV
THE DRUMS
WHEN, on the afternoon of a later day, Marcia Haddon and her ancient chaperone re-entered the long and straggling street at the forks of the river, they noted certain signs of excitement. A group of men was standing; others were hurrying to the open space in front of the big store.