school for the rest of the afternoon."

"Your girl?" cried Perry. His voice broke from the smothered
conference tone and the school heard it and tittered. He recovered
himself and poked me in the chest.

"Oh!" he said, "Widow Spoonholler--I seen you last Sunday singin' often
the same book--I seen you. Hurry, Mark, hurry; and luck to you!
You've done me most a mighty good turn."




X

Mary sat knitting. Beware of a woman who knits. The keenest lawyer in
our county is not so clever a cross-examiner as his sister when she
sits with her needles and yarn. Questions directed at one can be
parried. You expect them and dodge. The woman knits and knits, and
lulls you half to sleep, and then in a far-away voice asks questions.
They come as a boon, a gracious acknowledgment that you exist, and
though in her mind your place is secondary to the flying needles and
the tangled worsted, still you are there and she is half listening to
what you have to say. So you tell her twice as much as is wise. You
have no interest for her. Her eyes are fixed on her work. She asks
you the secret of your life, and then bends farther over, seeming to
forget your existence. Desperate, you shout it at her, and she looks
up and smiles, a wondering, distraught smile; then goes on knitting.

There were some things in Tim's letter that I did not intend to tell