"He hadn't ought to of told ye, Sally. If I'd been plumb sartin in my
mind, I'd a-told ye myself--not but what I knows," he hastily amended,
"thet he meant hit friendly."

"Air ye a-goin'?"

"I'm studyin' about hit."

He awaited objection, but none came. Then, with a piquing of his
masculine vanity, he demanded: "Hain't ye a-keerin', Sally, whether I goes, or not?"

The girl grew rigid. Her fingers on the crumbling plank of the stile's
top tightened and gripped hard. The moonlit landscape seemed to whirl
in a dizzy circle. Her face did not betray her, nor her voice, though
she had to gulp down a rising lump in her throat before she could
answer calmly.

"I thinks ye had ought ter go, Samson."

The boy was astonished. He had avoided the subject for fear of her
opposition--and tears.

Then, slowly, she went on as though repeating a lesson painstakingly
conned: "There hain't nothin' in these here hills fer ye, Samson. Down thar,
ye'll see lots of things thet's new--an' civilized an' beautiful! Ye'll
see lots of gals thet kin read an' write, gals dressed up in all kinds
of fancy fixin's." Her glib words ran out and ended in a sort of inward
gasp.

Compliment came hardly and awkwardly to Samson's lips. He reached for
the girl's hand, and whispered: "I reckon I won't see no gals thet's as purty as you be, Sally. I
reckon ye knows, whether I goes or stays, we're a-goin' ter git married."