“Well, I seen some right good children fetched up that-a-ways—smart, too. You see, ma'am, there's a heap a child can just naturally pick up of himself.”
“Oh!” and the monosyllable was uttered rather weakly. Mr. Yancy's name had been given her as that of a resident of weight and influence in the classic region of Scratch Hill. Miss Malroy came to her friend's rescue.
“Mrs. Ferris thinks the children should have a chance to learn at home. Poor little tots!—they can't walk ten or fifteen miles to Sunday-school, now can they, Mr. Yancy?”
“Bless yo' heart, they won't try to!” said Yancy reassuringly. “Sunday's a day of rest at Scratch Hill. So are most of the other days of the week, but we all aspire to take just a little mo' rest on Sunday than any other day. Sometimes we ain't able to, but that's our aim.”
“Do you know the old deserted cabin by the big pine?—the Blount place?” asked Mrs. Ferris.
“Yes, ma'am, I know it.”
“I am going to have Sunday-school there for those children; they shan't be neglected any longer if I can help it—I should feel guilty, quite guilty! Now won't you let your little nephew come? Perhaps they'll not find it so very terrible, after all.” From which Mr. Yancy concluded that when she invaded it, skepticism had rested as a mantle on Scratch Hill.
“Every one said we would better talk with you, Mr. Yancy, and we were hoping to meet you as we came along,” supplemented Miss Malroy, and her words of flattery were wafted to him with so sweet a smile that Yancy instantly capitulated.
“I reckon you-all can count on my nevvy,” he said.
When he reached Scratch Hill, in the waning light of day, Hannibal, in a state of high excitement, met him at the log shed, which served as a barn.