“The confinement is telling on him,” said Miss Fletcher.  “I wish for his sake they could start home to-day.  But I do hate to see Sally go!  The girl is getting her first taste of civilization, and I’ve never seen anyone so eager to learn.  We have to take the books away from her every day, and when she can’t study she begs to be allowed to roll bandages.  The third day she sat up she wanted to help nurse the other patients.

“I am afraid we have spoiled her for hoeing tobacco, and planting corn,” said the night nurse.

“I hope so,” Miss Fletcher answered fervently.

It was nearly the last of June when the doctor dismissed his patient.  “This doesn’t mean that she is well,” he warned Pop.  “You will have to be careful of her for a long time.  She has worked too hard for a growing girl, and she’s not as strong now as she was.”

“She will be!” Pop responded confidently.  “That thar gal is made outen iron!  Her maw was afore her.  Liza wuz my third wife, an’ she’d borned six or seven children, when she died at thirty-five, an’, by Joshuy, she’d never once hed a doctor in all her life!”

Pop’s joy over their dismissal was slightly dimmed by Sally’s reception of the news.  He saw her draw a long breath and bite her lips; then he saw what he had never seen since she was a baby, two large tears gather slowly in her eyes and roll down on the pillow.  He watched them in amazement.

“Sal, whut ails ye?” he asked anxiously, after the doctor was gone.

“I want to git a larnin’!” she broke out.  “I don’t want to go back to the hills.”

Instantly the old man’s face, which had been tender, hardened to a mask of fury.

“That passel of fool women’s been workin’ on ye,” he cried hoarsely, “larnin’, larnin’, thet’s all they know.  Ain’t the Fork good enough fer ye?  Ain’t the cabin whar yer paw, an’ yer grandpaw, an’ yer great-grandpaw was borned good enough for ye?”

“Yes, Pop, yes!” she gasped, terrified at the storm she had raised.  “I’m a-goin’ back with you.  Don’t tek on so, Pop, I’m a-goin’!”

But the tempest was raging, and the old man got up and strode angrily up and down the small room, filling the air with his indignation.

“I should say you wuz goin’ back!  I’d like to see any of ’em try to keep you.  They’d like to make one o’ them dressed-up doll women outen you!  You’re goin’ back with me to the Fork, an’ ef thar’s ever any more nussin’ er doctorin’ to do, I’m a-goin’ to do hit.  I’ve nussed three women on their deathbeds, an’ when your time comes I ’low I kin handle you too.”

Then his mood changed suddenly, and he sat down by the bed.

“Sal,” he said almost persuasively, “you’ll git over this here foolishness.  Ag’in’ fall you’ll be a-cappin corn, an’ a-roastin’ sweet pertatoes, an’ singin’ them ole ballarts along with the Hicks gals, an’ Cy West, an’ Bub Holly.  An’ I’ll tote you behind me on the beast over the Ridge to the Baptist Meetin’ House the very next feet-washin’ they hev.  Jes’ think how good hit’s goin’ to be to see the sun a-risin’ over Ole Baldy, an’ to hev room to stretch an’ breathe in.  Seems ez if I hain’t been able to git my lungs full of wind sense I left Jackson.”