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and quick at the sametime. Even some of the older women set into fanning themselves. Maggie Hensley was like a worm in a hot skillet, and if I’d acted like that about another man Zeke Wallin would’ve slapped me blind. I would not have blamed him neither.
    All but Mary Chandler. She set there with her hands folded on top of her book and never offered Hackley so much as a glance. And I believe that’s why she was all he could see.
    “‘Sacred Throne,’ folks. Page thirty-five.” He waited until pages had ceased rustling and all eyes were on him. Satisfied, he raised his right hand and began to beat out the time.
    “Now sing your parts! Everbody sing!”
    This was Hackley’s favorite hymn and he had no use for the book in his hand. His eyes were never still as he began to sing the lead shapes. And each section in that little church began to sing in harmony so rich it caused my throat to swell up.
    “Now sing the poetry!” He throwed back his head, closed his eyes, and I forgot everything except the sound. There was a big silence when we finished. Hugh new what he was doing when he called on Larkin to lead the next. Not many people could follow Hackley.
    Larkin stood and walked to the square.
    “Let’s sing ‘Windham,’ page two hundred and seven.” All eyes gazed at him expectantly. “Let’s pitch it.” He closed his eyes and relaxed. His voice took the first note, then began the climb up the scale.
    “Sol, fa, mi, la, sol.”
    On the high sol Larkin’s voice sang out confident and full. Then it cracked. A little frown puckered his forehead and he cleared his throat and started again.
    “Sol, fa, mi, la, sol.”
    Again he couldn’t hold it. It was so quiet in there that I could hear folks laughing and talking out where they was eating.
    “That’s a good pitch, Larkin. Let’s sing the shapes,” Hugh said.
    I could see his hand trembling as he started to beat out the time and sing the shapes to the hymn.
    Finally he just quit singing but stayed on beating out the time for everybody else. I quit, too, and watched the sweat run down his face into his eyes. Then the song ended and he ought to have set down, but he didn’t. Instead he brought up his book and stared at it dumb-looking as a cow, as though somewhere in there amongst the shapes he had memorized so easy when he was but a child lay the answer. He looked at me and I swear he looked like he was drowning.
    Me and Granny both come to our feet but Hackley beat us to him.
    “I’ll lead the next one,” Hack said, and though he laid a sympathetic hand on Larkin’s arm, he couldn’t quite hold back the grin that skittered across his mouth. And I thought,
Don’t do this to him, Hackley, you little shit.
But he’d already done it.
    Hackley give him a little shove. “It’ll be all right,” he said.
    “Don’t pay Hack no mind,” I hollered right out. “Sing with the basses. Your voice won’t break if you sing low.”
    It didn’t. For Larkin did not sing another note the rest of that long day.
    I DONE SOMETHING THAT day that I rarely did. I left Abby and Zeke to fix their own supper and mind the young’uns and I went over the hill to Granny’s. I did take Sylvaney but would’ve left her too if I hadn’t knowed my bosoms would give me a fit if she didn’t nurse. And it were a good thing I did ’cause I was there a long time. Granny had her hands full of one awfully pitiful man-child.
    He was setting on the porch, long legs drawed up, head resting on his knees, and he never even looked up when I howdied the house.
    Me and Granny whispered around out back for a few minutes, then we both went out on him. Granny put her knobby old hand on his hair and her touch was so gentle it jerked tears to my eyes.
    “Hit happens that-a-way, honey. Yer voice is changing into that of a man. You’ll still be able to sing, just deeper and different. You’ll see. Same thing happened to Hackley. ’Course hit went quick fer him. Didn’t it, Arty?”
    And I