told, I wouldn' tell. But I don' see no way." It was easier to talk up
to the thing and around the thing, than to get directly into it.

"Is it your own trouble, Piney?" she asked, helping again.

"No'm."

"Whose trouble, Piney?"

"Mist' Steerin's, Miss Sally."

"Ah!" She leaned nearer Piney. "Tell me quickly, dearie," she said, "is
he ill?"

"Well'm, it's your trouble, too, Miss Sally."

"Yes, surely, Piney, go on, go on!"

"And your father's trouble, Miss Sally."

"Something about the Tigmores, I suspect, then, Piney, go on."

"Yes'm, abaout the hills." Then, fortunately for both, his youth made up
in directness what it lacked in finesse. "It's this-a-way, Miss Sally,"
he blurted savagely, "Ole Bruce Grierson is dead an' Mist' Steerin' owns
the Tigmores."

Her face shone with joy. "But, Piney, boy, where's the trouble in that?
When did Mr. Grierson die? That's not trouble even for him, Piney. He
was a weary old man. When did he die?"

"Las' September, Miss Sally," answered the boy gravely.

"Last September? _Last Septem_---- Why, where's the word been all this
while, Piney? Why hasn't my father known?"

"He--he has known, Miss Sally. Miss Sally, it was this-a-way, simlike:
that ole man writtend Mist' Madeira he wuz goin' to die an' he tol'
Mist' Madeira to give the hills to Mist' Steerin'. But I don't reckon
your father believed ole Grierson, Miss Sally."

The girl on the bench under the crab-apple tree was beginning to draw
herself up proudly. "There is some mistake somewhere, I can see that,
Piney, dear. Where did you learn all this?"

"Wy, Miss Sally," cried the boy, a great, painful reluctance in his
voice, "that old varmint Grierson writtend another letter to Unc'
Bernique an' had a man hold it up an' not mail it till las' week. Then
he lay daown an' died. An' here las' week the letter to Unc' Bernique
was mailed, aouter ole Grierson's grave like--an' Unc Bernique he's jes
got it, an' it tells him that ole Grierson died las' September an' that
he writtend your father to say so."

"I don't understand that, Piney. Mr. Grierson died last September and
has written letters since he died, you are getting it all mixed, aren't
you?"

Very slowly and laboriously Piney told then what he knew, told it over
and over until she had comprehended it, whether she believed it or not.
When the boy had finished she was leaning back on the bench, dull and
pale.

"But it isn't true," she said, with white lip