I told her some of it.
"And what do you want to do?" she says then.
I don't know what give me the courage. It was just like something in me said: "Tell her. Tell her. Tell her." And I said it.
"Oh," I says, "I'd work my head off if I could go somewheres to school. But I don't want to know just school things. I want to know more than them...."
"What do you want to know?" she says.
It was funny how easy it was to talk to her. Father or Mother or Luke or Mis' Bingy, that I'd known all my life, I couldn't have explained things to like I could to her. But I think that was part because she didn't need everything all said out in sentences, and then it was part because I knew she wouldn't make a fuss at me when I got through.
When she went away: "I'm going to look around a little," she says, "I'll come back in a few days."
"But, oh," I says, "you know, there's Mis' Bingy and the baby. I couldn't do anything that'd take me away from her. I don't know why you bother with me anyway," I says.
She had the loveliest dignified way. "We owe you something, my husband and I," she says.
But of course I knew that that was just her manner of speaking, and that her husband didn't know a thing about what she was doing, and that probably it was one of those speeches that everybody keeps making, like when Mis' Bingy talked, in the depot, of taking her baby away from "a father's care."