dark-brown face and thick, hard hair. I had crossed the
stream at Watertown, and rested under the great willows; then
I had gone to the little cabin in the lot where Josie was resting
on her way to town. The gaunt farmer made me welcome,
and Josie, hearing my errand, told me anxiously that they
wanted a school over the hill; that but once since the war had
a teacher been there; that she herself longed to learn,--and
thus she ran on, talking fast and loud, with much earnestness
and energy.

Next morning I crossed the tall round hill, lingered to look
at the blue and yellow mountains stretching toward the Caro-
linas, then plunged into the wood, and came out at Josie's
home. It was a dull frame cottage with four rooms, perched
just below the brow of the hill, amid peach-trees. The father
was a quiet, simple soul, calmly ignorant, with no touch of
vulgarity. The mother was different,--strong, bustling, and
energetic, with a quick, restless tongue, and an ambition to
live "like folks." There was a crowd of children. Two boys
had gone away. There remained two growing girls; a shy
midget of eight; John, tall, awkward, and eighteen; Jim,
younger, quicker, and better looking; and two babies of
indefinite age. Then there was Josie herself. She seemed to
be the centre of the family: always busy at service, or at
home, or berry-picking; a little nervous and inclined to scold,
like her mother, yet faithful, too, like her father. She had
about her a certain fineness, the shadow of an unconscious
moral heroism that would willingly give all of life to make
life broader, deeper, and fuller for her and hers. I saw much
of this family afterwards, and grew to love them for their