THE CLOSING OF THE SCHOOL

"What is it, Paul?" inquired Ned pleasantly.

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"I jes' wantid to ax you ef you air a infidul an' a ath’is' an' a skep'ic, an' all them bad things."

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Why do you want to know, Paul?" queried Ned, smiling.

"'Cause I heerd pa an' some other folks talkin' 'bout you an' Uncle Elath Dent, an' they said you was all them bad things an' lots more I can't think of, an' thet the Devil was goin' to git you, sure."

Paul cringed and looked behind him, as he usually did when he uttered that dread name.

Ned's smile broadened a little as he replied:

"Do you think I'm such a very bad fellow that I deserve to hell, Paul?”

to go

"No, siree, I don't," answered Paul quickly and decidedly, fondling Ned's hand. "I think you're the best feller I ever knowed-'ceptin' ministers-an' my ma-an' Aunt Sue." Ned thought he had said enough.

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Thereafter Paul stoutly vouched for Ned Gardner's orthodoxy, and declared on all occasions that Ned "wa'n't none o' them bad things" but was an awful good feller." To this conclusion Paul clung long, long after the process of reasoning by which he had reached it had faded from his memory. With Ned Gardner's permanent departure from The Forks his religious views gradually ceased to be a topic of public discussion.

The last day of school passed without much display. There were a few visitors, and there was a little “speakin' pieces an' dialogues," closing with a humorous recitation by Ned that convulsed everybody. Ned thought that the condition of the school for the last two or three winters demanded that he give the entire term to regular school work, instead of devoting the best part of the last few weeks to getting up an "exhibition."

On that last day, when the school had been dismissed for the last time, and good-bys were being exchanged, Paul Granger still lingered till he and Ned were left alone.

"Be you goin' to keep this school nex' winter, teacher?" asked Paul so earnestly that it touched Ned's heart.

"No, Paul," answered Ned, "I shall not teach this school any more, or any other, I guess. I shall be going to school myself after a while, learning to be a doctor."

Paul's eyes filled with tears, and his little outgrown jacket began to heave tremulously. Ned's words were a bitter disappointment to him. For weeks he had found consolation in the hope that Ned would come back again to teach on Sugar Hill. Paul liked to go to school, but most of all he wanted to be with Ned, this good friend who had been so kind to him and in whose company he never felt cast down or despised. And now Ned was going away for good. Perhaps he might never see Ned again. At this thought Paul sobbed aloud.

"I'll tell you, Paul," said Ned, "I am not going away from The Forks for quite a while yet. You will be down there sometimes and can come over to Dr. Gardner's office and see me, and I may sometime drive up here and see you. So we won't say good-by at all."

This cheerful view somewhat reconciled Paul to the present parting.

When Ned drove over to Deacon Willett's that Friday afternoon after the final close of the school, Aunt Sue said to him:

"I was jes' tellin' Hez 't 'ccordin' to my way o' thinkin' the revivil o' learnin' 't you an' Elath's gi'n us this winter's wuth 'nough sight more to the community 'n any revivi o' religion."

Ned smiled at Aunt Sue's unwitting historical reference; and after hearty good-bys and good wishes he drove off.

The days and weeks immediately succeeding the close of school went drearily with Paul. Love for Ned filled a much larger place than religion in his small heart. He saw Ned two or three times during the spring. The last time was one Saturday evening when Deacon Willett had driven over to The Forks for the mail, and upon Aunt Sue's petition had taken young Hez, Steve, and Paul along for the ride. It was no small treat for Paul to visit The Forks, with its two steeple-capped churches, its spectral-shafted graveyardthe sight of which always had a chilly fascination for him— its two country stores with their wealth of general merchandise and Yankee notions, its blacksmith shop, and its sawand grist-mill; and usually with groups of farmers standing around, talking crops, politics, and the weather-nowadays talking war as well-and invariably a motley assembly of rustic loafers idly whittling, pitching "quates," jumping, or otherwise trying to get rid of that, to many people, most burdensome burden of life-time.

The Deacon's wagon with the three boys therein was standing in front of the postoffice while the Deacon waited inside for the ancient, spectacled, deliberate postmaster to open, handle, examine, reëxamine, and finally deposit in their proper boxes the big pile of letters and papers. Suddenly a well-known voice called out:

"Hello, boys! Just in time to say good-by."

It was Ned Gardner.

"Where be ye goin'?" asked Steve, the first to recover the use of his organs of speech after the confusion into which the three youngsters had been thrown by being so vociferously addressed in a public and populous place.

"Off to the war, next Monday," replied Ned; "any of you want to go along?"

"Ain't you 'fraid you'll be killed?" inquired Paul, with evident concern.

"O no, I guess not," returned Ned reassuringly. "I'm not going down there to fight but just to help take care of the poor fellows who get shot. It may be a long time before I see you again, though. So good-by, and good luck to you.'

That night Paul Granger cried himself to sleep; and dreamed that a great fierce Rebel-he didn't know just what that awful word did mean-with a long, forked tail and cloven hoofs, was chasing Ned Gardner around the Sugar Hill schoolhouse and throwing cannon balls as big as a teakettle at him. Poor Paul! The best friend he had ever known had gone; and how very, very lonesome he was; and how very, very unhappy to him were those "happy days of childhood."

"I wish you would keep an eye on that boy of Josh Granger's," said Ned to his father before he left. "Somehow I feel an interest in him aside from the sympathy one naturally has for the deformed and distressed; though I don't know that we can ever do anything for him.”

CHAPTER 13

A SMALL BOY WANTS TO KNOW

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"MA," said Steve Willett one morning a few days after Mr. Gurley's sermon, ef little babies die they go to heaven, don't they?

"Yes, I s'pose so, Steve."

66 An' little lambs don't?"

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'No, lambs don't go to heaven."

Why don't lambs go to heaven 's well 's babies? "'Cause lambs don't hev no souls, an' babies do." "Where does babies git their souls?"

"God gives 'em to 'em."

Why don't God give little lambs souls too?"

"I don't know."

Where does babies keep their souls?"

"I don't know 'xac'ly; inside on 'em somewheres; perhaps in their hearts er their heads."

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Why don't lambs hev souls inside on 'em 's well 's babies?"

"I don't know, I'm sure, Steve. The ministers an' the Bible says animals don't hev no souls; 't least the ministers says so, an' I s'pose the Bible dooz."

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Does ministers know any more 'bout it 'n you do, ma?' "I s'pose they do, Steve; 't least they think they do." Then there was a short silence, during which Aunt Sue wondered why she had never before thought of these things and asked herself the questions Steve was asking.

"Ma," continued Steve, "don't little lambs know more'n little babies?"

"I don't know, Steve. What makes you think so?" "Wal, course lambs can't talk, 't least not so 's 't we kin un'erstan' 'em, though the ol' sheep ac's 's ef she did. But little babies can't talk nuther. Lambs jes' says ma-a-a-a', an' babies jes' says 'wa-a-a-a.'. But lambs kin run an' play, an' they ac' 's ef they knowed lots more'n little babies, thet can't do nothin' but suck an' squall."

Another silence.

"Ma, did you ever see a soul?"

"No, Steve, nobody can't see souls." "Why?"

Cause ther' ain't nothin' to see."

"Wal, then, what is souls, anyhow?"

"I don't know 'xac'ly, Steve, an' I don't know 's anybody else dooz. They're so'thin' inside of us thet lives furever an' goes to heaven when we die, ef we've b'en good. I guess mebby our souls is what we think and love with."

Silence again.

'Ma, does little bits o' wee babies think an' love?"

"I guess not."

A SOULFUL DISCUSSION

"Wal, why don't they, ef they've got souls?" "I guess their souls hain't growed 'nough."

66 Don't lambs think an' love their mas?"

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I s'pose they do."

"What do they think an' love with, ef they hain't got no souls?"

"I don't know, Steve, I'm sure."

"Does anybody know, ma?"

"I don't know, Steve. Some folks thinks they know a goo' deal 'bout these things, but I ain't sure whuther they reelly do know any more'n I do er not; an' thet ain't much."

Then Steve went to school.

That night when the time came for Aunt Sue to have her final say to the Deacon before they went to sleep, she related her talk with Steve, and added:

"I d'clare fer it, ef thet Mr. Gurley ever comes here ag'in I b'lieve I'll turn him an' Steve out in the back yard together; an' ef Steve don't make 'im climb over the fence inside o' fifteen minutes, it'll be 'cause he can't climb."

CHAPTER 14

COW OR COMMENTARY?

"IT mus' take a goo' deal o' Joshua's time to git up all them big long sermons he preaches," remarked Aunt Sue one day while calling upon Mary, a couple of weeks after the revival closed. It was the first chance Aunt Sue had had to inquire into the source of Joshua's learning and inspiration.

"Yes," answered Mary, "he does have to read an' study a goo' deal."

"Is all them big books there on the table Bibles?" pursued Aunt Sue.

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No," said Mary, "the biggest ones is Clarke's Commentaries. Joshua's had 'em now four years. He says it's what most o' the ministers uses in preparin' their sermons; leastways, most Methodis' ministers."