I shook my head.

“Yis ye do, too.  It’s the same ol’ thing that’s been sendin’ women to hell ever since the world begun.  Ye know hell must ‘a’ been the invention of a man—­that’s sartin—­an’ it was mostly fer women an’ children—­that’s sartiner—­an’ fer all the men that didn’t agree with him.  Set down here an’ I’ll tell ye the hull story.  My day’s work is done.”

We sat down together and he went on as follows: 

“Did ye ever see Kate Fullerton?”

“Yes.”

“No ye didn’t, nuther.  Yer too young.  Mebbe ye seen her when she was old an’ broke down but that wa’n’t Kate—­no more’n I’m Bill Tweedy, which I ain’t.  Kate was as handsome as a golden robin.  Hair yeller as his breast an’ feet as spry as his wings an’ a voice as sweet as his song, an’ eyes as bright as his’n—­yis, sir—­ye couldn’t beat her fer looks.  That was years and years ago.  Her mother died when Kate was ten year old—­there’s her grave in there with the sickle an’ the sheaf an’ the portry on it.  That was unfort’nit an’ no mistake.  Course the squire married ag’in but the new wife wa’n’t no kind of a mother to the girl an’ you know, mister, there was a young scoundrel here by the name o’ Grimshaw.  His father was a rich man—­owned the cooper shop an’ the saw-mill an’ the tannery an’ a lot o’ cleared land down in the valley.  He kep’ comp’ny with her fer two or three year.  Then all of a sudden folks began to talk—­the women in partic’lar.  Ye know men invented hell an’ women keep up the fire.  Kate didn’t look right to ’em.  Fust we knew, young Grimshaw had dropped her an’ was keepin’ comp’ny with another gal—­yis, sir.  Do ye know why?”

Before I could answer he went on: 

“No ye don’t—­leastways I don’t believe ye do.  It was ’cause her father was richer’n the squire an’ had promised his gal ten thousan’ dollars the day she was married.  All of a sudden Kate disappeared.  We didn’t know what had happened fer a long time.”

“One day the ol’ squire got me to dig this grave an’ put up the headstun an’ then he tol’ me the story.  He’d turned the poor gal out o’ doors.  God o’ Israel!  It was in the night—­yis, sir—­it was in the night that he sent her away.  Goldarn him!  He didn’t have no more heart than a grasshopper—­no sir—­not a bit.  I could ‘a’ brained him with my shovel, but I didn’t.

“I found out where the gal had gone an’ I follered her—­yis I did—­found her in the poorhouse way over on Pussley Hill—­uh huh!  She jes’ put her arms ‘round my neck an’ cried an’ cried.  I guess ’twas ’cause I looked kind o’ friendly—­uh huh!  I tol’ her she should come right over to our house an’ stay jest as long as she wanted to as soon as she got well—­yis, sir, I did.