the popular dialect.

"I'm Mis Poor. Zadkiel Poor's my husban'. He's in jail over thar long
with yer dad. He's kinder ailin, an I fetched daown some roots 'n
yarbs as uster dew him a sight o' good, w'en he was ter hum. I thort
mebbe I mout git to see him. Him as keeps jail lets folks in
sometimes, I hearn tell."

"Do you know where the jail is?" asked the girl.

"It's that ere haouse over thar. It's in with the tavern."

"Let's go and ask the jailer if he'll let us in," suggested Prudence.

"I wuz gonter wait an' git Isr'el Goodrich tew go long an kinder speak
fer me, ef I could," said Mrs. Poor. "He's considabul thought on by
folks roun' here, and he's a neighbor o' ourn, an real kind, Isr'el
Goodrich is. But I don' see him nowhar roun', an mebbe we mout's well
go right along, an not wait no longer."

And so the two women went on toward the jail, and Prudence dismounted
before the door of the tavern end, and tied the horse.

"I callate they muss keep the folks in that ere ell part, with the row
o' leetle winders," said Mrs. Poor. She spoke in a hushed voice, as
one speaks near a tomb. The girl was quite pale, and she stared with a
scared fascination at the wall behind which her father was shut up.
Timidly the women entered the open door. Both Bement and his wife were
in the barroom.