tin feller like you, I wouldn't
hector folks that had made out to grow some."

"Speakin' o' growin'," said Steve Webster, "who do you guess I seen in
Boston, when I was workin' there? That tall Swatkins girl from the
Duck Pond, the one that married Dan Robinson. It was one Sunday, in the
Catholic meetin'-house. I'd allers wanted to go to a Catholic meetin',
an' I declare it's about the solemnest one there is. I mistrusted I was
goin' to everlastin'ly giggle, but I tell yer I was the awedest cutter
yer ever see. But anyway, the Swatkins girl--or Mis' Robinson, she is
now--was there as large as life in the next pew to me, jabberin' Latin,
pawin' beads, gettin' up 'n' kneelin' down, 'n' crossin' herself north,
south, east, 'n' west, with the best of 'em. Poor Dan! 'Grinnin' Dan,'
we used to call him. Well, he don't grin nowadays. He never was good for
much, but he 's hed more 'n his comeuppance!"

"Why, what 's the matter with him? Can't he git work in Boston?"

"Matter? Why, his wife, that I see makin' believe be so dreadful pious
in the Catholic meetin', she 's carried on wuss 'n the Old Driver for
two years, 'n' now she 's up 'n' left him,--gone with a han'somer man."

Down on Steve Webster's hand came Jabe Slocum's immense paw with a grasp
that made him cringe.

"What the"--began Steve, when the man from Tennessee took up his scythe
and slouched away from the group by the tree.

"Didn't yer know no better 'n that, yer thunderin' fool? Can't yer see a
hole in a grindstun 'thout it's hung on yer nose?"

"What hev I done?" asked Steve, as if dumfounded.

"Done? Where 've yer ben, that yer don't know Dixie's wife 's left him?"

"Where 've I ben? Hain't I ben workin' in Boston fer a year; 'n' since
I come home last week, hain't I ben tendin' sick folks, so 't I
couldn't git outside the dooryard? I never seen the man in my life till
yesterday, in the field, 'n' I thought he was one o' them dark-skinned
Frenchies from Guildford that hed come up here fer hayin'."

"Mebbe I spoke too sharp," said Jabe apologetically; "but we 've ben
scared to talk wives, or even women folks, fer a month o' Sundays, fer
fear Dixie 'd up 'n' tumble on his scythe, or do somethin' crazy. You
see it's this way (I'd ruther talk than work; 'n' we ain't workin' by
time to-day, anyway, on account of the circus comin'): 'Bout a year 'n'
a half ago, this tall, han'some feller turned up here in Pleasant River.
He inhailed from down South somewher