She had a good education--at least I thought so.

She was like the Thorndykes--city folks, educated people, who could have no use for a clodhopper like me, a canal hand, a rough character.
And just as I had plunged myself into the deepest despair, I heard a light footfall, and Virginia knelt down before me on the ground and pulled my hands from my eyes.
"Don't cry," said she.

"We'll see each other again.

I came back to bid you good-by, and to say that you've been so good to me that I can't think of it without tears! Good-by, Jacob!" She lifted my face between her two hands, kissed me the least little bit, and ran off.

Back in the darkness I saw the tall figure of Grandma Thorndyke, who seemed to be looking steadily off into the distance.
Virginia locked arms with her and they went away leaving me with my cows and my empty wagon--filled with the goods in which I took so much pride when I left Madison.
With the first rift of light in the east I rose from my sleepless bed under the wagon--I would not profane her couch inside by occupying it--and yoked up my cattle.