Somebody go save my bedstid!'"
"And was it saved?" asked Hilda, laughing.
"No," said the farmer; "'t wa'n't wuth savin', nohow. Besides, if't
_hed_ been, she'd ha' gone back to it an' stayed there. Hosy Grout, who
did her chores, kicked it into the fire; an' she was a well woman to the
day of her death."
Now the houses straggled farther and farther apart, and at last the
village was fairly left behind. Old Nancy pricked up her ears and
quickened her pace a little, looking right and left with glances of
pleasure as the familiar fields ranged themselves along either side of
the road. Hilda too was glad to be in the free country again, and she
looked with delight at the banks of fern, the stone walls covered with
white starry clematis, and the tangle of blackberry vines which made the
pleasant road so fragrant and sweet. She was silent for some time. At
last she said, half timidly, "Farmer Hartley, you promised to tell me
more about your father some day. Don't you think this would be a good
time? I have been so much interested by what I have heard of him."
"That's curus, now," said Farmer Hartley slowly, flicking the dust with
the long lash of his whip. "It's curus, Huldy, that you sh'd mention
Father jest now, 'cause I happened to be thinkin' of him myself that
very minute. Old Father," he added meditatively, "wal, surely, he _was_
a character, Father was. Folks about here," he said, turning suddenly to
Hilda and looking keenly at her, "think Father was ravin' crazy, or
mighty nigh it.
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