"It's a heap more important; the happiness of a feller's whole life a dependin' onto it."
Silence for some minutes, Rhoda Jane sitting meditatively before the stove, her feet on its hearth, her hands clasped round her knees, while her brother continued his restless walk.
She was the first to speak. "I'd write it out if I was you."
"I ain't used to writin' much."
"Well, you can get used to it; you can try and try till you've writ somethin' that'll do."
"I couldn't write anything good enough for her to see."
"Then take t'other way."
"I don't never git no chance; and if I did I'd be tongue-tied, sure as the world."
"Then you'll have to write it, and I'll help you!" concluded Rhoda Jane with energy.
She arose as she spoke, picked up the candle, stepped quickly to a corner shelf in the next room, whence she brought an inkstand and a quill pen.