George was talking earnestly.

She threw a glance at him from time to time, and Roger could see how intent were her eyes.
Yes, Deborah knew how to study a boy.
Only once during the summer did she talk about her work.

On a walk with her father one day she took him into a small forlorn building, a mere cabin of one room.

The white paint had long been worn away, the windows were all broken, half the old shingles had dropped from the roof and on the flagpole was no flag.

It was the district schoolhouse where for nearly half his life Deborah's grandfather had taught a score of pupils.