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           Whenshewasadmittedintoourconfidence,everytimeshebakedshemadeabigcakeandthreelittleones,andshewouldcallacrossthestreet:"JemFinch,ScoutFinch,CharlesBakerHarris,comehere!"Ourpromptnesswasalwaysrewarded.

           Insummertime,twilightsarelongandpeaceful.Oftenasnot,MissMaudieandIwouldsitsilentlyonherporch,watchingtheskygofromyellowtopinkasthesunwentdown,watchingflightsofmartinssweeplowovertheneighborhoodanddisappearbehindtheschoolhouserooftops.

           "MissMaudie,"Isaidoneevening,"doyouthinkBooRadley’sstillalive?"

           "Hisname’sArthurandhe’salive,"shesaid.Shewasrockingslowlyinherbigoakchair."Doyousmellmymimosa?It’slikeangels’breaththisevening."

           "Yessum.Howdoyouknow?"

           "Knowwhat,child?"

           "ThatB—Mr.Arthur’sstillalive?"

           "Whatamorbidquestion.ButIsupposeit’samorbidsubject.Iknowhe’salive,JeanLouise,becauseIhaven’tseenhimcarriedoutyet."

           "Maybehediedandtheystuffedhimupthechimney."

           "Wheredidyougetsuchanotion?"

           "That’swhatJemsaidhethoughttheydid."

           "S-ss-ss.HegetsmorelikeJackFincheveryday."