"Oh, you were there, were you?"
"In what little there was. You live down in the Blue Grass, don't you?"
"Yes."
"Hit's a sight different from this country, hain't hit,—all so level and pretty and smoothed-looking. But lonesome."
"Oh, you've been there?"
"I passed through hit one time on my way to Frankfort."
"I don't see anything lonesome about it."
"Don't you? Well, any level land looks lonesome to me; hit's more friendly-like to see the hills mustering clost about, and not all drawed off flat and distant, like they keered nothing about nobody. While we wait for Uncle Adam," he suggested, "you might maybe feel to sing a song-ballat; I heared you was a fine singer, and I do love hit."
"All right," said Isabel. "What kind of songs do you like best?"
"Oh, something that kindly hurts my feelings."