The old barn was still there and a little repairing had made it do.
The day came, shortly, when I had to speak out, and I took the straight way of my duty as the needle of the compass pointed.

It was the end of a summer day and we had watched the dusk fill the valley and come creeping up the slant, sinking the boulders and thorn tops in its flood, one by one.

As we sat looking out of the open door that evening I told them what Sally had told me of the evil report which had traveled through the two towns.

Uncle Peabody sat silent and perfectly motionless for a moment, looking out into the dusk.
"W'y, of all things! Ain't that an awful burnin' shame-ayes!" said Aunt Deel as she covered her face with her hand.
"Damn, little souled, narrer contracted--" Uncle Peabody, speaking in a low, sad tone, but with deep feeling, cut off this highly promising opinion before it was half expressed, and rose and went to the water pail and drank.
"As long as we're honest we don't care what they say," he remarked as he returned to his chair.
"If they won't believe us we ought to show 'em the papers--ayes," said Aunt Deel.
"Thunder an' Jehu! I wouldn't go 'round the town tryin' to prove that I ain't a thief," said Uncle Peabody.

"It wouldn't make no differ'nce.
They've got to have somethin' to play with.