Slowly Mr. Purcell and Rotha left the pig pen and the barnyard and came out into the space between the various farm buildings.
"Where does that road lead to?" Rotha asked, pointing to one which ran on from the barns with a seemingly straight track between fields.
"That? that don't lead no wheres."
"Where should I find myself, if I followed it out to the end?"
"You'd find yourself jammed up agin the hill. Don't you see them trees? that's a hill runnin' along there."
"Running right and left? It is not high. Just a hilly ridge. What is on it?"
"Nothin's on it, but a mean little pack o' savins Aint good for nothin'; not even worth cuttin' for firewood. What ever do you s'pose hills was made for? I mean, sich hills; that haint got nothin' onto 'em but rocks. What's the use of 'em?"
"If it wasn't for hills, Mr. Purcell, your low lands would have no water; or only in a pond or a ditch here and there."
"What's the reason they wouldn't? There aint no water on the hills now."
"Springs?"