e
face o' the earth, and that fayry old lady that kep' the punkin' coach
up her sleeve--well, anyhow, you jest believe that punkin' coach, rats,
mice, and all, when you're hearin' bout it, fore ever you stop to think
it ain't so.

"I don' know how tis, but the folks in that Cinderella story seem to
match together somehow; they're all pow'ful onlikely--the prince feller
with the glass slipper, and the hull bunch; but jest the same you kind
o' gulp em all down in a lump. But land, Rebecky, nobody'd swaller that
there village maiden o' your'n, and as for what's-his-name Littlefield,
that come out o' them bushes, such a feller never 'd a' be'n IN bushes!
No, Rebecky, you're the smartest little critter there is in this
township, and you beat your Uncle Jerry all holler when it comes to
usin' a lead pencil, but I say that ain't no true Riverboro story! Look
at the way they talk! What was that' bout being BETROTHED'?"

"Betrothed is a genteel word for engaged to be married," explained the
crushed and chastened author; and it was fortunate the doting old man
did not notice her eyes in the twilight, or he might have known that
tears were not far away.

"Well, that's all right, then; I'm as ignorant as Cooper's cow when
it comes to the dictionary. How about what's-his-name callin' the girl
'Naysweet'?"

"I thought myself that sounded foolish,:" confessed Rebecca; "but it's
what the Doctor calls Cora when he tries to persuade her not to quarrel
with his mother who comes to live with them. I know they don't say it in
Riverboro or Temperance, but I thought perhaps it was Boston talk."

"Well, it ain't!" asserted Mr. Cobb decisively. "I've druv Boston men
up in the stage from Milltown many's the time, and none of em ever
said Naysweet to me, nor nothin'like it. They talked like folks, every
mother's son of em! If I'd a' had that what's-his-name on the harricane
deck' o' the stage and he tried any naysweetin' on me, I'd a' pitched
him into the cornfield, side o' the road. I guess you ain't growed up
enough for that kind of a story, Rebecky, for your poetry can't be beat
in York County, that's sure, and your compositions are good enough to
read out loud in town meetin' any day!"

Rebecca brightened up a little and bade the old couple her usual
affectionate good night, but she descended the hill in a saddened mood.
When she reached the bridge the sun, a ball of red fire, was setting
behind Squire Bean's woods. As she looked, it s