Isabel cast about in her mind for something plaintive, hit upon "The Rosary," and sang it in her lovely, clear soprano.
"That hain't all?" he asked in surprise, when she stopped.
"Yes, that's all."
"I allowed hit was just taking a start," he said. "Hit leaves the true lovers parted, don't hit?"
"Yes."
"Well, I hain't got no use for hit, then," he said, decidedly. "The true lovers oughtn't to be plumb parted, or kilt off, in the end. Don't you know nary 'nother?"
This time she tried "Oh, wert thou in the cauld blast," with its incomparable words and music.
"That's some better, though hit's too short, too," commented her hearer. "Don't you know no long ones, like we foller singing in this country?"
"I don't believe I do," she said. "Suppose you sing one yourself."
"No, I hain't no singer."