He don't relish eatin' such big words an' queer
names.
"An' that ain't all," resumed Nathan, after a pause for breath. "Jim
can't go hoein' nor diggin' but she'll foller him an' tell 'bout the
bugs an' worms he turns up,--how many legs they've got, an' all that.
An' the moon ain't jest a moon no more, an' the stars ain't stars.
They're sp'eres an' planets with heathenish names an' rings an' orbits.
Jim feels bad--powerful bad--'bout it, an' he says he can't see no way
out of it. He knows they hain't had much schooling any of 'em, only
Katy, an' he says that sometimes he 'most wishes that--that she hadn't,
neither."
Nathan Kelsey's voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and with the last
words his eyes sent a furtive glance toward the stoop-shouldered little
figure in the low rocker. The chair was motionless now, and its occupant
sat picking at a loose thread in the gingham apron.
"I--I wouldn't 'a' spoke of it," stammered the man, with painful
hesitation, "only--well, ye see, I--you-" he stopped helplessly.
"I know," faltered the little woman. "You was thinkin' of--Alma."
"She wouldn't do it--Alma wouldn't!" retorted the man sharply, almost
before his wife had ceased speaking.
"No, no, of course not; but--Nahtan, ye
don't think Alma'd ever
be--
ashamed of us, do ye?"
"'Course not!" asserted Nathan, but his voice shook.
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