"That ring war his maw's, an' when we war married, I wore hit, but when I took Farwell fer my ol' man, I nevah wore hit any more, fer he 'lowed, bein' hit war gold that-a-way, we'd ought to sell hit. That time I took the lock off'n the door an' put hit on that thar box. Hit war my gran'maw's box, an' I done wore the key hyar evah since. Can you tell what they be? Hit's the quarest kind of print I evah see. He used to make out like he could read hit. Likely he did, fer whatevah he said, he done."
It seemed to her little short of a miracle that any one could read it, but David soon learned that her confidence in her first "old man" was unlimited.
"What-all's in hit?" She grew restless while he carefully and silently examined her treasure, the true significance of which she so little knew. Filled with amazement and with a keen pleasure, he took the books to the light. The print was fine, even, and clear.
"What-all be they?" she reiterated. "Reckon the're no good?"
David smiled. "In one way they're all the good in the world, but not for money, you know."
"No, I don't guess. Can you read that thar quare printin'?"
"Yes. The letters are Greek, and these books are about a hundred years old."
"Be they? Then they won't be much good to Cass, I reckon. He sot a heap by them, but I war 'feared they mount be heathen. Greek—that thar be heathen. Hain't hit?"
David continued, speaking more to himself than to her. "They were published in London in eighteen twelve. They have been read by some one who knew them well, I can see by these marginal notes."
"What be they?" Her curiosity was eager and intent.