“So we do,” agreed Yancy.

“And the dear little boy we met is your nephew, is he not, Mr. Yancy?” It was Betty Malroy who spoke.

“In a manner he is and in a manner he ain’t,” explained Yancy, somewhat enigmatically.

“There are quite a number of children at Scratch Hill?” suggested Mrs. Ferris.

“Yes, ma’am, so there are; a body would naturally notice that.”

“And no school—­not a church even!” continued Mrs. Ferris in a grieved tone.

“Never has been,” rejoined Yancy cheerfully.  He seemed to champion the absence of churches and schools on the score of long usage.

“But what do the people do when they want to go to church?” questioned Mrs. Ferris.

“Never having heard that any of ’em wanted to go I can’t say just offhand, but don’t you fret none about that, ma’am; there are churches; one’s up at the Forks, and there’s another at Balaam’s Cross Roads.”

“But that’s ten miles from Scratch Hill, isn’t it?”

“It’s all of that,” said Yancy.  He sensed it that the lady before him, was a person of much force and energy, capable even of reckless innovation.  Mr. Yancy himself was innately conservative; his religious inspiration had been drawn from the Forks and Balaam’s Cross Roads.  It had seemed to answer very well.  Mrs. Ferris fixed his wavering glance.

“Don’t you think it is too bad, Mr. Yancy, the way those children have been neglected?  There is nothing for them but to run wild.”

“Well, I seen some right good children fetched up that-a-ways —­smart, too.  You see, ma’am, there’s a heap a child can just naturally pick up of himself.”

“Oh!” and the monosyllable was uttered rather weakly.  Mr. Yancy’s name had been given her as that of a resident of weight and influence in the classic region of Scratch Hill.  Miss Malroy came to her friend’s rescue.

“Mrs. Ferris thinks the children should have a chance to learn at home.  Poor little tots!—­they can’t walk ten or fifteen miles to Sunday-school, now can they, Mr. Yancy ?”

“Bless yo’ heart, they won’t try to!” said Yancy reassuringly.  “Sunday’s a day of rest at Scratch Hill.  So are most of the other days of the week, but we all aspire to take just a little mo’ rest on Sunday than any other day.  Sometimes we ain’t able to, but that’s our aim.”

“Do you know the old deserted cabin by the big pine?—­the Blount place?” asked Mrs. Ferris.

“Yes, ma’am, I know it.”

“I am going to have Sunday-school there for those children; they shan’t be neglected any longer if I can help it—­I should feel guilty, quite guilty!  Now won’t you let your little nephew come?  Perhaps they’ll not find it so very terrible, after all.”  From which Mr. Yancy concluded that when she invaded it, skepticism had rested as a mantle on Scratch Hill.

“Every one said we would better talk with you, Mr. Yancy, and we were hoping to meet you as we came along,” supplemented Miss Malroy, and her words of flattery were wafted to him with so sweet a smile that Yancy instantly capitulated.