things, lots of ’em, and the bed-rock of ’em all was learnin’.  I watched a gang of ’em for near plum half a day.  There wasn’t a thing they did that they didn’t first read from a sheet of paper about.  If they hadn’t had them sheets and if they couldn’t read what had been written on ’em, why, they couldn’t never build no railroad.  And not only that—­they got all kinds of comfort out of it.  They have their books that tell ’em what other men have done before ’em, they have their newspapers that tell ’em—­everyday, Joe—­what other men are doin’, everywhere, fur as th’ earth is spread.

“They know things, them men do, and they’re heaps happier because of it.”  She paused, leaning on the old worn fence.

“An’ their wimmen knows things,” she went on.  “I’m goin’ to, too.  It’s th’ greatest comfort that they’ve got.  I’m goin’ to have that comfort, Joe!”

She patted the new spelling book as if it were a precious thing.

“I’m goin’ to have that comfort,” she continued.  “I’m goin’ to know th’ ins an’ outs o’ readin’ an’” (she sighed and paused a second, as if this next seemed more appalling) “an’ of writin’.  Dellaw!  That’s hard!  All sorts of curves an’ twists an’ ups an’ downs an’ things, an’ ev’ry one means somethin’!”

Joe looked at her, half in admiration, half in apprehension.  “You goin’ to git too good fer these here mountings?” he inquired.

She gazed about her with a little intake of the breath, a little sign of ecstasy, of her appreciation of the wondrous view.

“Too good for these here mountings?” she said thoughtfully.  “Learnin’ couldn’t make me that!  It might show me how to love ’em more.  Nothin’ in th’ world, Joe, could make me love ’em less!”

He became more definite, a bit insistent.  It had been plain, for long, that it had required some self-control for him to walk as he had walked, close by her side, without some demonstration of his admiration for her, to stand there with her at the bars without some sign that in her presence he found happiness much greater than he had ever known, could ever know, elsewhere.

“You goin’ to git too good fer—­me?” he asked.

She turned toward him impulsively.  Great friendship shone frankly in her fine eyes.  On her face was that expression of complete and understanding comradery which one child chum may show another.  Almost she said as much of him as she had said of the surrounding mountains, but there was that upon his face which stopped her.  It was too plain that friendship was not what he wanted, would not satisfy him.  There was a hungry yearning in his eyes, mute, respectful, worshipful, not for comradery, but for a closer tie.  She had watched this grow in him within the recent months, with worry and regret.  It seemed to her a tragedy that their old friendship should ever prove inadequate.

“No,” she answered gently, “I shall never get too good for you, Joe—­for any of my friends.”