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.
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