'Yu'm frettin' about somethin'. I says. 'No, Jim,' she says,
'I'm not frettin'.' 'Yes, yu be!' I says. 'No,' she says, and to tears
cam' rollin' out. 'Yu'm cryin'--what's that, then?' I says. She putts
'er 'and over 'er 'eart: 'It 'urts me,' she says; 'but 'twill sune be
better,' she says. 'But if anything shude 'appen to me, Jim, I wants
to be burried under this 'ere apple tree.' I laughed. 'What's goin' to
'appen to yu?' I says; 'don't 'ee be fulish.' 'No,' she says, 'I won't
be fulish.' Well, I know what maids are, an' I never thought no more
about et, till two days arter that, 'bout six in the avenin' I was
comin' up wi' the calves, when I see somethin' dark lyin' in the strame,
close to that big apple tree. I says to meself: 'Is that a pig-funny
place for a pig to get to!' an' I goes up to et, an' I see what 'twas."
The old man stopped; his eyes, turned upward, had a bright, suffering
look.
"'Twas the maid, in a little narrer pool ther' that's made by the
stoppin' of a rock--where I see the young gentleman bathin' once or
twice. 'Er was lyin' on 'er face in the watter. There was a plant o'
goldie-cups growin' out o' the stone just above 'er'ead.
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