here's a heap o' reasons for folks marryin'," said Aunt Jane, reflectively. "Some marries for love, some for money, some for a home; some marries jest to spite somebody else, and some, it looks like, marries for nothin' on earth but to have somebody always around to quarrel with about religion. That's the way it was with Marthy and Amos Matthews. I don't reckon you ever heard o' Marthy and Amos, did you, child? It's been many a year since I thought of 'em myself. But last Sunday evenin' I was over at Elnora Simpson's, and old Uncle Sam Simpson was there visitin'. Uncle Sam used to live in the neighborhood o' Goshen, but he moved up to Edmonson County way back yonder, I can't tell when, and every now and then he comes back to see his grandchildren. He's gittin' well on towards ninety, and I'm thinkin' this is about the last trip the old man'll make till he goes on his long journey. I was mighty glad to see him, and me and him set and talked about old times till the sun went down. What he didn't remember I did, and what I didn't remember he did; and when we got through talkin', Elnora—that's his grandson's wife—says, 'Well, Uncle Sam, if I could jest take down everything you and Aunt Jane said to-day, I'd have a pretty good history of everybody that ever lived in this county.'

"Uncle Sam was the one that started the talk about Marthy and Amos. He'd been leanin' on his cane lookin' out o' the door at Elnora's twins playin' on the grass, and all at once he says, says he, 'Jane, do you ricollect the time they had the big babtizin' down at Kittle Creek?' And he got to laughin', and I got to laughin', and we set there and cackled like a pair o' old fools, and nobody but us two seein' anything funny about it."

Aunt Jane's ready laugh began again at the mere remembrance of her former mirth. I kept discreetly silent, fearing to break the flow of reminiscence by some ill-timed question.

"Nobody ever could see," she continued, "how it was that Amos Matthews and Marthy Crawford ever come to marry, unless it was jest as I said, to have somebody always handy to quarrel with about their religion; and I used to think sometimes that Marthy and Amos got more pleasure that way than most folks git out o' prayin' and singin' and listenin' to preachin'. Amos was the strictest sort of a Presbyterian, and Marthy was a Babtist, and to hear them two jawin' and arguin' and bringin' up Scripture texts about predestination and infant babtism and close communion and immersion was enough to make a person wish there wasn't such a thing as churches and doctrines. Brother Rice asked Sam Amos once if Marthy and Amos Matthews was Christians. Brother Rice had come to help Parson Page carry on a meetin', and he was tryin' to find out who was the sinners and who was the Christians. And Sam says, 'No; my Lord! It takes all o' Marthy's time to be a Babtist and all o' Amos' to be a Presbyterian. They ain't got time to be Christians.'

"Some folks wondered how they ever got time to do any courtin', they was so busy wranglin' over babtism and election. And after Marthy had her weddin' clothes all made they come to a dead stop. Amos said he wouldn't feel like they was rightly married if they didn't have a Presbyterian minister to marry 'em, and Marthy said it wouldn't be marryin' to her if they didn't have a Babtist. I was over at Hannah Crawford's one day, and she says, says she, 'Jane, I've been savin' up my eggs and butter for a month to make Marthy's weddin' cake, and if her and Amos don't come to an understandin' soon, it'll all be a dead loss.' And Marthy says, 'Well, mother, I may not have any cake at my weddin', and I may not have any weddin', but one thing is certain: I'm not goin' to give up my principles.'

"And Hannah sort o' groaned—she hadn't had any easy time with Miles Crawford—and says she, 'You pore foolish child! Principles ain't the only thing a woman has to give up when she gits married.'

"I don't know whether they ever would 'a' come to an agreement if it hadn't been for Brother Morris. He was the Presidin' Elder from town, and a powerful hand for jokin' with folks. He happened to meet Amos one day about this time, and says he, 'Amos, I hear you and Miss Marthy can't decide betwixt Brother Page and Brother Gyardner. It'd be a pity,' says he, 'to have a good match sp'iled for such a little matter, and s'pose you compromise and have me to marry you.'

"And Amos says, 'I don't know but what that's the best thing that could be done. I'll see Marthy and let you know.' And, bless your life, they was married a week from that day. I went over and helped Hannah with the cake, and Brother Morris said as pretty a ceremony over 'em as any Presbyterian or Babtist could 'a' said.

"Well, the next Sunday everybody was on the lookout to see which church the bride and groom'd go to. Bush Elrod bet a dollar that Marthy'd have her way, and Sam Amos bet a dollar that they'd be at the Presbyterian church. Sam won the bet, and we was all right glad that Marthy'd had the grace to give up that one time, anyhow. Amos was powerful pleased havin' Marthy with him, and they sung out of the same hymn-book and looked real happy. It looked like they was startin' out right, and I thought to myself, 'Well, here's a good beginnin', anyhow.' But it happened to be communion Sunday, and of all the unlucky things that could 'a' happened for Marthy and Amos, that was about the unluckiest. I said then that if Parson Page had been a woman, he'd 'a' postponed that communion. But a man couldn't be expected to have much sense about such matters, so he goes ahead and gives out the hymn,

and everybody in church was lookin' at Amos and Marthy and watchin' to see what she was goin' to do. While they was singin' the hymn the church-members got up and went forward to the front seats, and Amos went with 'em. That left Marthy all alone in the pew, and I couldn't help feelin' sorry for her. She tried to look unconcerned, but anybody could see she felt sort o' forsaken and left out, and folks all lookin', and some of 'em whisperin' and nudgin' each other. I knew jest exactly how Marthy felt. Abram said to me when we was on the way home that day, 'Jane, if I'd 'a' been in Amos' place, I believe I'd 'a' set still with Marthy. Marthy'd come with him and it looks like he ought to 'a' stayed with her.' I reckon, though, that Amos thought he was doin' right, and maybe it's foolish in women to care about things like that. Sam Amos used to say that nobody but God Almighty, that made her, ever could tell what a woman wanted and what she didn't want; and I've thought many a time that since He made women, it's a pity He couldn't 'a' made men with a better understandin' o' women's ways.

"Maybe if Amos'd set still that day, things would 'a' been different with him and Marthy all their lives, and then again, maybe it didn't make any difference. It's hard to tell jest what makes things go wrong in this world and what makes 'em go right. It's a mighty little thing for a man to git up and leave his wife settin' alone in a pew for a few minutes, but then there's mighty few things in this life that ain't little, till you git to follerin' 'em up and seein' what they come to."

I thought of Pippa's song:

And Aunt Jane went serenely on:

"Anyhow, it wasn't long till Amos was goin' to his church and Marthy to hers, and they kept that up the rest of their lives. Still, they might 'a' got along well enough this way, for married folks don't have to think alike about everything, but they was eternally arguin' about their church doctrines. If Amos grumbled about the weather, Marthy'd say, 'Ain't everything predestined? Warn't this drought app'inted before the foundation of the world? What's the sense in grumblin' over the decrees of God?' And it got so that if Amos wanted to grumble over anything, he had to git away from home first, and that must 'a' been mighty wearin' on him; for, as a rule, a man never does any grumblin' except at home; but pore Amos didn't have that privilege. Sam Amos used to say—­Sam wasn't a church-member himself—that there was some advantages about bein' a Babtist after all; you did have to go under the water, but then you had the right to grumble. But if a man believed that everything was predestined before the foundations of the world, there wasn't any sense or reason in findin' fault with anything that happened. And he believed that he'd ruther jine the Babtist church than the Presbyterian, for he didn't see how he could carry on his farm without complainin' about the weather and the crops and things in general.

"If Marthy and Amos'd been divided on anything but their churches, the children might 'a' brought 'em together; but every time a child was born matters got worse. Amos, of course, wanted 'em all babtized in infancy, and Marthy wanted 'em immersed when they j'ined the church, and so it went. Amos had his way about the first one, and I never shall forgit the day it was born. I went over to help wait on Marthy and the baby, and as soon as I got the little thing dressed, we called Amos in to see it. Now, Amos always took his religion mighty hard. It didn't seem to bring him any comfort or peace o' mind. I've heard people say they didn't see how Presbyterians ever could be happy; but la, child, it's jest as easy to be happy in one church as in another. It all depends on what doctrines you think the most about. Now you take election and justification and sanctification, and you can git plenty o' comfort out o' them. But Amos never seemed to think of anything but reprobation and eternal damnation. Them doctrines jest seemed to weigh on him night and day. He used to say many a time that he didn't know whether he had made his callin' and election sure or not, and I don't believe he thought that anybody else had made theirs sure, either. Abram used to say that Amos looked like he was carryin' the sins o' the world on his shoulders.

"That day the baby was born I thought to myself, 'Well, here's somethin' that'll make Amos forgit about his callin' and election for once, anyhow;' and I wrapped the little feller up in his blanket and held him to the light, so his father could see him; and Amos looked at him like he was skeered, for a minute, and then he says, 'O Lord! I hope it ain't a reprobate.'

"Now jest think of a man lookin' down into a little new-born baby's face and talkin' about reprobates!

"Marthy heard what he said, and says she, 'Amos, are you goin' to have him babtized in infancy?'

"'Why, yes,' says Amos, 'of course I am.'

"And Marthy says, 'Well, hadn't you better wait until you find out whether he's a reprobate or not? If he's a reprobate, babtizin' ain't goin' to do him any good, and if he's elected he don't need to be babtized.'

"And I says, 'For goodness' sake, Marthy, you and Amos let the doctrines alone, or you'll throw yourself into a fever.' And I pushed a rockin'-chair up by the bed and I says, 'Here, Amos, you set here by your wife, and both of you thank the Lord for givin' you such a fine child;' and I laid the baby in Amos' arms, and went out in the gyarden to look around and git some fresh air. I gethered a bunch o' honeysuckles to put on Marthy's table, and when I got back, Marthy and the baby was both asleep, and Amos looked as if he was beginnin' to have some little hopes of the child's salvation.

"Marthy named him John; and Sam Amos said he reckoned it was for John the Babtist. But it wasn't; it was for Marthy's twin brother that died when he was jest three months old. Twins run in the Crawford family. Amos had him babtized in infancy jest like he said he would, and such a hollerin' and squallin' never was heard in Goshen church. The next day Sally Ann says to me, says she, 'That child must 'a' been a Babtist, Jane; for he didn't appear to favor infant babtism.'

"Well, Marthy had her say-so about the next child—that one was a boy, too, and they named him Amos for his father—and young Amos wasn't babtized in infancy; he was 'laid aside for immersion,' as Sam Amos said. Then it was Amos' time to have his way, and so they went on till young Amos was about fifteen years old and Marthy got him converted and ready to be immersed. The Babtists had a big meetin' that spring, and there was a dozen or more converts to be babtized when it was over. We'd been havin' mighty pleasant weather that March; I ricollect me and Abram planted our potatoes the first week in March, and I would put in some peas. Abram said it was too early, and sure enough the frost got 'em when they was about two inches high. It turned off real cold about the last o' March; and when the day for the babtizin' come, there was a pretty keen east wind, and Kittle Creek was mighty high and muddy, owin' to the rains they'd had further up. There was some talk o' puttin' off the babtizin' till better weather, but Brother Gyardner, he says: 'The colder the water, the warmer your faith, brethren; Christ never put off any babtizin' on account of the weather.'

"Sam Amos asked him if he didn't reckon there was some difference between the climate o' Kentucky and the climate o' Palestine. Sam was always a great hand to joke with the preachers. But the way things went that day the weather didn't make much difference anyhow to young Sam.

"The whole neighborhood turned out Sunday evenin' and went over to Kittle Creek to see the big babtizin'. Marthy and Amos and all the children was there, and Marthy looked like she'd had a big streak o' good luck. Sam Amos says to me, 'Well, Aunt Jane, Marthy's waited a long time, but she'll have her innin's now.'

"Bush Elrod was the first one to go under the water; and when two or three more had been babtized, it was young Amos' time. I saw Marthy pushin' him forward and beckonin' to Brother Gyardner like she couldn't wait any longer.

"Nobody never did know exactly how it happened. Some folks said that young Amos wasn't overly anxious to go under the water that cold day, and he kind o' slipped behind his father when he saw Brother Gyardner comin' towards him; and some went so fur as to say that Brother Gyardner was in the habit o' takin' a little spirits after a babtizin' to keep from takin' cold, and that time he'd taken it beforehand, and didn't know exactly what he was about. Anyhow, the first thing we knew Brother Gyardner had hold o' Amos himself, leadin' him towards the water. Amos was a timid sort o' man, easy flustered, and it looked like he lost his wits and his tongue too. He was kind o' pullin' back and lookin' round in a skeered way, and Brother Gyardner he hollered out, 'Come right along, brother! I know jest how it is myself; the spirit is willin', but the flesh is weak.' The Babtists was shoutin' 'Glory Hallelujah' and Uncle Jim Matthews begun to sing, 'On Jordan's stormy banks I stand,' and pretty near everybody j'ined in till you couldn't hear your ears. The rest of us was about as flustered as Amos. We knew in reason that Brother Gyardner was makin' a big mistake, but we jest stood there and let things go on, and no tellin' what might 'a' happened if it hadn't been for Sam Amos. Sam was a cool-headed man, and nothin' ever flustered him. As soon as he saw how things was goin' he set down on the bank and pulled off his boots; and jest as Brother Gyardner got into the middle o' the creek, here come Sam wadin' up behind 'em, and grabbed Amos by the shoulder and hollered out, 'You got the wrong man, parson! Here, Amos, take hold o' me.' And he give Amos a jerk that nearly made Brother Gyardner lose his footin', and him and Amos waded up to the shore and left Brother Gyardner standin' there in the middle o' the creek lookin' like he'd lost his job.

"Well, that put a stop to the singin' and the shoutin', and the way folks laughed was scandalous. They had to walk Amos home in a hurry to git his wet clothes off, and Uncle Jim Matthews and Old Man Bob Crawford went with him to rub him down. Amos was subject to bronchitis, anyhow. Marthy went on ahead of 'em in the wagon to have hot water and blankets ready. I'll give Marthy that credit; she appeared to forgit all about the babtizin' when Amos come up so wet and shiverin'. Sam couldn't git his boots on over his wet socks, and as he'd walked over to the creek, Silas Petty had to take him home in his spring wagon. Brother Gyardner all this time was lookin' round for young Amos, but he wasn't to be found high nor low, and that set folks to laughin' again, and so many havin' to leave, the babtizin' was clean broke up. Milly come up jest as Sam was gittin' into Old Man Bob's wagon, and says she, 'Well, Sam, you've ruined your Sunday pants this time.' And Sam says, 'Pants nothin'. The rest o' you all can save your Sunday pants if you want to, but this here's a free country, and I ain't goin' to stand by and see a man babtized against his will while I'm able to save him.' And if Sam'd saved Amos' life, instead o' jest savin' him from babtism, Amos couldn't 'a' been gratefuler. When Sam broke his arm the follerin' summer, Amos went over and set up with him at night, and let his own wheat stand while he harvested Sam's.

"Well, the next time the 'Sociation met, the Babtists had somethin' new to talk about. Old Brother Gyardner got up, and says he, 'Brethren, there's a question that's been botherin' me for some time, and I'd like to hear it discussed and git it settled, if possible;' and says he, 'If a man should be babtized accidentally, and against his will, would he be a Babtist? or would he not?' And they begun to argue it, and they had it up and down, and some was of one opinion and some of another. Brother Gyardner said he was inclined to think that babtism made a man a Babtist, but old Brother Bascom said if a man wasn't a Babtist in his heart, all the water in the sea wouldn't make him one. And Brother Gyardner said that was knockin' the props clean from under the Babtist faith. 'For,' says he, 'if bein' a Babtist in the heart makes a man a Babtist, then babtism ain't necessary to salvation, and if babtism ain't necessary, what becomes o' the Babtist church?'

"Somebody told Amos about the dispute they was havin' over his case, and Amos says, 'If them fool Babtists want that question settled, let 'em come to me.' Says he, 'My father and mother was Presbyterians, and my grandfather and grandmother and great-grandfather and great-grandmother on both sides; I was sprinkled in infancy, and I j'ined the Presbyterian church as soon as I come to the age of accountability, and if you was to carry me over to Jerusalem and babtize me in the river Jordan itself, I'd still be a Presbyterian.'"

Here Aunt Jane paused to laugh again. "There's some things, child," she said, as she wiped her glasses, "that people'll laugh over and then forgit; and there's some things they never git over laughin' about. The Kittle Creek babtizin' was one o' that kind. Old Man Bob Crawford used to say he wouldn't 'a' took five hundred dollars for that babtizin'. Old Man Bob was the biggest laugher in the country; you could hear him for pretty near half a mile when he got in a laughin' way; and he used to say that whenever he felt like havin' a good laugh, all he had to do was to think of Amos and how he looked with Brother Gyardner leadin' him into the water, and the Babtists a-singin' over him. Bush Elrod was another one that never got over it. Every time he'd see Amos he'd begin to sing, 'On Jordan's stormy banks I stand,' and Amos couldn't git out o' the way quick enough.

"Well, that's what made me and old Uncle Sam Simpson laugh so last Sunday. I don't reckon there's anything funny in it to folks that never seen it; but when old people git together and call up old times, they can see jest how folks looked and acted, and it's like livin' it all over again."

"I don't believe you can see it any plainer than I do, Aunt Jane," I hastened to assure her. "It is all as clear to me as any picture I ever saw. It was in March, you say, and the wind was cool, but the sun was warm; and if you sat in a sheltered place you might almost think it was the last of April."

"That's so, child. I remember me and Abram set under the bank on a rock that kind o' cut off the north wind, and it was real pleasant."

"Then there must have been a purple haze on the hills; and, while the trees were still bare, there was a look about them as if the coming leaves were casting their shadows before. There were heaps of brown leaves from last year's autumn in the fence corners, and as you and Uncle Abram walked home, you looked under them to see if the violets were coming up, and found some tiny wood ferns."

Aunt Jane dropped her knitting and leaned back in the high old-fashioned chair.

"Why, child," she said in an awe-struck tone, "are you a fortune-teller?"

"Not at all, Aunt Jane," I said, laughing at the dear old lady's consternation. "I am only a good guesser; and I wanted you to know that I not only see the things that you see and tell me, but some of the things that you see and don't tell me. Did Marthy ever get young Amos baptized?" I asked.

"La, yes," laughed Aunt Jane. "They finished up the babtizin' two weeks after that. It was a nice, pleasant day, and young Amos went under the water all right; but mighty little good it did him after all. For as soon as he come of age, he married Matildy Harris (Matildy was a Methodist), and he got to goin' to church with his wife, and that was the last of his Babtist raisin'."

Then we both were silent for a while, and I watched the gathering thunder-clouds in the west. A low rumble of thunder broke the stillness of the August afternoon. Aunt Jane looked up apprehensively.

"There's goin' to be a storm betwixt now and sundown," she said, "but I reckon them young turkeys'll be safe under their mother's wings by that time."

"Don't you think a wife ought to join her husband's church, Aunt Jane?" I asked with idle irrelevance to her remark.

"Sometimes she ought and sometimes she oughtn't," replied Aunt Jane oracularly. "There ain't any rule about it. Everybody's got to be their own judge about such matters. If I'd 'a' been in Marthy's place, I wouldn't 'a' j'ined Amos' church, and if I'd been in Amos' place I wouldn't 'a' j'ined Marthy's church. So there it is."

"But didn't you join Uncle Abram's church?" I asked, in a laudable endeavor to get at the root of the matter.

"Yes, I did," said Aunt Jane stoutly; "but that's a mighty different thing. Of course, I went with Abram, and if I had it to do over again, I'd do it. You see the way of it was this: my folks was Campbellites, or Christians they'd ruther be called. It's curious how they don't like to be called Campbellites. Methodists don't mind bein' called Wesleyans, and Presbyterians don't git mad if you call 'em Calvinists, and I reckon Alexander Campbell was jest as good a man as Wesley and a sight better'n Calvin, but you can't make a Campbellite madder than to call him a Campbellite. However, as I was sayin', Alexander Campbell himself babtized my father and mother out here in Drake's Creek, and I was brought up to think that my church was the Christian church, sure enough. But when me and Abram married, neither one of us was thinkin' much about churches. I used to tell Marthy that if a man'd come talkin' church to me, when he ought to been courtin' me, I'd 'a' told him to go on and marry a hymn-book or a catechism. I believe in religion jest as much as anybody, but a man that can't forgit his religion while he's courtin' a woman ain't worth havin'. That's my opinion. But as I was sayin', me and Abram had the church question to settle after we was married, and I don't believe either one of us thought about it till Sunday mornin' come. I ricollect it jest like it was yesterday. We was married in June, and you know how things always look about then. I've thought many a day, when I've been out in the gyarden workin' with my vegetables and getherin' my honeysuckles and roses, that if folks could jest live on and never git old and it'd stay June forever, that this world'd be heaven enough for anybody. And that's the way it was that Sunday mornin'. I ricollect I had on my 'second-day' dress, the prettiest sort of a changeable silk, kind 'o dove color and pink, and I had a leghorn bonnet on with pink roses inside the brim, and black lace mitts on my hands. I stood up before the glass jest before I went out to the gate where Abram was, waitin' for me, and I looked as pretty as a pink, if I do say it. 'Self-praise goes but a little ways,' my mother used to tell me, when I was a gyirl; but I reckon there ain't any harm in an old woman like me tellin' how she looked when she was a bride more'n sixty years ago."

And a faint color came into the wrinkled cheeks, while her clear, high laugh rang out. The outward symbols of youth and beauty were gone, but their unquenchable spirit lay warm under the ashes of nearly eight decades.

"Well, I went out, and Abram helped me into the buggy and, instead o' goin' straight on to Goshen church, he turned around and drove out to my church. When we walked in I could see folks nudgin' each other and laughin', and when meetin' broke and we was fixin' to go home, Aunt Maria Taylor grabbed hold o' me and pulled me off to one side and says she, 'That's right, Jane, you're beginnin' in time. Jest break a man in at the start, and you won't have no trouble afterwards.' And I jest laughed in her face and went on to where Abram was waitin' for me. I was too happy to git mad that day. Well, the next Sunday, when we got into the buggy and Abram started to turn round, I took hold o' the reins and says I, 'It's my time to drive, Abram; you had your way last Sunday, and now I'm goin' to have mine.' And I snapped the whip over old Nell's back and drove right on to Goshen, and Abram jest set back and laughed fit to kill.

"We went on that way for two or three months, folks sayin' that Abram and Jane Parrish couldn't go to the same church two Sundays straight along to save their lives, and everybody wonderin' which of us'd have their way in the long run. And me and Abram jest laughed in our sleeves and paid no attention to 'em; for there never was but one way for us, anyhow, and that wasn't Abram's way nor my way; it was jest our way. There's lots of married folks, honey, and one of 'em's here and one of 'em's gone over yonder, and there's a long, deep grave between 'em; but they're a heap nearer to each other than two livin' people that stay in the same house, and eat at the same table, and sleep in the same bed, and all the time there's two great thick church walls between 'em and growin' thicker and higher every day. Sam Amos used to say that if religion made folks act like Marthy and Amos did, he believed he'd ruther have less religion or none at all. But, honey, when you see married folks quarrelin' over their churches, it ain't too much religion that's the cause o' the trouble, it's too little love. Jest ricollect that; if folks love each other right, religion ain't goin' to come between 'em.

"Well, as soon as cold weather set in they started up a big revival at Goshen church. After the meetin' had been goin' on for three or four weeks, Parson Page give out one Sunday that the session would meet on the follerin' Thursday to examine all that had experienced a change o' heart and wanted to unite with the church. I never said a word to Abram, but Thursday evenin' while he was out on the farm mendin' some fences that the cattle had broke down, I harnessed old Nell to the buggy and drove out to Goshen. All the converts was there, and the session was questionin' and examinin' when I got in. When it come my turn, Parson Page begun askin' me if I'd made my callin' and election sure, and I come right out, and says I, 'I don't know much about callin' and election, Brother Page; I reckon I'm a Christian,' says I, 'for I've been tryin' to do right by everybody ever since I was old enough to know the difference betwixt right and wrong; but, if the plain truth was told, I'm j'inin' this church jest because it's Abram's church, and I want to please him. And that's all the testimony I've got to give.' And Parson Page put his hand over his mouth to keep from laughin'—he was a young man then and hadn't been married long himself—and says he, 'That'll do, Sister Parrish; brethren, we'll pass on to the next candidate.' I left 'em examinin' Sam Crawford about his callin' and election, and I got home before Abram come to the house, and the next day when I walked up with the rest of 'em Abram was the only person in the church that was surprised. When they'd got through givin' us the right hand o' fellowship, and I went back to our pew, Abram took hold o' my hand and held on to it like he never would let go, and I knew I'd done the right thing and I never would regret it."

There was a light on the old woman's face that made me turn my eyes away. Here was a personal revelation that should have satisfied the most exacting, but my vulgar curiosity cried out for further light on the past.

"What would you have done," I asked, "if Uncle Abram hadn't turned the horse that Sunday morning—if he had gone straight on to Goshen?"

Aunt Jane regarded me for a moment with a look of pitying allowance, such as one bestows on a child who doesn't know any better than to ask stupid questions.

"Shuh, child," she said with careless brevity, "Abram couldn't 'a' done such a thing as that."