he loom, a marriage little binding to him and which
will give her children to give in time to the mill. This is the realism
of her love story: She reads books that you, too, may have read; she
dares to dream of scenes, to picture them--scenes that you have sought
and wearied of. A tithe of our satiety would mean her banquet, her
salvation!... Her happiness? _That_ question who can answer for her or
for you?)

She continues: "I'm very fond of fo'ran travel, only I ain't never had
much occasion for it."

This pathos and humour keep me silent. A few ropers have run out; she
rises. I rise, too, to replace, to attach, and set the exhausted line
taut and complete again.

Ten years! Ten years! All her girlhood and youth has been given to
keeping ropers supplied with fresh yarn and speeders a-whirling. During
this travail she has kept a serenity of expression, a depth of sweetness
at which I marvel. Her voice is peculiarly soft and, coupled with the
dialect drawl, is pleasant to hear.

"I hate the mills!" she says simply.

"What would you be if you could choose?" I venture to ask. She has no
hesitation in answering.

"I'd love to be a trained nurse." Then, turn about is fair play in her
mind, I suppose, for she asks:

"What would _you-all_ be?"

And ashamed not to well repay her truthfulness I frankly respond: "I'd
like to write a book."

"I _dee_-clare." She stares at me. "Why, you-all _is_ ambitious. Did you
ever write anything?"

"A letter or two."

She is interested and kindles, leaning forward. "I suttenly ain't so
high in my ambitions," she says appreciatively. "Wish you'd write a love
story for me to read," and she ponders over the idea, her eyes on my
snowy flying speeders.

"Look a-hyar, got any of your scrappin's on writin' hyar? Ef you don't
mind anybody's messin' with your things, bring your scrappin's to me an'
I'll soon tell you ef you can write a book er not," she whispered to me
encouragingly, confidentially, a whisper reaching farther in the mills
than a loud sound.

I thanked her and said: "Do you think that you'd know?"

"Well, I guess I would!" she said confidently. "I ain't read all my life
sense I was eight years old not to know good writin' from bad. Can
you-all sing?"

"No."

"Play sweet music?"

"No."

"I jest love it." She enthuses. "Every Saturday afternoon I take of a
music teacher on the gee-tar. It costs me a quarter."

I could see the scene: a shanty room, the tall, awk