"What-all be they?" she reiterated. "Reckon the're no good?"
David smiled. "In one way they're all the good in the world, but not for money, you know."
"No, I don't guess. Can you read that thar quare printin'?"
"Yes. The letters are Greek, and these books are about a hundred years old."
"Be they? Then they won't be much good to Cass, I reckon. He sot a heap by them, but I war 'feared they mount be heathen. Greek—that thar be heathen. Hain't hit?"
David continued, speaking more to himself than to her. "They were published in London in eighteen twelve. They have been read by some one who knew them well, I can see by these marginal notes."
"What be they?" Her curiosity was eager and intent.
"They are explanations and comments, written here on the margin—see?—with a fine pen."
"His grandpaw done that thar. What be they about, anyhow?"