{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_36771/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_36771","id":"gutenberg_36771","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/36771","summary":null,"tags":["Category: American Literature","Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Category: Short Stories","Cumberland Mountains -- Fiction","Mountain life -- Fiction","Tennessee -- Social life and customs -- Fiction"],"text":"</pre>\n\n\n\nProduced by David Edwards, Matthew Wheaton and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n    [Illustration: \"'WARN'T YOU-UNS APOLOGIZIN' TER ME FUR NOT BEIN' A\n                   NEPHEW?'\"]\n\n\n\n\n    The Phantoms of the Foot-Bridge\n\n\n    And Other Stories\n\n    BY\n\n    CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK\n\n    AUTHOR OF\n\n    \"IN THE 'STRANGER PEOPLE'S' COUNTRY\" ETC.\n\n    ILLUSTRATED\n\n\n    NEW YORK\n    HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS\n\n    1895\n\n\n    Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS\n\n    _All rights reserved._\n\n\n\n\n    CONTENTS\n\n\n    THE PHANTOMS OF THE FOOT-BRIDGE\n\n    HIS \"DAY IN COURT\"\n\n    'WAY DOWN IN LONESOME COVE\n\n    THE MOONSHINERS AT HOHO-HEBEE FALLS\n\n    THE RIDDLE OF THE ROCKS\n\n\n\n\n    ILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n    \"'WARN'T YOU-UNS APOLOGIZIN' TER ME FUR NOT BEIN' A NEPHEW?'\"\n\n    THE PHANTOM OF THE FOOT-BRIDGE\n\n    OLD JOEL QUIMBEY\n\n    \"'WHY'N'T YE GIN DAD THEM MESSAGES?'\"\n\n    \"SHE FLUNG HER APRON OVER HER HEAD\"\n\n    \"HE STOLE NOISELESSLY IN THE SOFT SNOW\"\n\n    OLD QUIMBEY AND HIS GRANDSON\n\n    \"YET THIS WAS CHRISTMAS EVE\"\n\n    \"HE HAD HAD AN ACTIVE DAY, INDUCING A KEEN THIRST\"\n\n    \"'LOOK OUT! SOMEBODY'S THAR!'\"\n\n    \"SHE SMILED UPON THE BABY\"\n\n    THE BLACKSMITH'S SHOP\n\n    \"THE TABLES OF THE LAW\"\n\n    \"'WHAT WORD DID HE SEND TER--_ME_?'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHANTOMS OF THE FOOT-BRIDGE\n\n\nAcross the narrow gorge the little foot-bridge stretched--a brace of\nlogs, the upper surface hewn, and a slight hand-rail formed of a cedar\npole. A flimsy structure, one might think, looking down at the dark and\nrocky depths beneath, through which flowed the mountain stream, swift\nand strong, but it was doubtless substantial enough for all ordinary\nusage, and certainly sufficient for the imponderable and elusive\ntravellers who by common report frequented it.\n\n\"We ain't likely ter meet nobody. Few folks kem this way nowadays,\n'thout it air jes' ter ford the creek down along hyar a piece, sence\nharnts an' sech onlikely critters hev been viewed a-crossin' the\nfoot-bredge. An' it hev got the name o' bein' toler'ble onlucky, too,\"\nsaid Roxby.\n\nHis interlocutor drew back slightly. He had his own reasons to recoil\nfrom the subject of death. For him it was invested with a more immediate\nterror than is usual to many of the living, with that flattering\npersuasion of immortality in every strong pulsation repudiating all\npossibility of cessation. Then, lifting his gloomy, long-lashed eyes to\nthe bridge far up the stream, he asked, \"Whose 'harnts'?\"\n\nHis voice had a low, repressed cadence, as of one who speaks seldom,\ngrave, even melancholy, and little indicative of the averse interest\nthat had kindled in his sombre eyes. In comparison the drawl of the\nmountaineer, who had found him heavy company by the way, seemed imbued\nwith an abnormal vivacity, and keyed a tone or two higher than was its\nwont.\n\n\"Thar ain't a few,\" he replied, with a sudden glow of the pride of the\ncicerone. \"Thar's a graveyard t'other side o' the gorge, an' not more\nthan a haffen-mile off, an' a cornsider'ble passel o' folks hev been\nburied thar off an' on, an' the foot-bredge ain't in nowise\nill-convenient ter them.\"\n\nThus demonstrating the spectral resources of the locality, he rode his\nhorse well into the stream as he spoke, and dropped the reins that the\nanimal's impatient lips might reach the water. He sat facing the\nfoot-bridge, flecked with the alternate shifting of the sunshine and the\nshadows of the tremulous firs that grew on either side of the high banks\non the ever-ascending slope, thus arching both above and below the\nhaunted bridge. His companion had joined him in the centre of the\nstream; but while the horses drank, the stranger's eyes were\npersistently bent on the concentric circles of the water that the\nmovement of the animals had set astir in the current, as if he feared\nthat too close or curious a gaze might discern some pilgrim, whom he\ncared not to see, traversing that shadowy quivering foot-bridge. He was\nmounted on a strong, handsome chestnut, as marked a contrast to his\nguide's lank and trace-galled sorrel as were the two riders. A slender\ngloved hand had fallen with the reins to the pommel of the saddle. His\nsoft felt hat, like a sombrero, shadowed his clear-cut face. He was\ncarefully shaven, save for a long drooping dark mustache and imperial.\nHis suit of dark cloth was much concealed by a black cloak, one end of\nwhich thrown back across his shoulder showed a bright blue lining, the\ncolor giving a sudden heightening touch to his attire, as if he were \"in\ncostume.\" It was a fleeting fashion of the day, but it added a certain\npicturesqueness to a horseman, and seemed far enough from the times that\nproduced the square-tailed frock-coat which the mountaineer wore,\nconstructed of brown jeans, the skirts of which stood stiffly out on\neach side of the saddle, and gave him, with his broad-brimmed hat, a\ncertain Quakerish aspect.\n\n\"I dun'no' why folks be so 'feared of 'em,\" Roxby remarked,\nspeculatively. \"The dead ain't so oncommon, nohow. Them ez hev been in\nthe war, like you an' me done, oughter be in an' 'bout used ter\ncorpses--though I never seen none o' 'em afoot agin. Lookin' at a smit\nfield o' battle, arter the rage is jes' passed, oughter gin a body a\nrealizin' sense how easy the sperit kin flee, an' what pore vessels fur\nholdin' the spark o' life human clay be.\"\n\nSimeon Roxby had a keen, not unkindly face, and he had that look of\nextreme intelligence which is entirely distinct from intellectuality,\nand which one sometimes sees in a minor degree in a very clever dog or a\nfine horse. One might rely on him to understand instinctively everything\none might say to him, even in its subtler aesthetic values, although he\nhad consciously learned little. He was of the endowed natures to whom\nmuch is given, rather than of those who are set to acquire. He had many\nlines in his face--even his simple life had gone hard with him, its\nsorrows unassuaged by its simplicity. His hair was grizzled, and hung\nlong and straight on his collar. He wore a grizzled beard cut broad and\nshort. His boots had big spurs, although the lank old sorrel had never\nfelt them. He sat his horse like the cavalryman he had been for four\nyears of hard riding and raiding, but his face had a certain gentleness\nthat accented the Quaker-like suggestion of his garb, a look of\ncommuning with the higher things.\n\n\"I never blamed 'em,\" he went on, evidently reverting to the spectres of\nthe bridge--\"I never blamed 'em for comin' back wunst in a while. It\n'pears ter me 'twould take me a long time ter git familiar with heaven,\nan' sociable with them ez hev gone before. An', my Lord, jes' think what\nthe good green yearth is! Leastwise the mountings. I ain't settin' store\non the valley lands I seen whenst I went ter the wars. I kin remember\nyit what them streets in the valley towns smelt like.\"\n\nHe lifted his head, drawing a long breath to inhale the exquisite\nfragrance of the fir, the freshness of the pellucid water, the aroma of\nthe autumn wind, blowing through the sere leaves still clinging red and\nyellow to the boughs of the forest.\n\n\"Naw, I ain't blamin' 'em, though I don't hanker ter view 'em,\" he\nresumed. \"One of 'em I wouldn't be afeard of, though. I feel mighty\nsorry fur her. The old folks used ter tell about her. A young 'oman she\nwar, a-crossin' this bredge with her child in her arms. She war young,\nan' mus' have been keerless, I reckon; though ez 'twar her fust baby,\nshe moughtn't hev been practised in holdin' it an' sech, an' somehows it\nslipped through her arms an' fell inter the ruver, an' war killed in a\nminit, dashin' agin the rocks. She jes' stood fur a second a-screamin'\nlike a wild painter, an' jumped off'n the bredge arter it. She got it\nagin; for when they dragged her body out'n the ruver she hed it in her\narms too tight fur even death ter onloose. An' thar they air together in\nthe buryin'-ground.\"\n\nHe gave a nod toward the slope of the mountain that intercepted the\nmelancholy view of the graveyard.\n\n\"Got it yit!\" he continued; \"bekase\" (he lowered his voice) \"on windy\nnights, whenst the moon is on the wane, she is viewed kerryin' the baby\nalong the bredge--kerryin' it clear over, _safe an' sound_, like she\nthought she oughter done, I reckon, in that one minute, whilst she stood\nan' screamed an' surveyed what she hed done. That child would hev been\nnigh ter my age ef he hed lived.\"\n\nOnly the sunbeams wavered athwart the bridge now as the firs swayed\nabove, giving glimpses of the sky, and their fibrous shadows flickered\nback and forth. The wild mountain stream flashed white between the brown\nbowlders, and plunged down the gorge in a succession of cascades, each\nseeming more transparently green and amber and brown than the other. The\nchestnut horse gazed meditatively at these limpid out-gushings, having\ndrunk his fill; then thought better of his moderation, and once more\nthrust his head down to the water. The hand of his rider, which had made\na motion to gather up the reins, dropped leniently on his neck, as\nSimeon Roxby spoke again:\n\n\"Several--several others hev been viewed, actin' accordin' ter thar\nmotions in life. Now thar war a peddler--some say he slipped one icy\nevenin', 'bout dusk in winter--some say evil ones waylaid him fur his\ngear an' his goods in his pack, but the settlemint mostly believes he\nwar alone whenst he fell. His pack 'pears ter be full still, they\nsay--but ye air 'bleeged ter know he hev hed ter set that pack down fur\ngood 'fore this time. We kin take nuthin' out'n this world, no matter\nwhat kind o' a line o' goods we kerry in life. Heaven's no place fur\ntradin', I understan', an' I _do_ wonder sometimes how in the worl' them\nmerchants an' sech in the valley towns air goin' ter entertain tharse'fs\nin the happy land o'Canaan. It's goin' ter be sorter bleak fur them,\nsure's ye air born.\"\n\nWith a look of freshened recollection, he suddenly drew a plug of\ntobacco from his pocket, and he talked on even as he gnawed a piece from\nit.\n\n\"Durin' the war a cavalry-man got shot out hyar whilst runnin' 'crost\nthat thar foot-bredge. Thar hed been a scrimmage an' his horse war kilt,\nan' he tuk ter the bresh on foot, hopin' ter hide in the laurel. But ez\nhe war crossin' the foot-bredge some o' the pursuin' party war fordin'\nthe ruver over thar, an' thinkin' he'd make out ter escape they fired on\nhim, jes' ez the feller tried ter surrender. He turned this way an'\nflung up both arms--but thar's mighty leetle truce in a pistol-ball.\nThat minute it tuk him right through the brain. Seems toler'ble long\nrange fur a pistol, don't it? He kin be viewed now most enny moonlight\nnight out hyar on the foot-bredge, throwin' up both hands in sign of\nsurrender.\"\n\nThe wild-geese were a-wing on the way southward. Looking up to that\nnarrow section of the blue sky which the incision of the gorge into the\nvery depths of the woods made visible, he could see the tiny files\ndeploying along the azure or the flecking cirrus, and hear the vague\nclangor of their leader's cry. He lifted his head to mechanically follow\ntheir flight. Then, as his eyes came back to earth, they rested again on\nthe old bridge.\n\n\"Strange enough,\" he said, suddenly, \"the skerriest tale I hev ever\nhearn 'bout that thar old bredge is one that my niece set a-goin'. She\n_seen_ the harnt _herself_, an' it shakes me wuss 'n the idee o' all the\nrest.\"\n\nHis companion's gloomy gaze was lifted for a moment with an expression\nof inquiry from the slowly widening circles of the water about the\nhorse's head as he drank. But Roxby's eyes, with a certain gleam of\nexcitement, a superstitious dilation, still dwelt upon the bridge at the\nend of the upward vista. He went on merely from the impetus of the\nsubject. \"Yes, sir--she _seen_ it a-pacin' of its sorrowful way acrost\nthat bredge, same ez the t'others of the percession o' harnts. 'Twar my\nniece, Mill'cent--brother's darter--by name, Mill'cent Roxby. Waal,\nMill'cent an' a lot o' young fools o' her age--little over fryin'\nsize--they 'tended camp-meetin' down hyar on Tomahawk Creek--'tain't so\nlong ago--along with the old folks. An' 'bout twenty went huddled up\ntergether in a road-wagin. An', lo! the wagin it bruk down on the way\nhome, an' what with proppin' it up on a crotch, they made out ter reach\nthe cross-roads over yander at the Notch, an' thar the sober old folks\ncalled a halt, an' hed the wagin mended at the blacksmith-shop. Waal, it\ntuk some two hours, fur Pete Rodd ain't a-goin' ter hurry hisself--in my\nopinion the angel Gabriel will hev ter blow his bugle oftener'n wunst at\nthe last day 'fore Pete Rodd makes up his mind ter rise from the dead\nan' answer the roll-call--an' this hyar young lot sorter found it\ntiresome waitin' on thar elders' solemn company. The old folks, whilst\nwaitin', set outside on the porches of the houses at the settlemint, an'\nrepeated some o' the sermons they hed hearn at camp, an' more'n one\nraised a hyme chune. An' the young fry--they hed hed a steady diet o'\nsermons an' hyme chunes fur fower days--they tuk ter stragglin' off down\nthe road, two an' two, like the same sorter idjits the world over,\nleavin' word with the old folks that the wagin would overtake 'em an'\npick 'em up on the road when it passed. Waal, they walked several mile,\nan' time they got ter the crest o' the hill over yander the moon hed\nriz, an' they could look down an' see the mist in the valley. The moon\nwar bright in the buryin'-groun' when they passed it, an' the\nhead-boards stood up white an' stiff, an' a light frost hed fell on the\nmounds, an' they showed plain, an' shone sorter lonesome an' cold. The\nyoung folks begun ter look behind em' fur the wagin. Some said--I\nb'lieve 'twar Em'ry Keenan--they could read the names on the boards\nplain, 'twar so light, the moon bein' nigh the full: but Em'ry never\nread nuthin' at night by the moon in his life; he ain't enny too capable\no' wrastlin' with the alphabet with a strong daytime on his book ter\nlight him ter knowledge. An' the shadows war black an' still, an' all\nthe yearth looked ez ef nuthin' lived nor ever would agin, an' they\nhearn a wolf howl. Waal, that disaccommodated the gals mightily, an'\nthey hed a heap more interes' in that old wagin, all smellin' rank with\nwagin-grease an' tar, than they did in thar lovyers; an' they hed ruther\nhev hearn that old botch of a wheel that Pete Rodd hed set onto it\ncomin' a-creakin' an' a-complainin' along the road than the sweetest\nwords them boys war able ter make up or remember. So they stood thar in\nthe road--a-stare-gazin' them head-boards, like they expected every\ngrave ter open an' the reveilly ter sound--a-waitin' ter be overtook by\nthe wagin, a-listenin', but hearin' nuthin' in the silence o' the\nfrost--not a dead leaf a-twirlin', nor a frozen blade o' grass astir.\nAn' then two or three o' the gals 'lowed they hed ruther walk back ter\nmeet the wagin, an' whenst the boys 'lowed ter go on--nuthin' war likely\nter ketch 'em--one of 'em bust out a-cryin'. Waal, thar war the eend o'\nthat much! So the gay party set out on the back track, a-keepin' step\nter sobs an' sniffles, an' that's how kem _they_ seen no harnt. But\nMill'cent an' three or four o' the t'others 'lowed they'd go on. They\nwarn't two mile from home, an' full five from the cross-roads. So Em'ry\nKeenan--he hev been waitin' on her sence the year one--so he put his\nskeer in his pocket an' kem along with her, a-shakin' in his shoes, I'll\nbe bound! So down the hill in the frosty moonlight them few kem--purty\nnigh beat out, I reckon, Mill'cent war, what with the sermonizin' an'\nthe hyme-singin' an' hevin' ter look continual at the sheep's-eyes o'\nEm'ry Keenan--he wears my patience ter the bone! So she concluded ter\ntake the short-cut. An' Em'ry he agreed. So they tuk the lead, the rest\na followin', an' kem down thar through all that black growth\"--he lifted\nhis arm and pointed at the great slope, dense with fir and pine and the\nheavy underbrush--\"keepin' the bridle-path--easy enough even at night,\nfur the bresh is so thick they couldn't lose thar way. But the moonlight\nwar mightily slivered up, fallin' through the needles of the pines an'\nthe skeins of dead vines, an' looked bleached and onnatural, an' holped\nthe dark mighty leetle. An' they seen the water a-shinin' an' a-plungin'\ndown the gorge, an' the glistenin' of the frost on the floor o' the\nbredge. Thar war a few icicles on the hand-rail, an' the branches o' the\nfirs hung ez still ez death; only that cold, racin', shoutin', jouncin'\nwater moved. Jes ez they got toler'ble nigh the foot-bredge a sudden\ncloud kem over the face o' the sky. Thar warn't no wind on the yearth,\nbut up above the air war a-stirrin'. An' Em'ry he 'lowed Mill'cent\nshouldn't cross the foot-bredge whilst the light warn't clar--I wonder\nthe critter hed that much sense! An' she jes' drapped down on that rock\nthar ter rest\"--he pointed up the slope to a great fragment that had\nbroken off from the ledges and lay near the bank: the bulk of the\nmass was overgrown with moss and lichen, but the jagged edges of the\nrecent fracture gleamed white and crystalline among the brown and\nolive-green shadows about it. A tree was close beside it. \"Agin that\nthar pine trunk Em'ry he stood an' leaned. The rest war behind, a-comin'\ndown the hill. An' all of a suddenty a light fell on the furder eend o'\nthe foot-bredge--a waverin' light, mighty white an' misty in the\ndarksomeness. Mill'cent 'lowed ez fust she thunk it war the moon. An'\nlookin' up, she seen the cloud; it held the moon close kivered. An'\nlookin' down, she seen the light war movin'--movin' from the furder eend\no' the bredge, straight acrost it. Sometimes a hand war held afore it,\nez ef ter shield it from the draught, an' then Mill'cent 'seen twar a\ncandle, an' the white in the mistiness war a 'oman wearin' white an'\ncarryin' it. Lookin' ter right an' then ter lef' the 'oman kem, with now\nher right hand shieldin' the candle she held, an' now layin' it on the\nhand-rail. The candle shone on the water, fur it didn't flare, an' when\nthe 'oman held her hand before it the light made a bright spot on the\nfoot-bredge an' in the dark air about her, an' on the fir branches over\nher head. An' a thin mist seemed to hang about her white frock, but not\nover her face, fur when she reached the middle o' the foot-bredge she\nlaid her hand agin on the rail, an' in the clear light o' the candle\nMill'cent seen the harnt's face. An' thar she beheld her own face; _her\nown face_ she looked upon ez she waited thar under the tree watchin' the\nfoot-bredge; _her own face_ pale an' troubled; her own self dressed in\nwhite, crossin' the foot-bredge, an' lightin' her steps with a corpse's\ncandle.\" He drew up the reins abruptly. He seemed in sudden haste to go.\n\n[Illustration: THE PHANTOM OF THE FOOT-BRIDGE]\n\nHis companion looked with deepening interest at the bridge, although he\nfollowed his guide's surging pathway to the opposite bank. As the two\ndripping horses struggled up the steep incline he asked, \"Did the man\nwith her see the manifestation also?\"\n\n\"He _'lows_ he did,\" responded Roxby, equivocally. \"But when Mill'cent\nfust got so she could tell it, 'peared ter me ez Em'ry Keenan fund it ez\nmuch news ez the rest o' we-uns. Mill'cent jes' drapped stone-dead,\naccordin' ter all accounts, an' he an' the t'other young folks flung\nwater in her face till she kem out'n her faint; an' jes' then they hearn\nthe wagin a-rattlin' along the road, an' they stopped it an' fetched her\nhome in it. She never told the tale till she war home, an' it skeered me\nan' my mother powerful, fur Mill'cent is all the kin we hev got.\nMill'cent is gran'daddy an' gran'mammy, sons an' daughters, uncles an'\naunts, cousins, nieces, an' nephews, all in one. The only thing I ain't\npervided with is a nephew-in-law, an' I don't need him. Leastwise I\nain't lookin' fur Em'ry Keenan jes' at present.\"\n\nThe pace was brisker when the two horses, bending their strength\nsturdily to the task, had pressed up the massive slope from the deep\ncleft of the gorge. As the road curved about the outer verge of the\nmountain, the valley far beneath came into view, with intersecting\nvalleys and transverse ranges, dense with the growths of primeval\nwildernesses, and rugged with the tilted strata of great upheavals, and\nwith chasms cut in the solid rock by centuries of erosion, traces of\nsome remote cataclysmal period, registering thus its throes and\nturmoils. The blue sky, seen beyond a gaunt profile of one of the\nfarther summits that defined its craggy serrated edge against the\nultimate distances of the western heavens, seemed of a singularly suave\ntint, incongruous with the savagery of the scene, which clouds and\nportents of storm might better have befitted. The little graveyard,\nwhich John Dundas discerned with recognizing eyes, albeit they had never\nbefore rested upon it, was revealed suddenly, lying high on the opposite\nside of the gorge. No frost glimmered now on the lowly mounds; the\nflickering autumnal sunshine loitered unafraid among them, according to\nits languid wont for many a year. Shadows of the gray unpainted\nhead-boards lay on the withered grass, brown and crisp, with never a\ncicada left to break the deathlike silence. A tuft of red leaves,\nvagrant in the wind, had been caught on one of the primitive monuments,\nand swayed there with a decorative effect. The enclosure seemed, to\nunaccustomed eyes, of small compass, and few the denizens who had found\nshelter here and a resting-place, but it numbered all the dead of the\ncountry-side for many a mile and many a year, and somehow the loneliness\nwas assuaged to a degree by the reflection that they had known each\nother in life, unlike the great herds of cities, and that it was a\ncommon fate which the neighbors, huddled together, encountered in\ncompany.\n\nIt had no discordant effect in the pervasive sense of gloom, of mighty\nantagonistic forces with which the scene was replete; it fostered a\nrealization of the pitiable minuteness and helplessness of human nature\nin the midst of the vastness of inanimate nature and the evidences of\ninfinite lengths of forgotten time, of the long reaches of unimagined\nhistory, eventful, fateful, which the landscape at once suggested and\nrevealed and concealed.\n\nLike the sudden flippant clatter of castanets in the pause of some\nsolemn funeral music was the impression given by the first glimpse along\nthe winding woodland way of a great flimsy white building, with its many\npillars, its piazzas, its \"observatory,\" its band-stand, its garish\nintimations of the giddy, gay world of a summer hotel. But, alack! it,\ntoo, had its surfeit of woe.\n\n\"The guerrillas an' bushwhackers tuk it out on the old hotel, sure!\"\nobserved Sim Roxby, by way of introduction. \"Thar warn't much fightin'\nhyar-abouts, an' few sure-enough soldiers ever kem along. But wunst in a\nwhile a band o' guerrillas went through like a suddint wind-storm, an' I\ntell ye they made things whurl while they war about it. They made a\nsorter barracks o' the old place. Looks some like lightning hed struck\nit.\"\n\nHe had reined up his horse about one hundred yards in front of the\nedifice, where the weed-grown gravelled drive--carefully tended ten\nyears agone--had diverged from the straight avenue of poplars, sweeping\nin a circle around to the broad flight of steps.\n\n\"Though,\" he qualified abruptly, as if a sudden thought had struck him,\n\"ef ye air countin' on buyin' it, a leetle money spent ter keerful\npurpose will go a long way toward makin' it ez good ez new.\"\n\nHis companion did not reply, and for the first time Roxby cast upon him\na covert glance charged with the curiosity which would have been earlier\nand more easily aroused in another man by the manner of the stranger. A\nletter--infrequent missive in his experience--had come from an ancient\ncompanion-in-arms, his former colonel, requesting him in behalf of a\nfriend of the old commander to repair to the railway station, thirty\nmiles distant, to meet and guide this prospective purchaser of the old\nhotel to the site of the property. And now as Roxby looked at him the\nsuspicion which his kind heart had not been quick to entertain was\nseized upon by his alert brain.\n\n\"The cunnel's been fooled somehows,\" he said to himself.\n\nFor the look with which John Dundas contemplated the place was not the\ngaze of him concerned with possible investment--with the problems of\nrepair, the details of the glazier and the painter and the plasterer.\nThe mind was evidently neither braced for resistance nor resigned to\ndespair, as behooves one smitten by the foreknowledge of the certainty\nof the excess of the expenditures over the estimates. Only with pensive,\nlistless melancholy, void of any intention, his eyes traversed the long\nrows of open doors, riven by rude hands from their locks, swinging\nhelplessly to and fro in the wind, and giving to the deserted and\ndesolate old place a spurious air of motion and life. Many of the\nshutters had been wrenched from their hinges, and lay rotting on the\nfloors. The ball-room windows caught on their shattered glass the\nreflection of the clouds, and it seemed as if here and there a wan face\nlooked through at the riders wending along the weed-grown path. Where so\nmany faces had been what wonder that a similitude should linger in the\nloneliness! The pallid face seemed to draw back as they glanced up while\nslowly pacing around the drive. A rabbit sitting motionless on the front\npiazza did not draw back, although observing them with sedate eyes as he\npoised himself upright on his haunches, with his listless fore-paws\nsuspended in the air, and it occurred to Dundas that he was probably\nunfamiliar with the presence of human beings, and had never heard the\ncrack of a gun. A great swirl of swallows came soaring out of the big\nkitchen chimneys and circled in the sky, darting down again and again\nupward. Through an open passage was a glimpse of a quadrangle, with its\nweed-grown spaces and litter of yellow leaves. A tawny streak, a red\nfox, sped through it as Dundas looked. A half-moon, all a-tilt, hung\nabove it. He saw the glimmer through the bare boughs of the leafless\nlocust-trees here and there still standing, although outside on the lawn\nmany a stump bore token how ruthlessly the bushwhackers had furnished\ntheir fires.\n\n\"That thar moon's a-hangin' fur rain,\" said the mountaineer, commenting\nupon the aspect of the luminary, which he, too, had noticed as they\npassed. \"I ain't s'prised none ef we hev fallin' weather agin 'fore\nday, an' the man--by name Morgan Holden--that hev charge o' the hotel\nproperty can't git back fur a week an' better.\"\n\nA vague wonder to find himself so suspicious flitted through his mind,\nwith the thought that perhaps the colonel might have reckoned on this\ndelay. \"Surely the ruvers down yander at Knoxville mus' be a-boomin',\nwith all this wet weather,\" he said to himself.\n\nThen aloud: \"Morgan Holden he went ter Colbury ter 'tend ter some\nbusiness in court, an' the ruvers hev riz so that, what with the bredges\nbein' washed away an' the fords so onsartain an' tricky, he'll stay till\nthe ruver falls. He don't know ye war kemin', ye see. The mail-rider hev\nquit, 'count o' the rise in the ruver, an' thar's no way ter git word\nter him. Still, ef ye air minded ter wait, I'll be powerful obligated\nfur yer comp'ny down ter my house till the ruver falls an' Holden he\ngits back.\"\n\nThe stranger murmured his obligations, but his eyes dwelt lingeringly\nupon the old hotel, with its flapping doors and its shattered windows.\nThrough the recurrent vistas of these, placed opposite in the rooms,\ncame again broken glimpses of the grassy space within the quadrangle,\nwith its leafless locust-trees, first of all to yield their foliage to\nthe autumn wind, where a tiny owl was shrilling stridulously under the\nlonely red sky and the melancholy moon.\n\n\"Hed ye 'lowed ter put up at the old hotel?\" asked Roxby, some inherent\nquickness supplying the lack of a definite answer.\n\nFor the first time the stranger turned upon him a look more expressive\nthan the casual fragmentary attention with which he had half heeded,\nhalf ignored his talk since their first encounter at the railway\nstation.\n\n\"A simple fellow, but good as gold,\" was the phrase with which Simeon\nRoxby had been commended as guide and in some sort guard.\n\n\"Not so simple, perhaps,\" the sophisticated man thought as their eyes\nmet. Not so simple but that the truth must serve. \"The colonel suggested\nthat it might be best,\" he replied, more alert to the present moment\nthan his languid preoccupation had heretofore permitted.\n\nThe answer was good as far as it went. A few days spent in the old\nhostelry certainly would serve well to acquaint the prospective\npurchaser with its actual condition and the measures and means needed\nfor its repair; but as Sim Roxby stood there, with the cry of the owl\nshrilling in the desert air, the lonely red sky, the ominous tilted\nmoon, the doors drearily flapping to and fro as the wind stole into the\nforlorn and empty place and sped back affrighted, he marvelled at the\nrefuge contemplated.\n\n\"I believe there is some of the furniture here yet. We could contrive to\nset up a bed from what is left. The colonel could make it all right with\nHolden, and I could stay a day or two, as we originally planned.\"\n\n\"Ye-es. I don't mind Holden: a man ain't much in charge of a place ez\nain't got a lock or a key ter bless itself with, an' takes the owel an'\nthe fox an' the gopher fur boarders; but, ennyhow, kem with me home ter\nsupper. Mill'cent will hev it ready by now ennyhows, an' ye need\nsuthin' hearty an' hot ter stiffen ye up ter move inter sech quarters ez\nthese.\" Dundas hesitated, but the mountaineer had already taken assent\nfor granted, and pushed his horse into a sharp trot. Evidently a refusal\nwas not in order. Dundas pressed forward, and they rode together along\nthe winding way past the ten-pin alley, its long low roof half hidden in\nthe encroaching undergrowth springing up apace beneath the great trees;\npast the stables; past a line of summer cottages, strangely staring of\naspect out of the yawning doors and windows, giving, instead of an\nimpression of vacancy, a sense of covert watching, of secret occupancy.\nIf one's glances were only quick enough, were there not faces pressed to\nthose shattered panes--scarcely seen--swiftly withdrawn?\n\nHe was in a desert; he had hardly been so utterly alone in all his life;\nyet he bore through the empty place a feeling of espionage, and ever and\nanon he glanced keenly at the overgrown lawns, with their deepening\ndrifts of autumn leaves, at the staring windows and flaring doors, which\nemitted sometimes sudden creaking wails in the silence, as if he sought\nto assure himself of the vacancy of which his mind took cognizance and\nyet all his senses denied.\n\nLittle of his sentiment, although sedulously cloaked, was lost on Sim\nRoxby; and he was aware, too, in some subtle way, of the relief his\nguest experienced when they plunged into the darkening forest and left\nthe forlorn place behind them. The clearing in which it was situated\nseemed an oasis of light in the desert of night in which the rest of\nthe world lay. From the obscurity of the forest Dundas saw, through the\nvistas of the giant trees, the clustering cottages, the great hotel,\ngables and chimneys and tower, stark and distinct as in some weird\ndream-light in the midst of the encircling gloom. The after-glow of\nsunset was still aflare on the western windows; the whole empty place\nwas alight with a reminiscence of its old aspect--its old gay life. Who\nknows what memories were a-stalk there--what semblance of former times?\nWhat might not the darkness foster, the impunity of desertion, the\nassociations that inhabited the place with almost the strength of human\noccupancy itself? Who knows--who knows?\n\nHe remembered the scene afterward, the impression he received. And from\nthis, he thought, arose his regret for his decision to take up here his\nabiding-place.\n\nThe forest shut out the illumined landscape, and the night seemed indeed\nat hand; the gigantic boles of the trees loomed through the encompassing\ngloom, that was yet a semi-transparent medium, like some dark but clear\nfluid through which objects were dimly visible, albeit tinged with its\nown sombre hue. The lank, rawboned sorrel had set a sharp pace, to which\nthe chestnut, after momentary lagging, as if weary with the day's\ntravel, responded briskly. He had received in some way intimations that\nhis companion's corn-crib was near at hand, and if he had not deduced\nfrom these premises the probability of sharing his fare, his mental\nprocesses served him quite as well as reason, and brought him to the\nsame result. On and on they sped, neck and neck, through the darkening\nwoods; fire flashed now and again from their iron-shod hoofs; often a\nsplash and a shower of drops told of a swift dashing through the\nmud-holes that recent rains had fostered in the shallows. The dank odor\nof dripping boughs came on the clear air. Once the chestnut shied from a\nsudden strange shining point springing up in the darkness close at hand,\nwhich the country-bred horse discriminated as fox-fire, and kept\nsteadily on, unmindful of the rotting log where it glowed. Far in\nadvance, in the dank depths of the woods, a Will-o'-the-wisp danced and\nflickered and lured the traveller's eye. The stranger was not sure of\nthe different quality of another light, appearing down a vista as the\nroad turned, until the sorrel, making a tremendous spurt, headed for it,\nuttering a joyous neigh at the sight.\n\nThe deep-voiced barking of hounds rose melodiously on the silence, and\nas the horses burst out of the woods into a small clearing, Dundas\nbeheld in the brighter light a half-dozen of the animals nimbly afoot in\nthe road, one springing over the fence, another in the act of climbing,\nhis fore-paws on the topmost rail, his long neck stretched, and his head\nturning about in attitudes of observation. He evidently wished to assure\nhimself whether the excitement of his friends was warranted by the facts\nbefore he troubled himself to vault over the fence. Three or four still\nlingered near the door of a log-cabin, fawning about a girl who stood on\nthe porch. Her pose was alert, expectant; a fire in the dooryard, where\nthe domestic manufacture of soap had been in progress, cast a red flare\non the house, its appurtenances, the great dark forest looming all\naround, and, more than the glow of the hearth within, lighted up the\ncentral figure of the scene. She was tall, straight, and strong; a\nwealth of fair hair was clustered in a knot at the back of her head, and\nfleecy tendrils fell over her brow; on it was perched a soldier's cap;\nand certainly more gallant and fearless eyes had never looked out from\nunder the straight, stiff brim. Her chin, firm, round, dimpled, was\nuplifted as she raised her head, descrying the horsemen's approach. She\nwore a full dark-red skirt, a dark brown waist, and around her neck was\ntwisted a gray cotton kerchief, faded to a pale ashen hue, the\nneutrality of which somehow aided the delicate brilliancy of the blended\nroseate and pearly tints of her face. Was this the seer of\nghosts--Dundas marvelled--this the Millicent whose pallid and troubled\nphantom already paced the foot-bridge?\n\nHe did not realize that he had drawn up his horse suddenly at the sight\nof her, nor did he notice that his host had dismounted, until Roxby was\nat the chestnut's head, ready to lead the animal to supper in the barn.\nHis evident surprise, his preoccupation, were not lost upon Roxby,\nhowever. His hand hesitated on the girth of the chestnut's saddle when\nhe stood between the two horses in the barn. He had half intended to\ndisregard the stranger's declination of his invitation, and stable the\ncreature. Then he shook his head slowly; the mystery that hung about\nthe new-comer was not reassuring. \"A heap o' wuthless cattle 'mongst\nthem valley men,\" he said; for the war had been in some sort an\neducation to his simplicity. \"Let him stay whar the cunnel expected him\nter stay. I ain't wantin' no stranger a-hangin' round about Mill'cent,\nnohow. Em'ry Keenan ain't a pattern o' perfection, but I be toler'ble\nwell acquainted with the cut o' his foolishness, an' I know his daddy\nan' mammy, an' both sets o' gran'daddies an' gran'mammies, an' I could\ntell ye exac'ly which one the critter got his nose an' his mouth from,\nan' them lean sheep's-eyes o' his'n, an' nigh every tone o' his voice.\nEm'ry never thunk afore ez I set store on bein' acquainted with him. He\n'lowed I knowed him _too_ well.\"\n\nHe laughed as he glanced through the open door into the darkening\nlandscape. Horizontal gray clouds were slipping fast across the pearly\nspaces of the sky. The yellow stubble gleamed among the brown earth of\nthe farther field, still striped with its furrows. The black forest\nencircled the little cleared space, and a wind was astir among the\ntree-tops. A white star gleamed through the broken clapboards of the\nroof, the fire still flared under the soap-kettle in the dooryard, and\nthe silence was suddenly smitten by a high cracked old voice, which told\nhim that his mother had perceived the dismounted stranger at the gate,\nand was graciously welcoming him.\n\nShe had come to the door, where the girl still stood, but half withdrawn\nin the shadow. Dundas silently bowed as he passed her, following his\naged hostess into the low room, all bedight with the firelight of a\nhuge chimney-place, and comfortable with the realization of a journey's\nend. The wilderness might stretch its weary miles around, the weird wind\nwander in the solitudes, the star look coldly on unmoved by aught it\nbeheld, the moon show sad portents, but at the door they all failed, for\nhere waited rest and peace and human companionship and the sense of\nhome.\n\n\"Take a cheer, stranger, an' make yerself at home. Powerful glad ter see\nye--war 'feard night would overtake ye. Ye fund the water toler'ble high\nin all the creeks an' sech, I reckon, an' fords shifty an' onsartain.\nYes, sir. Fall rains kem on earlier'n common, an' more'n we need. Wisht\nwe could divide it with that thar drought we had in the summer. Craps\nwar cut toler'ble short, sir--toler'ble short.\"\n\nMrs. Roxby's spectacles beamed upon him with an expression of the utmost\nbenignity as the firelight played on the lenses, but her eyes peering\nover them seemed endowed in some sort with independence of outlook. It\nwas as if from behind some bland mask a critical observation was poised\nfor unbiased judgment. He felt in some degree under surveillance. But\nwhen a light step heralded an approach he looked up, regardless of the\nbetrayal of interest, and bent a steady gaze upon Millicent as she\npaused in the doorway.\n\nAnd as she stood there, distinct in the firelight and outlined against\nthe black background of the night, she seemed some modern half-military\nideal of Diana, with her two gaunt hounds beside her, the rest of the\npack vaguely glimpsed at her heels outside, the perfect outline and\nchiselling of her features, her fine, strong, supple figure, the look of\nsteady courage in her eyes, and the soldier's cap on her fair hair. Her\nface so impressed itself upon his mind that he seemed to have seen her\noften. It was some resemblance to a picture of a vivandiere, doubtless,\nin a foreign gallery--he could not say when or where; a remnant of a\ntourist's overcrowded impressions; a half-realized reminiscence, he\nthought, with an uneasy sense of recognition.\n\n\"Hello, Mill'cent! home agin!\" Roxby cried, in cheery greeting as he\nentered at the back door opposite. \"What sorter topknot is that ye got\non?\" he demanded, looking jocosely at her head-gear.\n\nThe girl put up her hand with an expression of horror. A deep red flush\ndyed her cheek as she touched the cap. \"I forgot 'twar thar,\" she\nmurmured, contritely. Then, with a sudden rush of anger as she tore it\noff: \"'Twar granny's fault. She axed me ter put it on, so ez ter see\nwhich one I looked most like.\"\n\n\"Stranger,\" quavered the old woman, with a painful break in her voice,\n\"I los' fower sons in the war, an' Mill'cent hev got the fambly favor.\"\n\n\"Ye _mought_ hev let me know ez I war a-perlitin' round in this hyar\nmen's gear yit,\" the girl muttered, as she hung the cap on a prong of\nthe deer antlers on which rested the rifle of the master of the house.\n\nRoxby's face had clouded at the mention of the four sons who had gone\nout from the mountains never to return, leaving to their mother's\naching heart only the vague comfort of an elusive resemblance in a\ngirl's face; but as he noted Millicent's pettish manner, and divined her\nmortification because of her unseemly head-gear in the stranger's\npresence, he addressed her again in that jocose tone without which he\nseldom spoke to her.\n\n\"Warn't you-uns apologizin' ter me t'other day fur not bein' a nephew\n'stiddier a niece? Looked sorter like a nephew ter-night.\"\n\nShe shook her head, covered now only with its own charming tresses\nwaving in thick undulations to the coil at the nape of her neck--a\ntrifle dishevelled from the rude haste with which the cap had been torn\noff.\n\nRoxby had seated himself, and with his elbows on his knees he looked up\nat her with a teasing jocularity, such as one might assume toward a\nchild.\n\n\"_Ye war_,\" he declared, with affected solemnity--\"ye war 'pologizin'\nfur not bein' a nephew, an' 'lowed ef ye war a nephew we could go\na-huntin' tergether, an' ye could holp me in all my quar'ls an' fights.\nI been aging some lately, an' ef I war ter go ter the settlemint an' git\ninter a fight I mought not be able ter hold my own. Think what 'twould\nbe ter a pore old man ter hev a dutiful nephew step up an'\"--he doubled\nhis fists and squared off--\"jes' let daylight through some o' them\ncusses. An' didn't _ye say_\"--he dropped his belligerent attitude and\npointed an insistent finger at her, as if to fix the matter in her\nrecollection--\"ef ye war a nephew 'stiddier a niece ye could fire a gun\n'thout shettin' yer eyes? An' I told ye then ez that would mend yer aim\nmightily. I told ye that I'd be powerful mortified ef I hed a nephew ez\nhed ter shet his eyes ter keep the noise out'n his ears whenst he fired\na rifle. The tale would go mighty hard with me at the settlemint.\"\n\nThe girl's eyes glowed upon him with the fixity and the lustre of those\nof a child who is entertained and absorbed by an elder's jovial wiles. A\nflash of laughter broke over her face, and the low, gurgling,\nhalf-dreamy sound was pleasant to hear. She was evidently no more than a\nchild to these bereft old people, and by them cherished as naught else\non earth.\n\n\"An' didn't _I_ tell _you-uns_,\" he went on, affecting to warm to the\ndiscussion, and in reality oblivious of the presence of the\nguest--\"didn't I tell ye ez how ef ye war a nephew 'stiddier a niece ye\nwouldn't hev sech cattle ez Em'ry Keenan a-danglin' round underfoot,\nlike a puppy ye can't gin away, an' that _won't_ git lost, an' ye ain't\ngot the heart ter kill?\"\n\nThe girl's lip suddenly curled with scorn. \"Yer nephew would be\nobligated ter make a ch'ice fur marryin' 'mongst these hyar mounting\ngals--Parmely Lepstone, or Belindy M'ria Matthews, or one o' the Windrow\ngals. Waal, sir, I'd ruther be yer niece--even ef Em'ry Keenan _air_\nlike a puppy underfoot, that ye can't gin away, an' won't git lost, an'\nye ain't got the heart ter kill.\" She laughed again, showing her white\nteeth. She evidently relished the description of the persistent\nadherence of poor Emory Keenan. \"But which one o' these hyar gals would\nye recommend ter yer nephew ter marry--ef ye hed a nephew?\"\n\nShe looked at him with flashing eyes, conscious of having propounded a\nposer.\n\nHe hesitated for a moment. Then--\"I'm surrounded,\" he said, with a\nlaugh. \"Ez I couldn't find a wife fur myself, I can't ondertake ter\nrecommend one ter my nephew. Mighty fine boy he'd hev been, an'\nsaaft-spoken an' perlite ter aged men--not sassy an' makin' game o' old\nuncles like a niece. Mighty fine boy!\"\n\n\"Ye air welcome ter him,\" she said, with a simulation of scorn, as she\nturned away to the table.\n\nWhether it were the military cap she had worn, or the fancied\nresemblance to the young soldiers, never to grow old, who had gone forth\nfrom this humble abode to return no more, there was still to the guest's\nmind the suggestion of the vivandiere about her as she set the table and\nspread upon it the simple fare. To and from the fireplace she was\nfollowed by two or three of the younger dogs, their callowness expressed\nin their lack of manners and perfervid interest in the approaching meal.\nThis induced their brief journeys back and forth, albeit embarrassed by\ntheir physical conformation, short turns on four legs not being\napparently the easy thing it would seem from so much youthful\nsuppleness. The dignity of the elder hounds did not suffer them to move,\nbut they looked on from erect postures about the hearth with glistening\neyes and slobbering jaws.\n\nEver and anon the deep blue eyes of Millicent were lifted to the outer\ngloom, as if she took note of its sinister aspect. She showed scant\ninterest in the stranger, whose gaze seldom left her as he sat beside\nthe fire. He was a handsome man, his face and figure illumined by the\nfirelight, and it might have been that he felt a certain pique, an\nunaccustomed slight, in that his presence was so indifferent an element\nin the estimation of any young and comely specimen of the feminine sex.\nCertainly he had rarely encountered such absolute preoccupation as her\nsmiling far-away look betokened as she went back and forth with her\nyoung canine friends at her heels, or stood at the table deftly slicing\nthe salt-rising bread, the dogs poised skilfully upon their hind-legs to\nbetter view the appetizing performance; whenever she turned her face\ntoward them they laid their heads languishingly askew, as if to remind\nher that supper could not be more fitly bestowed than on them. One, to\nsteady himself, placed unobserved his fore-paw on the edge of the table,\nhis well-padded toes leaving a vague imprint as of fingers upon the\ncoarse white cloth; but John Dundas was a sportsman, and could the\nbetter relax an exacting nicety where so pleasant-featured and affable a\nbeggar was concerned. He forgot the turmoils of his own troubles as he\ngazed at Millicent, the dreary aspect of the solitudes without, the\nexile from his accustomed sphere of culture and comfort, the poverty and\ncoarseness of her surroundings. He was sorry that he had declined a\nlonger lease of Roxby's hospitality, and it was in his mind to\nreconsider when it should be again proffered. Her attitude, her gesture,\nher face, her environment, all appealed to his sense of beauty, his\ninterest, his curiosity, as little ever had done heretofore. Slice after\nslice of the firm fragrant bread was deftly cut and laid on the plate,\nas again and again she lifted her eyes with a look that might seem to\nexpect to rest on summer in the full flush of a June noontide without,\nrather than on the wan, wintry night sky and the plundered, quaking\nwoods, while the robber wind sped on his raids hither and thither so\nswiftly that none might follow, so stealthily that none might hinder. A\nsudden radiance broke upon her face, a sudden shadow fell on the firelit\nfloor, and there was entering at the doorway a tall, lithe young\nmountaineer, whose first glance, animated with a responsive brightness,\nwas for the girl, but whose punctilious greeting was addressed to the\nold woman.\n\n\"Howdy, Mis' Roxby--howdy? Air yer rheumatics mendin' enny?\" he\ndemanded, with the condolent suavity of the would-be son-in-law, or\ngrandson-in-law, as the case may be. And he hung with a transfixed\ninterest upon her reply, prolix and discursive according to the wont of\nthose who cultivate \"rheumatics,\" as if each separate twinge racked his\nown sympathetic and filial sensibilities. Not until the tale was ended\ndid he set his gun against the wall and advance to the seat which Roxby\nhad indicated with the end of the stick he was whittling. He observed\nthe stranger with only slight interest, till Dundas drew up his chair\nopposite at the table. There the light from the tallow dip, guttering in\nthe centre, fell upon his handsome face and eyes, his carefully tended\nbeard and hair, his immaculate cuffs and delicate hand, the seal-ring\non his taper finger.\n\n\"Like a gal, by gum!\" thought Emory Keenan. \"Rings on his fingers--yit\nsix feet high!\"\n\nHe looked at his elders, marvelling that they so hospitably repressed\nthe disgust which this effeminate adornment must occasion, forgetting\nthat it was possible that they did not even observe it. In the gala-days\nof the old hotel, before the war, they had seen much \"finicking finery\"\nin garb and equipage and habits affected by the _jeunesse doree_ who\nfrequented the place in those halcyon times, and were accustomed to such\ndetails. It might be that they and Millicent approved such flimsy\ndaintiness. He began to fume inwardly with a sense of inferiority in her\nestimation. One of his fingers had been frosted last winter, and with\nthe first twinge of cold weather it was beginning to look very red and\nsad and clumsy, as if it had just remembered its ancient woe; he glanced\nfrom it once more at the delicate ringed hand of the stranger.\n\nDundas was looking up with a slow, deferential, decorous smile that\nnevertheless lightened and transfigured his expression. It seemed\nsomehow communicated to Millicent's face as she looked down at him from\nbeneath her white eyelids and long, thick, dark lashes, for she was\nstanding beside him, handing him the plate of bread. Then, still\nsmiling, she passed noiselessly on to the others.\n\nEmory was indeed clumsy, for he had stretched his hand downward to offer\na morsel to a friend of his under the table--he was on terms of\nexceeding amity with the four-footed members of the house hold--and in\nhis absorption not withdrawing it as swiftly as one accustomed to canine\nmanners should do, he had his frosted finger well mumbled before he\ncould, as it were, repossess himself of it.\n\n\"I wonder what they charge fur iron over yander at the settlemint,\nEm'ry?\" observed Sim Roxby presently.\n\n\"Dun'no', sir,\" responded Emory, glumly, his sullen black eyes full of\nsmouldering fire--\"hevin' no call ter know, ez I ain't no blacksmith.\"\n\n\"I war jes' wonderin' ef tenpenny nails didn't cost toler'ble high ez\nreg'lar feed,\" observed Roxby, gravely.\n\nBut his mother laughed out with a gleeful cracked treble, always a ready\nsequence of her son's rustic sallies. \"He got ye that time, Em'ry,\" she\ncried.\n\nA forced smile crossed Emory's face. He tossed back his tangled dark\nhair with a gasp that was like the snort of an unruly horse submitting\nto the inevitable, but with restive projects in his brain. \"I let the\ndog hyar ketch my finger whilst feedin' him,\" he said. His plausible\nexcuse for the tenpenny expression was complete; but he added, his\ndarker mood recurring instantly, \"An', Mis' Roxby, I hev put a stop ter\nthem ez hev tuk ter callin' me Em'ly, I hev.\"\n\nThe old woman looked up, her small wrinkled mouth round and amazed. \"_I_\nnever called ye Emily,\" she declared.\n\nSwift repentance seized him.\n\n\"Naw, 'm,\" he said, with hurried propitiation. \"I 'lowed ye did.\"\n\n\"I didn't,\" said the old woman. \"But ef I war ter find it toothsome ter\ncall ye 'Emily,' I dun'no' how ye air goin' ter pervent it. Ye can't go\ngunnin' fur me, like ye done fur the men at the mill, fur callin' ye\n'Emily.'\"\n\n\"Law, Mis' Roxby!\" he could only exclaim, in his horror and contrition\nat this picture he had thus conjured up. \"Ye air welcome ter call me\nennything ye air a mind ter,\" he protested.\n\nAnd then he gasped once more. The eyes of the guest, contemptuous,\namused, seeing through him, were fixed upon him. And he himself had\nfurnished the lily-handed stranger with the information that he had been\nstigmatized \"Em'ly\" in the banter of his associates, until he had taken\nup arms, as it were, to repress this derision.\n\n\"It takes powerful little ter put ye down, Em'ry,\" said Roxby, with\nrallying laughter. \"Mam hev sent ye skedaddlin' in no time at all. I\ndon't b'lieve the Lord made woman out'n the man's rib. He made her out'n\nthe man's backbone; fur the man ain't hed none ter speak of sence.\"\n\nMillicent, with a low gurgle of laughter, sat down beside Emory at the\ntable, and fixed her eyes, softly lighted with mirth, upon him. The\nothers too had laughed, the stranger with a flattering intonation, but\nyoung Keenan looked at her with a dumb appealing humility that did not\naltogether fail of its effect, for she busied herself to help his plate\nwith an air of proprietorship as if he were a child, and returned it\nwith a smile very radiant and sufficient at close range. She then\naddressed herself to her own meal. The young dogs under the table ceased\nto beg, and gambolled and gnawed and tugged at her stout little shoes,\nthe sound of their callow mirthful growls rising occasionally above the\ntalk. Sometimes she rose again to wait on the table, when they came\nleaping out after her, jumping and catching at her skirts, now and then\ncasting themselves on the ground prone before her feet, and rolling over\nand over in the sheer joy of existence.\n\nThe stranger took little part in the talk at the table. Never a question\nwas asked him as to his mission in the mountains, or the length of his\nstay, his vocation, or his home. That extreme courtesy of the\nmountaineers, exemplified in their singular abstinence from any\nexpressions of curiosity, accepted such account of himself as he had\nvolunteered, and asked for no more. In the face of this standard of\nmanners any inquisitiveness on his part, such as might have elicited\npoints of interest for his merely momentary entertainment, was tabooed.\nNevertheless, silent though he was for the most part, the relish with\nwhich he listened, his half-covert interest in the girl, his quick\nobservation of the others, the sudden very apparent enlivening of his\nmental atmosphere, betokened that his quarters were not displeasing to\nhim. It seemed only a short time before the meal was ended and the\ncircle all, save Millicent, with pipes alight before the fire again. The\ndogs, well fed, had ranged themselves on the glowing hearth, lying prone\non the hot stones; one old hound, however, who conserved the air of\nlistening to the conversation, sat upright and nodded from time to time,\nnow and again losing his balance and tipping forward in a truly human\nfashion, then gazing round on the circle with an open luminous eye, as\nwho should say he had not slept.\n\nIt was all very cheerful within, but outside the wind still blared\nmournfully. Once more Dundas was sorry that he had declined the\ninvitation to remain, and it was with a somewhat tentative intention\nthat he made a motion to return to the hotel. But his host seemed to\nregard his resolution as final, and rose with a regret, not an\ninsistence. The two women stared in silent amazement at the mere idea of\nhis camping out, as it were, in the old hotel. The ascendency of\nmasculine government here, notwithstanding Roxby's assertion that Eve\nwas made of Adam's backbone, was very apparent in their mute\nacquiescence and the alacrity with which they began to collect various\narticles, according to his directions, to make the stranger's stay more\ncomfortable.\n\n\"Em'ry kin go along an' holp,\" he said, heartlessly; for poor Emory's\njoy in perceiving that the guest was not a fixture, and that his\npresence was not to be an embargo on any word between himself and\nMillicent during the entire evening, was pitiably manifest. But the\nsituation was still not without its comforts, since Dundas was to go\ntoo. Hence he was not poor company when once in the saddle, and was\ncivil to a degree of which his former dismayed surliness had given no\npromise.\n\nNight had become a definite element. The twilight had fled. Above their\nheads, as they galloped through the dank woods, the bare boughs of the\ntrees clashed together--so high above their heads that to the town man,\nunaccustomed to these great growths, the sound seemed not of the\nvicinage, but unfamiliar, uncanny, and more than once he checked his\nhorse to listen. As they approached the mountain's verge and overlooked\nthe valley and beheld the sky, the sense of the predominance of darkness\nwas redoubled. The ranges gloomed against the clearer spaces, but a\ncloud, deep gray with curling white edges, was coming up from the west,\nwith an invisible convoy of vague films, beneath which the stars,\nglimmering white points, disappeared one by one. The swift motion of\nthis aerial fleet sailing with the wind might be inferred from the\nseemingly hurried pace of the moon making hard for the west. Still\nbright was the illumined segment, but despite its glitter the shadowy\nspace of the full disk was distinctly visible, its dusky field spangled\nwith myriads of minute, dully golden points. Down, down it took its way\nin haste--in disordered fright, it seemed, as if it had no heart to\nwitness the storm which the wind and the clouds foreboded--to fairer\nskies somewhere behind those western mountains. Soon even its vague\nlight would encroach no more upon the darkness. The great hotel would be\ninvisible, annihilated as it were in the gloom, and not even thus dimly\nexist, glimmering, alone, forlorn, so incongruous to the wilderness that\nit seemed even now some mere figment of the brain, as the two horsemen\ncame with a freshened burst of speed along the deserted avenue and\nreined up beside a small gate at the side.\n\n\"No use ter ride all the way around,\" observed Emory Keenan. \"Mought jes\nez well 'light an' hitch hyar.\"\n\nThe moon gave him the escort of a great grotesque shadow as he threw\nhimself from his horse and passed the reins over a decrepit\nhitching-post near at hand. Then he essayed the latch of the small gate.\nHe glanced up at Dundas, the moonlight in his dark eyes, with a smile as\nit resisted his strength.\n\nHe was a fairly good-looking fellow when rid of the self-consciousness\nof jealousy. His eyes, mouth, chin, and nose, acquired from reliable and\nrecognizable sources, were good features, and statuesque in their\nimmobility beneath the drooping curves of his broad soft hat. He was\ntall, with the slenderness of youth, despite his evident weight and\nstrength. He was long-waisted and lithe and small of girth, with broad\nsquare shoulders, whose play of muscles as he strove with the gate was\nnot altogether concealed by the butternut jeans coat belted in with his\npistols by a broad leathern belt. His boots reached high on his long\nlegs, and jingled with a pair of huge cavalry spurs. His stalwart\nstrength seemed as if it must break the obdurate gate rather than open\nit, but finally, with a rasping creak, dismally loud in the silence, it\nswung slowly back.\n\nThe young mountaineer stood gazing for a moment at the red rust on the\nhinges. \"How long sence this gate must hev been opened afore?\" he said,\nagain looking up at Dundas with a smile.\n\nSomehow the words struck a chill to the stranger's heart. The sense of\nthe loneliness of the place, of isolation, filled him with a sort of\nawe. The night-bound wilderness itself was not more daunting than these\nsolitary tiers of piazzas, these vacant series of rooms and corridors,\nall instinct with vanished human presence, all alert with echoes of\nhuman voices. A step, a laugh, a rustle of garments--he could have sworn\nhe heard them at any open doorway as he followed his guide along the dim\nmoonlit piazza, with its pillars duplicated at regular intervals by the\nshadows on the floor. How their tread echoed down these lonely ways!\nFrom the opposite side of the house he heard Keenan's spurs jangling,\nhis soldierly stride sounding back as if their entrance had roused\nbarracks. He winced once to see his own shadow with its stealthier\nmovement. It seemed painfully furtive. For the first time during the\nevening his jaded mind, that had instinctively sought the solace of\ncontemplating trifles, reverted to its own tormented processes. \"Am I\nnot hiding?\" he said to himself, in a sort of sarcastic pity of his\nplight.\n\nThe idea seemed never to enter the mind of the transparent Keenan. He\nlaughed out gayly as they turned into the weed-grown quadrangle, and the\nred fox that Dundas had earlier observed slipped past him with\naffrighted speed and dashed among the shadows of the dense shrubbery of\nthe old lawn without. Again and again the sound rang back from wall to\nwall, first with the jollity of seeming imitation, then with an appalled\neffect sinking to silence, and suddenly rising again in a grewsome\n_staccato_ that suggested some terrible unearthly laughter, and bore but\nscant resemblance to the hearty mirth which had evoked it. Keenan paused\nand looked back with friendly gleaming eyes. \"Oughter been a leetle\nhandier with these hyar consarns,\" he said, touching the pistols in his\nbelt.\n\nIt vaguely occurred to Dundas that the young man went strangely heavily\narmed for an evening visit at a neighbor's house. But it was a lawless\ncountry and lawless times, and the sub-current of suggestion did not\ndefinitely fix itself in his mind until he remembered it later. He was\nlooking into each vacant open doorway, seeing the still moonlight\nstarkly white upon the floor; the cobwebbed and broken window-panes,\nthrough which a section of leafless trees beyond was visible; bits of\nfurniture here and there, broken by the vandalism of the guerillas. Now\nand then a scurrying movement told of a gopher, hiding too, and on one\nmantel-piece, the black fireplace yawning below, sat a tiny tawny-tinted\nowl, whose motionless bead-like eyes met his with a stare of stolid\nsurprise. After he had passed, its sudden ill-omened cry set the silence\nto shuddering.\n\nKeenan, leading the way, paused in displeasure. \"I wisht I hed viewed\nthat critter,\" he said, glumly. \"I'd hev purvented that screechin' ter\ncall the devil, sure. It's jes a certain sign o' death.\"\n\nHe was about to turn, to wreak his vengeance, perchance. But the bird,\nsufficiently fortunate itself, whatever woe it presaged for others,\nsuddenly took its awkward flight through sheen and shadow across the\nquadrangle, and when they heard its cry again it came from some remote\nsection of the building, with a doleful echo as a refrain.\n\nThe circumstance was soon forgotten by Keenan. He seemed a happy,\nmercurial, lucid nature, and he began presently to dwell with interest\non the availability of the old music-stand in the centre of the square\nas a manger. \"Hyar,\" he said, striking the rotten old structure with a\nheavy hand, which sent a quiver and a thrill through all the\ntimbers--\"hyar's whar the guerillas always hitched thar beastises. Thar\nfeed an' forage war piled up thar on the fiddlers' seats. Ye can't do no\nbetter'n ter pattern arter them, till ye git ready ter hev fiddlers an'\nsech a-sawin' away in hyar agin.\"\n\nAnd he sauntered away from the little pavilion, followed by Dundas, who\nhad not accepted his suggestion of a room on the first floor as being\nless liable to leakage, but finally made choice of an inner apartment in\nthe second story. He looked hard at Keenan, when he stood in the doorway\nsurveying the selection. The room opened into a cross-hall which gave\nupon a broad piazza that was latticed; tiny squares of moonlight were\nall sharply drawn on the floor, and, seen through a vista of gray\nshadow, seemed truly of a gilded lustre. From the windows of this room\non a court-yard no light could be visible to any passer-by without.\nAnother door gave on an inner gallery, and through its floor a staircase\ncame up from the quadrangle close to the threshold. Dundas wondered if\nthese features were of possible significance in Keenan's estimation. The\nyoung mountaineer turned suddenly, and snatching up a handful of slats\nbroken from the shutters, remarked:\n\n\"Let's see how the chimbly draws--that's the main p'int.\"\n\nThere was no defect in the chimney's constitution. It drew admirably,\nand with the white and red flames dancing in the fireplace, two or three\nchairs, more or less disabled, a table, and an upholstered lounge\ngathered at random from the rooms near at hand, the possibility of\nsojourning comfortably for a few days in the deserted hostelry seemed\namply assured.\n\nOnce more Dundas gazed fixedly at the face of the young mountaineer, who\nstill bent on one knee on the hearth, watching with smiling eyes the\ntriumphs of his fire-making. It seemed to him afterwards that his\njudgment was strangely at fault; he perceived naught of import in the\nshallow brightness of the young man's eyes, like the polished surface of\njet; in the instability of his jealousy, his anger; in his hap-hazard,\nmercurial temperament. Once he might have noted how flat were the spaces\nbeneath the eyes, how few were the lines that defined the lid, the\nsocket, the curve of the cheekbone, the bridge of the nose, and how\nexpressionless. It was doubtless the warmth and glow of the fire, the\nclinging desire of companionship, the earnest determination to be\ncontent, pathetic in one who had but little reason for optimism, that\ncaused him to ignore the vacillating glancing moods that successively\nswayed Keenan, strong while they lasted, but with scanty augury because\nof their evanescence. He was like some newly discovered property in\nphysics of untried potentialities, of which nothing is ascertained but\nits uncertainties.\n\nAnd yet he seemed to Dundas a simple country fellow, good-natured in\nthe main, unsuspicious, and helpful. So, giving a long sigh of relief\nand fatigue, Dundas sank down in one of the large arm-chairs that had\nonce done duty for the summer loungers on the piazza.\n\nIn the light of the fire Emory was once more looking at him. A certain\nair of distinction, a grace and ease of movement, an indescribable\nquality of bearing which he could not discriminate, yet which he\ninstinctively recognized as superior, offended him in some sort. He\nnoticed again the ring on the stranger's hand as he drew off his glove.\nGloves! Emory Keenan would as soon have thought of wearing a petticoat.\nOnce more the fear that these effeminate graces found favor in\nMillicent's estimation smote upon his heart. It made the surface of his\nopaque eyes glisten as Dundas rose and took up a pipe and tobacco pouch\nwhich he had laid on the mantel-piece, his full height and fine figure\nshown in the changed posture.\n\n\"Ez tall ez me, ef not taller, an', by gum! a good thirty pound\nheavier,\" Emory reflected, with a growing dismay that he had not those\nstalwart claims to precedence in height and weight as an offset to the\nsmoother fascinations of the stranger's polish.\n\nHe had risen hastily to his feet. He would not linger to smoke\nfraternally over the fire, and thus cement friendly relations.\n\n\"I guided him hyar, like old Sim Roxby axed me ter do, an' that's all. I\nain't keerin' ef I never lay eyes on him again,\" he said to himself.\n\n\"Going?\" said Dundas, pleasantly, noticing the motion. \"You'll look in\nagain, won't you?\"\n\n\"Wunst in a while, I reckon,\" drawled Keenan, a trifle thrown off his\nbalance by this courtesy.\n\nHe paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder for a moment at\nthe illumined room, then stepped out into the night, leaving the tenant\nof the lonely old house filling his pipe by the fire.\n\nHis tread rang along the deserted gallery, and sudden echoes came\ntramping down the vacant halls as if many a denizen of the once populous\nplace was once more astir within its walls. Long after Dundas had heard\nhim spring from the lower piazza to the ground, and the rusty gate clang\nbehind him, vague footfalls were audible far away, and were still again,\nand once more a pattering tread in some gaunt and empty apartment near\nat hand, faint and fainter yet, till he hardly knew whether it were the\nreverberations of sound or fancy that held his senses in thrall.\n\nAnd when all was still and silent at last he felt less solitary than\nwhen these elusive tokens of human presence were astir.\n\nLate, late he sat over the dwindling embers. His mind, no longer\ndiverted by the events of the day, recurred with melancholy persistence\nto a theme which even they, although fraught with novelty and presage of\ndanger, had not altogether crowded out. And as the sense of peril\ndulled, the craft of sophistry grew clumsy. Remorse laid hold upon him\nin these dim watches of the night. Self-reproach had found him out here,\ndefenceless so far from the specious wiles and ways of men. All the line\nof provocations seemed slight, seemed naught, as he reviewed them and\nbalanced them against a human life. True, it was not in some mad quarrel\nthat his skill had taken it and had served to keep his own--a duel, a\nfair fight, strictly regular according to the code of \"honorable men\"\nfor ages past--and he sought to argue that it was doubtless but the\nmorbid sense of the wild fastnesses without, the illimitable vastness of\nthe black night, the unutterable indurability of nature to the\ninfluences of civilization, which made it taste like murder. He had\nbrought away even from the scene of action, to which he had gone with\ndecorous deliberation--his worldly affairs arranged for the possibility\nof death, his will made, his volition surrendered, and his sacred honor\nin the hands of his seconds--a humiliating recollection of the sudden\nrevulsion of the aspect of all things; the criminal sense of haste with\nwhich he was hurried away after that first straight shot; the agitation,\nnay, the fright of his seconds; their eagerness to be swiftly rid of\nhim, their insistence that he should go away for a time, get out of the\ncountry, out of the embarrassing purview of the law, which was prone to\nregard the matter as he himself saw it now, and which had an ugly trick\nof calling things by their right names in the sincere phraseology of an\nindictment. And thus it was that he was here, remote from all the usual\nlines of flight, with his affectation of being a possible purchaser for\nthe old hotel, far from the railroad, the telegraph, even the postal\nservice. Some time--soon, indeed, it might be, when the first flush of\nexcitement and indignation should be overpast, and the law, like a\nbarking dog that will not bite, should have noisily exhausted the gamut\nof its devoirs--he would go back and live according to his habit in his\nwonted place, as did other men whom he had known to be \"called out,\" and\nwho had survived their opponents. Meantime he heard the ash crumble; he\nsaw the lighted room wane from glancing yellow to a dull steady red, and\nso to dusky brown; he marked the wind rise, and die away, and come\nagain, banging the doors of the empty rooms, and setting timbers all\nstrangely to creaking as under sudden trampling feet; then lift into the\nair with a rustling sound like the stir of garments and the flutter of\nwings, calling out weirdly in the great voids of the upper atmosphere.\n\nHe had welcomed the sense of fatigue earlier in the evening, for it\npromised sleep. Now it had slipped away from him. He was strong and\nyoung, and the burning sensation that the frosty air had left on his\nface was the only token of the long journey. It seemed as if he would\nnever sleep again as he lay on the lounge watching the gray ash\ngradually overgrow the embers, till presently only a vague dull glow\ngave intimation of the position of the hearth in the room. And then,\nbereft of this dim sense of companionship, he stared wide-eyed in the\ndarkness, feeling the only creature alive and awake in all the world.\nNo; the fox was suddenly barking within the quadrangle--a strangely wild\nand alien tone. And presently he heard the animal trot past his door on\nthe piazza, the cushioned footfalls like those of a swift dog. He\nthought with a certain anxiety of the tawny tiny owl that had sat like\na stuffed ornament on the mantel-piece of a neighboring room, and he\nlistened with a quaking vicarious presentiment of woe for the sounds of\ncapture and despair. He was sensible of waiting and hoping for the fox's\nbootless return, when he suddenly lost consciousness.\n\nHow long he slept he did not know, but it seemed only a momentary\nrespite from the torture of memory, when, still in the darkness,\nthousands of tremulous penetrating sounds were astir, and with a great\nstart he recognized the rain on the roof. It was coming down in steady\ntorrents that made the house rock before the tumult of his plunging\nheart was still, and he was longing again for the forgetfulness of\nsleep. In vain. The hours dragged by; the windows slowly, slowly defined\ntheir dull gray squares against the dull gray day dawning without. The\nwalls that had been left with only the first dark coat of plaster,\nawaiting another season for the final decoration, showed their drapings\nof cobweb, and the names and pencilled scribblings with which the fancy\nof transient bushwhackers had chosen to deface them. The locust-trees\nwithin the quadrangle drearily tossed their branches to and fro in the\nwind, the bark very black and distinct against the persistent gray lines\nof rain and the white walls of the galleried buildings opposite; the\ngutters were brimming, roaring along like miniature torrents; nowhere\nwas the fox or the owl to be seen. Somehow their presence would have\nbeen a relief--the sight of any living thing reassuring. As he walked\nslowly along the deserted piazzas, in turning sudden corners, again and\nagain he paused, expecting that something, some one, was approaching to\nmeet him. When at last he mounted his horse, that had neighed gleefully\nto see him, and rode away through the avenue and along the empty ways\namong the untenanted summer cottages, all the drearier and more forlorn\nbecause of the rain, he felt as if he had left an aberration, some\nhideous dream, behind, instead of the stark reality of the gaunt and\nvacant and dilapidated old house.\n\nThe transition to the glow and cheer of Sim Roxby's fireside was like a\nrescue, a restoration. The smiling welcome in the women's eyes, their\nsoft drawling voices, with mellifluous intonations that gave a value to\neach commonplace simple word, braced his nerves like a tonic. It might\nhave been only the contrast with the recollections of the night, with\nthe prospect visible through the open door--the serried lines of rain\ndropping aslant from the gray sky and elusively outlined against the\ndark masses of leafless woods that encircled the clearing; the dooryard\nhalf submerged with puddles of a clay-brown tint, embossed always with\nmyriads of protruding drops of rain, for however they melted away the\ndownpour renewed them, and to the eye they were stationary, albeit\npervaded with a continual tremor--but somehow he was cognizant of a\ncertain coddling tenderness in the old woman's manner that might have\nbeen relished by a petted child, an unaffected friendliness in the\ngirl's clear eyes. They made him sit close to the great wood fire; the\nblue and yellow flames gushed out from the piles of hickory logs, and\nthe bed of coals gleamed at red and white heat beneath. They took his\nhat to carefully dry it, and they spread out his cloak on two chairs at\none side of the room, where it dismally dripped. When he ventured to\nsneeze, Mrs. Roxby compounded and administered a \"yerb tea,\" a sovereign\nremedy against colds, which he tasted on compulsion and in great doubt,\nand swallowed with alacrity and confidence, finding its basis the easily\nrecognizable \"toddy.\" He had little knowledge how white and troubled his\nface had looked as he came in from the gray day, how strongly marked\nwere those lines of sharp mental distress, how piteously apparent was\nhis mute appeal for sympathy and comfort.\n\n\"Mill'cent,\" said the old woman in the shed-room, as they washed and\nwiped the dishes after the cozy breakfast of venison and corn-dodgers\nand honey and milk, \"that thar man hev run agin the law, sure's ye air\nborn.\"\n\nMillicent turned her reflective fair face, that seemed whiter and more\ndelicate in the damp dark day, and looked doubtfully out over the\nfields, where the water ran in steely lines in the furrows.\n\n\"Mus' hev been by accident or suthin'. _He_ ain't no hardened sinner.\"\n\n\"Shucks!\" the old woman commented upon her reluctant acquiescence. \"I\nain't keerin' for the law! 'Tain't none o' my job. The tomfool men make\nan' break it. Ennybody ez hev seen this war air obleeged to take note o'\nthe wickedness o' men in gineral. This hyer man air a sorter pitiful\nsinner, an' he hev got a look in his eyes that plumb teches my heart. I\n'ain't got no call ter know nuthin' 'bout the law, bein' a 'oman an'\nnaterally ignorunt. I dun'no' ez he hev run agin it.\"\n\n\"Mus' hev been by accident,\" said Millicent, dreamily, still gazing over\nthe sodden fields.\n\nThe suspicion did nothing to diminish his comfort or their cordiality.\nThe morning dragged by without change in the outer aspects. The noontide\ndinner came and went without Roxby's return, for the report of the\nwashing away of a bridge some miles distant down the river had early\ncalled him out to the scene of the disaster, to verify in his own\ninterests the rumor, since he had expected to haul his wheat to the\nsettlement the ensuing day. The afternoon found the desultory talk still\nin progress about the fire, the old woman alternately carding cotton and\nnodding in her chair in the corner; the dogs eying the stranger,\nlistening much of the time with the air of children taking instruction,\nonly occasionally wandering out-of-doors, the floor here and there\nbearing the damp imprint of their feet; and Millicent on her knees in\nthe other corner, the firelight on her bright hair, her delicate cheek,\nher quickly glancing eyes, as she deftly moulded bullets.\n\n\"Uncle Sim hed ter s'render his shootin'-irons,\" she explained, \"an' he\n'ain't got no ca'tridge-loadin' ones lef'. So he makes out with his old\nmuzzle-loadin' rifle that he hed afore the war, an' I moulds his bullets\nfor him rainy days.\"\n\nAs she held up a moulded ball and dexterously clipped off the surplus\nlead, the gesture was so culinary in its delicacy that one of the dogs\nin front of the fire extended his head, making a long neck, with a\ntentative sniff and a glistening gluttonous eye.\n\n\"Ef I swallered enny mo' lead, I wouldn't take it hot, Towse,\" she said,\nholding out the bullet for canine inspection. \"'Tain't healthy!\"\n\nBut the dog, perceiving the nature of the commodity, drew back with a\nlook of deep reproach, rose precipitately, and with a drooping tail went\nout skulkingly into the wet gray day.\n\n\"Towse can't abide a bullet,\" she observed, \"nor nuthin' 'bout a gun. He\ngot shot wunst a-huntin', an' he never furgot it. Jes show him a gun an'\nhe ain't nowhar ter be seen--like he war cotch up in the clouds.\"\n\n\"Good watch-dog, I suppose,\" suggested Dundas, striving to enter into\nthe spirit of her talk.\n\n\"Naw; too sp'ilt for a gyard-dog--granny coddled him so whenst he got\nshot. He's jest vally'ble fur his conversation, I reckon,\" she\ncontinued, with a smile in her eyes. \"I dun'no' what else, but he is\ntoler'ble good company.\"\n\nThe other dogs pressed about her, the heads of the great hounds as high\nas her own as she sat among them on the floor. With bright eyes and\nknitted brows they followed the motions of pouring in the melted metal,\nthe lifting of the bullets from the mould, the clipping off of the\nsurplus lead, and the flash of the keen knife.\n\nOutside the sad light waned; the wind sighed and sighed; the dreary rain\nfell; the trees clashed their boughs dolorously together, and their\nturbulence deadened the sound of galloping horses. As Dundas sat and\ngazed at the girl's intent head, with its fleecy tendrils and its\nmassive coil, the great hounds beside her, all emblazoned by the\nfirelight upon the brown wall near by, with the vast fireplace at hand,\nthe whole less like reality than some artist's pictured fancy, he knew\nnaught of a sudden entrance, until she moved, breaking the spell, and\nlooked up to meet the displeasure in Roxby's eyes and the dark scowl on\nEmory Keenan's face.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat night the wind shifted to the north. Morning found the chilled\nworld still, ice where the water had lodged, all the trees incased in\nglittering garb that followed the symmetry alike of every bough and the\ntiniest twig, and made splendid the splintered remnants of the\nlightning-riven. The fields were laced across from furrow to furrow, in\nwhich the frozen water still stood gleaming, with white arabesques which\nhad known a more humble identity as stubble and crab-grass; the sky was\nslate-colored, and from its sad tint this white splendor gained added\nvalues of contrast. When the sun should shine abroad much of the effect\nwould be lost in the too dazzling glister; but the sun did not shine.\n\nAll day the gray mood held unchanged. Night was imperceptibly sifting\ndown upon all this whiteness, that seemed as if it would not be\nobscured, as if it held within itself some property of luminosity, when\nMillicent, a white apron tied over her golden head, improvising a hood,\nits superfluous fulness gathered in many folds and pleats around her\nneck, fichu-wise, stood beside the ice-draped fodder-stack and essayed\nwith half-numbed hands to insert a tallow dip into the socket of a\nlantern, all incrusted and clumsy with previous drippings.\n\n\"I dun'no' whether I be a-goin' ter need this hyar consarn whilst\nmilkin' or no,\" she observed, half to herself, half to Emory, who,\nchewing a straw, somewhat surlily had followed her out for a word apart.\n\"The dusk 'pears slow ter-night, but Spot's mighty late comin' home, an'\nold Sue air fractious an' contrairy-minded, and feels mighty anxious an'\noneasy 'boutn her calf, that's ez tall ez she is nowadays, an' don't\nkeer no mo' 'bout her mammy 'n a half-grown human does. I tell her she\noughtn't ter be mad with me, but with the way she brung up her chile, ez\nwon't notice her now.\"\n\nShe looked up with a laugh, her eyes and teeth gleaming; her golden hair\nstill showed its color beneath the spotless whiteness of her voluminous\nheadgear, and the clear tints of her complexion seemed all the more\ndelicate and fresh in the snowy pallor of the surroundings and the\ngrayness of the evening.\n\n\"I reckon I'd better take it along,\" and once more she addressed herself\nto the effort to insert the dip into the lantern.\n\nEmory hardly heard. His pulse was quick. His eye glittered. He breathed\nhard as, with both hands in his pockets, he came close to her.\n\n\"Mill'cent,\" he said, \"I told ye the t'other day ez ye thunk a heap too\nmuch o' that thar stranger--\"\n\n\"An' I tole ye, bubby, that I didn't think nuthin' o' nobody but\nyou-uns,\" she interrupted, with an effort to placate his jealousy. The\nlittle jocularity which she affected dwindled and died before the\nsteady glow of his gaze, and she falteringly looked at him, her unguided\nhands futilely fumbling with the lantern.\n\n\"Ye can't fool me,\" he stoutly asseverated. \"Ye think mo' o' him 'n o'\nme, kase ye 'low he air rich, an' book-larned, an' smooth-fingered, an'\nfinified ez a gal, an' goin' ter buy the hotel. I say, _hotel_! Now\n_I'll_ tell ye what he is--I'll tell ye! He's a criminal. He's runnin'\nfrom the law. He's hidin' in the old hotel that he's purtendin' ter\nbuy.\"\n\nShe stared wide-eyed and pallid, breathless and waiting.\n\nHe interpreted her expression as doubt, denial.\n\n\"It's gospel sure,\" he cried. \"Fur this very evenin' I met a gang o' men\nan' the sheriff's deputy down yander by the sulphur spring 'bout\nsundown, an' he 'lowed ez they war a-sarchin' fur a criminal ez war\nskulkin' round hyarabout lately--ez they wanted a man fur hevin'\nc'mitted murder.\"\n\n\"But ye didn't accuse _him_, surely; ye hed no right ter s'picion _him_.\nUncle Sim! Oh, my Lord! Ye surely wouldn't! Oh, Uncle Sim!\"\n\nHer tremulous words broke into a quavering cry as she caught his arm\nconvulsively, for his face confirmed her fears. She thrust him wildly\naway, and started toward the house.\n\n\"Ye needn't go tattlin' on me,\" he said, roughly pushing her aside.\n\"I'll tell Mr. Roxby myself. I ain't 'shamed o' what I done. I'll tell\nhim. I'll tell him myself.\" And animated with this intention to\nforestall her disclosure, his long strides bore him swiftly past and\ninto the house.\n\nIt seemed to him that he lingered there only a moment or two, for Roxby\nwas not at the cabin, and he said nothing of the quarrel to the old\nwoman. Already his heart had revolted against his treachery, and then\nthere came to him the further reflection that he did not know enough to\njustify suspicion. Was not the stranger furnished with the fullest\ncredentials--a letter to Roxby from the Colonel? Perhaps he had allowed\nhis jealousy to endanger the man, to place him in jeopardy even of his\nlife should he resist arrest.\n\nKeenan tarried at the house merely long enough to devise a plausible\nexcuse for his sudden excited entrance, and then took his way back to\nthe barnyard.\n\nIt was vacant. The cows still stood lowing at the bars; the sheep\ncowered together in their shed; the great whitened cone of the\nfodder-stack gleamed icily in the purple air; beside it lay the lantern\nwhere Millicent had cast it aside. She was gone! He would not believe it\ntill he had run to the barn, calling her name in the shadowy place,\nwhile the horse at his manger left his corn to look over the walls of\nhis stall with inquisitive surprised eyes, luminous in the dusk. He\nsearched the hen-house, where the fowls on their perches crowded close\nbecause of the chill of the evening. He even ran to the bars and looked\ndown across the narrow ravine to which the clearing sloped. Beyond the\nchasm-like gorge he saw presently on the high ascent opposite footprints\nthat had broken the light frost-like coating of ice on the dead leaves\nand moss--climbing footprints, swift, disordered. He looked back again\nat the lantern where Millicent had flung it in her haste. Her mission\nwas plain now. She had gone to warn Dundas. She had taken a direct line\nthrough the woods. She hoped to forestall the deputy sheriff and his\nposse, following the circuitous mountain road.\n\nKeenan's lip curled in triumph. His heart burned hot with scornful anger\nand contempt of the futility of her effort. \"They're there afore she\nstarted!\" he said, looking up at the aspects of the hour shown by the\nsky, and judging of the interval since the encounter by the spring.\nThrough a rift in the gray cloud a star looked down with an icy\nscintillation and disappeared again. He heard a branch in the woods snap\nbeneath the weight of ice. A light sprang into the window of the cabin\nhard by, and came in a great gush of orange-tinted glow out into the\nsnowy bleak wintry space. He suddenly leaped over the fence and ran like\na deer through the woods.\n\nMillicent too had been swift. He had thought to overtake her before he\nemerged from the woods into the more open space where the hotel stood.\nIn this quarter the cloud-break had been greater. Toward the west a\nfading amber glow still lingered in long horizontal bars upon the opaque\ngray sky. The white mountains opposite were hung with purple shadows\nborrowed from a glimpse of sunset somewhere far away over the valley of\nEast Tennessee; one distant lofty range was drawn in elusive snowy\nsuggestions, rather than lines, against a green space of intense yet\npale tint. The moon, now nearing the full, hung over the wooded valley,\nand aided the ice and the crust of snow to show its bleak, wan, wintry\naspect; a tiny spark glowed in its depths from some open door of an\nisolated home. Over it all a mist was rising from the east, drawing its\nfleecy but opaque curtain. Already it had climbed the mountain-side and\nadvanced, windless, soundless, overwhelming, annihilating all before and\nbeneath it. The old hotel had disappeared, save that here and there a\ngaunt gable protruded and was withdrawn, showed once more, and once more\nwas submerged.\n\nA horse's head suddenly looking out of the enveloping mist close to his\nshoulder gave him the first intimation of the arrival, the secret silent\nwaiting, of those whom he had directed hither. That the saddles were\nempty he saw a moment later. The animals stood together in a row,\nhitched to the rack. No disturbance sounded from the silent building.\nThe event was in abeyance. The fugitive in hiding was doubtless at ease,\nunsuspecting, while the noiseless search of the officers for his\nquarters was under way.\n\nWith a thrill of excitement Keenan crept stealthily through an open\npassage and into the old grass-grown spaces of the quadrangle. Night\npossessed the place, but the cloud seemed denser than the darkness. He\nwas somehow sensible of its convolutions as he stood against the wall\nand strained his eyes into the dusk. Suddenly it was penetrated by a\nmilky-white glimmer, a glimmer duplicated at equidistant points, each\nfading as its successor sprang into brilliance. The next moment he\nunderstood its significance. It had come from the blurred windows of the\nold ball-room. Millicent had lighted her candle as she searched for the\nfugitive's quarters; she was passing down the length of the old house on\nthe second story, and suddenly she emerged upon the gallery. She\nshielded the feeble flicker with her hand; her white-hooded head gleamed\nas with an aureola as the divergent rays rested on the opaque mist; and\nnow and again she clutched the baluster and walked with tremulous care,\nfor the flooring was rotten here and there, and ready to crumble away.\nHer face was pallid, troubled; and Dundas, who had been warned by the\ntramp of horses and the tread of men, and who had descended the stairs,\nrevolver in hand, ready to slip away if he might under cover of the\nmist, paused appalled, gazing across the quadrangle as on an\napparition--the sight so familiar to his senses, so strange to his\nexperience. He saw in an abrupt shifting of the mist that there were\nother figures skulking in doorways, watching her progress. The next\nmoment she leaned forward to clutch the baluster, and the light of the\ncandle fell full on Emory Keenan, lurking in the open passage.\n\nA sudden sharp cry of \"Surrender!\"\n\nThe young mountaineer, confused, swiftly drew his pistol. Others were\nswifter still. A sharp report rang out into the chill crisp air, rousing\nall the affrighted echoes--a few faltering steps, a heavy fall, and for\na long time Emory Keenan's life-blood stained the floor of the\npromenade. Even when it had faded, the rustic gossips came often and\ngazed at the spot with morbid interest, until, a decade later, an\nenterprising proprietor removed the floor and altered the shape of that\nsection of the building out of recognition.\n\nThe escape of Dundas was easily effected. The deputy sheriff, confronted\nwith the problem of satisfactorily accounting for the death of a man who\nhad committed no offence against public polity, was no longer\nformidable. His errand had been the arrest of a horse-thief, well-known\nto him, and he had no interest in pursuing a fugitive, however obnoxious\nto the law, whose personal description was so different from that of the\nobject of his search.\n\nTime restored to Dundas his former place in life and the esteem of his\nfellow-citizens. His stay in the mountains was an episode which he will\nnot often recall, but sometimes volition fails, and he marvels at the\nstrange fulfilment of the girl's vision; he winces to think that her\nsolicitude for his safety should have cost her her lover; he wonders\nwhether she yet lives, and whether that tender troubled phantom, on\nnights when the wind is still and the moon is low and the mists rise,\nagain joins the strange, elusive, woful company crossing the quaking\nfoot-bridge.\n\n\n\n\nHIS \"DAY IN COURT\"\n\n\nIt had been a hard winter along the slopes of the Great Smoky Mountains,\nand still the towering treeless domes were covered with snow, and the\nvagrant winds were abroad, rioting among the clifty heights where they\nheld their tryst, or raiding down into the sheltered depths of the Cove,\nwhere they seldom intruded. Nevertheless, on this turbulent rush was\nborne in the fair spring of the year. The fragrance of the budding\nwild-cherry was to be discerned amidst the keen slanting javelins of the\nrain. A cognition of the renewal and the expanding of the forces of\nnature pervaded the senses as distinctly as if one might hear the grass\ngrowing, or feel along the chill currents of the air the vernal pulses\nthrill. Night after night in the rifts of the breaking clouds close to\nthe horizon was glimpsed the stately sidereal Virgo, prefiguring and\npromising the harvest, holding in her hand a gleaming ear of corn. But\nit was not the constellation which the tumultuous torrent at the\nmountain's base reflected in a starry glitter. From the hill-side above\na light cast its broken image among the ripples, as it shone for an\ninstant through the bosky laurel, white, stellular, splendid--only a\ntallow dip suddenly placed in the window of a log-cabin, and as suddenly\nwithdrawn.\n\nFor a gruff voice within growled out a remonstrance: \"What ye doin' that\nfur, Steve? Hev that thar candle got enny call ter bide in that thar\nwinder?\"\n\nThe interior, contrary to the customary aspect of the humble homes of\nthe region, was in great disarray. Cooking utensils stood uncleaned\nabout the hearth; dishes and bowls of earthen-ware were assembled upon\nthe table in such numbers as to suggest that several meals had been\neaten without the ceremony of laying the cloth anew, and that in default\nof washing the crockery it had been re-enforced from the shelf so far as\nthe limited store might admit. Saddles and spinning-wheels, an ox-yoke\nand trace-chains, reels and wash-tubs, were incongruously pushed\ntogether in the corners. Only one of the three men in the room made any\neffort to reduce the confusion to order. This was the square-faced,\nblack-bearded, thick-set young fellow who took the candle from the\nwindow, and now advanced with it toward the hearth, holding it at an\nangle that caused the flame to swiftly melt the tallow, which dripped\ngenerously upon the floor.\n\n\"I hev seen Eveliny do it,\" he said, excitedly justifying himself. \"I\nnoticed her sot the candle in the winder jes' las' night arter supper.\"\nHe glanced about uncertainly, and his patience seemed to give way\nsuddenly. \"Dad-burn the old candle! I dunno _whar_ ter set it,\" he\ncried, desperately, as he flung it from him, and it fell upon the floor\nclose to the wall.\n\nThe dogs lifted their heads to look, and one soft-stepping old hound got\nup with the nimbleness of expectation, and, with a prescient gratitude\nastir in his tail, went and sniffed at it. His aspect drooped suddenly,\nand he looked around in reproach at Stephen Quimbey, as if suspecting a\npractical joke. But there was no merriment in the young mountaineer's\nface. He threw himself into his chair with a heavy sigh, and desisted\nfor a time from the unaccustomed duty of clearing away the dishes after\nsupper.\n\n\"An' 'ain't ye got the gumption ter sense what Eveliny sot the candle in\nthe winder fur?\" his brother Timothy demanded, abruptly--\"ez a sign ter\nthat thar durned Abs'lom Kittredge.\"\n\nThe other two men turned their heads and looked at the speaker with a\npoignant intensity of interest. \"I 'lowed ez much when I seen that light\nez I war a-kemin' home las' night,\" he continued; \"it shined spang down\nthe slope acrost the ruver an' through all the laurel; it looked plumb\nlike a star that hed fell ter yearth in that pitch-black night. I dunno\nhow I s'picioned it, but ez I stood thar an' gazed I knowed somebody war\na-standin' an' gazin' too on the foot-bredge a mite ahead o' me. I\ncouldn't see him, an' he couldn't turn back an' pass me, the bredge\nbein' too narrer. He war jes obligated ter go on. I hearn him breathe\nquick; then--pit-pat, pit-pat, ez he walked straight toward that light.\nAn' he be 'bleeged ter hev hearn me, fur arter I crost I stopped.\nNuthin'. Jes' a whisper o' wind, an' jes' a swishin' from the ruver. I\nknowed then he hed turned off inter the laurel. An' I went on,\na-whistlin' ter make him 'low ez I never s'picioned nuthin'. An' I kem\ninter the house an' tole dad ez he'd better be a-lookin' arter Eveliny,\nfur I b'lieved she war a-settin' her head ter run away an' marry Abs'lom\nKittredge.\"\n\n\"Waal, I ain't right up an' down sati'fied we oughter done what we\ndone,\" exclaimed Stephen, fretfully. \"It don't 'pear edzacly right fur\nthree men ter fire on one.\"\n\nOld Joel Quimbey, in his arm-chair in the chimney-corner, suddenly\nlifted his head--a thin head with fine white hair, short and sparse,\nupon it. His thin, lined face was clear-cut, with a pointed chin and an\naquiline nose. He maintained an air of indignant and rebellious grief,\nand had hitherto sat silent, a gnarled and knotted hand on either arm of\nhis chair. His eyes gleamed keenly from under his heavy brows as he\nturned his face upon his sons. \"How could we know thar warn't but one,\neh?\"\n\nHe had not been a candidate for justice of the peace for nothing; he had\nabsorbed something of the methods and spirit of the law through sheer\npropinquity to the office. \"We-uns wouldn't be persumed ter _know_.\" And\nhe ungrudgingly gave himself all the benefit of the doubt that the law\naccords.\n\n\"That's a true word!\" exclaimed Stephen, quick to console his\nconscience. \"Jes' look at the fac's, now. We-uns in a plumb black\nmidnight hear a man a-gittin' over our fence; we git our rifles;\na-peekin' through the chinkin' we ketch a glimge o' him--\"\n\n\"Ha!\" cried out Timothy, with savage satisfaction, \"we seen him by the\nlight she set ter lead him on!\"\n\n[Illustration: \"OLD JOEL QUIMBEY\"]\n\nHe was tall and lank, with a delicately hooked nose, high cheek-bones,\nfierce dark eyes, and dark eyebrows, which were continually elevated,\ncorrugating his forehead. His hair was black, short and straight, and he\nwas clad in brown jeans, as were the others, with great cowhide boots\nreaching to the knee. He fixed his fiery intent gaze on his brother as\nthe slower Stephen continued, \"An' so we blaze away--\"\n\n\"An' one durned fool's so onlucky ez ter hit him an' not kill him,\"\ngrowled Timothy, again interrupting. \"An' so whilst Eveliny runs out\na-screamin', 'He's dead! he's dead!--ye hev shot him dead!' we-uns make\nno doubt but he _is_ dead, an' load up agin, lest his frien's mought\nrush in on we-uns whilst we hedn't no use o' our shootin'-irons. An'\nsuddint--ye can't hear nuthin' but jes' a owel hootin' in the woods, or\nold Pa'son Bates's dogs a-howlin' acrost the Cove. An' we go out with a\nlantern, an' thar's jes' a pool o' blood in the dooryard, an' bloody\ntracks down ter the laurel.\"\n\n\"Eveliny gone!\" cried the old man, smiting his hands together; \"my\nleetle darter! The only one ez never gin me enny trouble. I couldn't hev\nmade out ter put up with this hyar worl' no longer when my wife died ef\nit hedn't been fur Eveliny. Boys war wild an' mischeevious, an' folks\noutside don't keer nuthin' 'bout ye--ef they _war_ ter 'lect ye ter\noffice 'twould be ter keep some other feller from hevin' it, 'kase they\n'spise him more'n ye. An' hyar she's runned off an' married old Tom\nKittredge's gran'son, Josiah Kittredge's son--when our folks 'ain't\nspoke ter none o' 'em fur fifty year--Josiah Kittredge's son--ha! ha!\nha!\" He laughed aloud in tuneless scorn of himself and of this freak of\nfroward destiny and then fell to wringing his hands and calling upon\nEvelina.\n\nThe flare from the great chimney place genially played over the huddled\nconfusion of the room and the brown logs of the wall, where the gigantic\nshadows of the three men mimicked their every gesture with grotesque\nexaggeration. The rainbow yarn on the warping bars, the strings of\nred-pepper hanging from the ceiling, the burnished metallic flash from\nthe guns on their racks of deer antlers, served as incidents in the\nmonotony of the alternate yellow flicker and brown shadow. Deep under\nthe blaze the red coals pulsated, and in the farthest vistas of the fire\nquivered a white heat.\n\n\"Old Tom Kittredge,\" the father resumed, after a time, \"he jes' branded\nyer gran'dad's cattle with his mark; he jes' cheated yer gran'dad, my\ndad, out'n six head o' cattle.\"\n\n\"But then,\" said the warlike Timothy, not willing to lose sight of\nreprisal even in vague reminiscence, \"he hed only one hand ter rob with\narter that, fur I hev hearn ez how when gran'dad got through with him\nthe doctor hed ter take his arm off.\"\n\n\"Sartainly, sartainly,\" admitted the old man, in quiet assent \"An'\nJosiah Kittredge he put out the eyes of a horse critter o' mine right\nthar at the court-house door--\"\n\n\"Waal, arterward, we-uns fired his house over his head,\" put in Tim.\n\n\"An' Josiah Kittredge an' me,\" the old man went on, \"we-uns clinched\nevery time we met in this mortal life. Every time I go past the\ngraveyard whar he be buried I kin feel his fingers on my throat. He had\na nervy grip, but no variation; he always tuk holt the same way.\"\n\n\"'Pears like ter me ez 'twar a fust-rate time ter fetch out the rifles\nagain,\" remarked Tim, \"this mornin', when old Pa'son Bates kem up hyar\nan' 'lowed ez he hed married Eveliny ter Abs'lom Kittredge on his\ndeath-bed; 'So be, pa'son,' I say. An' he tuk off his hat an' say,\n'Thank the Lord, this will heal the breach an' make ye frien's!' An' I\nsay, 'Edzacly, pa'son, ef it _air_ Abs'lom's death-bed; but them\nKittredges air so smilin' an' deceivin' I be powerful feared he'll cheat\nthe King o' Terrors himself. I'll forgive 'em ennything--_over his\ngrave_.'\"\n\n\"Pa'son war tuk toler'ble suddint in his temper,\" said the literal\nSteve. \"I hearn him call yer talk onchristian, cussed sentiments, ez he\nput out.\"\n\n\"Ye mus' keep up a Christian sperit, boys; that's the main thing,\" said\nthe old man, who was esteemed very religious, and a pious Mentor in his\nown family. He gazed meditatively into the fire. \"What ailed Eveliny ter\ngit so tuk up with this hyar Abs'lom? What made her like him?\" he\npropounded.\n\n\"His big eyes, edzacly like a buck's, an' his long yaller hair,\" sneered\nthe discerning Timothy, with the valid scorn of a big ugly man for a\nslim pretty one. \"'Twar jes 'count o' his long yaller hair his mother\ncalled him Abs'lom. He war named Pete or Bob, I disremember\nwhat--suthin' common--till his hair got so long an' curly, an' he sot\nout ter be so plumb all-fired beautiful, an' his mother named him agin;\nthis time Abs'lom, arter the king's son, 'count o' his yaller hair.\"\n\n\"Git hung by his hair some o' these days in the woods, like him the\nBible tells about; that happened ter the sure-enough Abs'lom,\" suggested\nStephen, hopefully.\n\n\"Naw, sir,\" said Tim; \"when Abs'lom Kittredge gits hung it'll be with\nsuthin' stronger'n hair; he'll stretch hemp.\" He exchanged a glance of\ntriumphant prediction with his brother, and anon gazed ruefully into the\nfire.\n\n\"Ye talk like ez ef he war goin' ter live, boys,\" said old Joel Quimbey,\nirritably. \"Pa'son 'lowed he war powerful low.\"\n\n\"Pa'son said he'd never hev got home alive 'thout she'd holped him,\"\nsaid Stephen. \"She jes' tuk him an' drug him plumb ter the bars, though\nI don't see how she done it, slim leetle critter ez she be; an' thar she\nholped him git on his beastis; an' then--I declar' I feel ez ef I could\nkill her fur a-demeanin' of herself so--she led that thar horse, him\na-ridin' an' a-leanin' on the neck o' the beastis, two mile up the\nmountain, through the night.\"\n\n\"Waal, let her bide thar. I'll look on her face no mo',\" declared the\nold man, his toothless jaw shaking. \"Kittredge she be now, an' none o'\nthe name kin come a-nigh me. How be I ever a-goin' 'bout 'mongst the\nfolks at the settlement agin with my darter married ter a Kittredge? How\nJosiah an' his dad mus' be a-grinnin' in thar graves at me this night!\nAn' I 'low they hev got suthin' ter grin about.\"\n\nAnd suddenly his grim face relaxed, and once more he began to smite his\nhands together and to call aloud for Evelina.\n\nTimothy could offer no consolation, but stared dismally into the fire,\nand Stephen rose with a sigh and addressed himself to pushing the\nspinning-wheels and tubs and tables into the opposite corner of the\nroom, in the hope of solving the enigma of its wonted order.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt seemed to Evelina afterward that when she climbed the rugged ways of\nthe mountain slope in that momentous night she left forever in the\ndepths of the Cove that free and careless young identity which she had\nbeen. She did not accurately discriminate the moment in which she began\nto realize that she was among her hereditary enemies, encompassed by a\nhatred nourished to full proportions and to a savage strength long\nbefore she drew her first breath. The fact only gradually claimed its\nshare in her consciousness as the tension of anxiety for Absalom's sake\nrelaxed, for the young mountaineer's strength and vitality were promptly\nreasserted, and he rallied from the wound and his pallid and forlorn\nestate with the recuperative power of the primitive man. By degrees she\ncame to expect the covert unfriendly glances his brother cast upon her,\nthe lowering averted mien of her sister-in-law, and now and again she\nsurprised a long, lingering, curious gaze in his mother's eyes. They\nwere all Kittredges! And she wondered how she could ever have dreamed\nthat she might live happily among them--one of them, for her name was\ntheirs. And then perhaps the young husband would stroll languidly in,\nwith his long hair curling on his blue jeans coat-collar, and an assured\nsmile in his dark brown eyes, and some lazy jest on his lips, certain of\na welcoming laugh, for he had been so near to death that they all had a\nsense of acquisition in that he had been led back. For his sake they had\nsaid little; his mother would busy herself in brewing his \"yerb\" tea,\nand his brother would offer to saddle the mare if he felt that he could\nride, and they would all be very friendly together; and his alien wife\nwould presently slip out unnoticed into the \"gyarden spot,\" where the\nrows of vegetables grew as they did in the Cove, turning upon her the\nsame neighborly looks they wore of yore, and showing not a strange leaf\namong them. The sunshine wrapped itself in its old fine gilded gossamer\nhaze and drowsed upon the verdant slopes; the green jewelled \"Juny-bugs\"\nwhirred in the soft air; the mould was as richly brown as in Joel\nQuimbey's own enclosure; the flag-lilies bloomed beside the onion bed;\nand the woolly green leaves of the sage wore their old delicate tint and\ngave out a familiar odor.\n\nAmong this quaint company of the garden borders she spent much of her\ntime, now hoeing in a desultory fashion, now leaning on the long handle\nof the implement and looking away upon the far reaches of the purple\nmountains. As they stretched to vague distances they became blue, and\nfarther on the great azure domes merged into a still more tender hue,\nand this in turn melted into a soft indeterminate tint that embellished\nthe faint horizon. Her dreaming eyes would grow bright and wistful; her\nrich brown curling hair, set free by the yellow sun-bonnet that slipped\noff her head and upon her shoulders, would airily float backward in the\nwind; there was a lithe grace in the slender figure, albeit clad in a\nyellow homespun of a deep dye, and the faded purplish neckerchief was\ncaught about a throat fairer even than the fair face, which was\ndelicately flushed. Absalom's mother, standing beside Peter, the eldest\nson, in the doorway, watched her long one day.\n\n\"It all kem about from that thar bran dance,\" said Peter, a homely man,\nwith a sterling, narrow-minded wife and an ascetic sense of religion.\n\"Thar Satan waits, an' he gits nimbler every time ye shake yer foot. The\nfiddler gin out the figger ter change partners, an' this hyar gal war\ndancin' opposite Abs'lom, ez hed never looked nigh her till that day.\nThe gal didn't know _what_ ter do; she jes' stood still; but Abs'lom he\njes' danced up ter her ez keerless an' gay ez he always war, jes' like\nshe war ennybody else, an' when he held out his han' she gin him hern,\nall a-trembly, an' lookin' up at him, plumb skeered ter death, her eyes\nall wide an' sorter wishful, like some wild thing trapped in the woods.\nAn' then the durned fiddler, moved by the devil, I'll be bound, plumb\nfurgot ter change 'em back. So they danced haff'n the day tergether. An'\narter that they war forever a-stealin' off an' accidentally meetin' at\nthe spring, an' whenst he war a-huntin' or she drivin' up the cow, an'\na-courtin' ginerally, till they war promised ter marry.\"\n\n\"'Twarn't the bran dance; 'twar suthin' ez fleetin' an' ez useless,\"\nsaid his mother, standing in the door and gazing at the unconscious\ngirl, who was leaning upon the hoe, half in the shadow of the blooming\nlaurel that crowded about the enclosure and bent over the rail fence,\nand half in the burnished sunshine; \"she's plumb beautiful--thar's the\nsnare ez tangled Abs'lom's steps. I never 'lowed ter see the day ez\ncould show enny comfort fur his dad bein' dead, but we hev been spared\nsome o' the tallest cavortin' that ever war seen sence the Big Smoky war\nbuilt. Sometimes it plumb skeers me ter think ez we-uns hev got a\nQuimbey abidin' up hyar along o' we-uns in _his_ house an' a-callin' o'\nherse'f Kittredge. I looks ter see him a-stalkin' roun' hyar some night,\ntoo outdone an' aggervated ter rest in his grave.\"\n\nBut the nights continued spectreless and peaceful on the Great Smoky,\nand the same serene stars shone above the mountain as over the Cove.\nEvelina could watch here, as often before, the rising moon ascending\nthrough a rugged gap in the range, suffusing the dusky purple slopes and\nthe black crags on either hand with a pensive glamour, and revealing the\nriver below by the amber reflection its light evoked. She often sat on\nthe step of the porch, her elbow on her knees, her chin in her hand,\nfollowing with her shining eyes the pearly white mists loitering among\nthe ranges. Hear! a dog barks in the Cove, a cock crows, a horn is\nwound, far, far away; it echoes faintly. And once more only the sounds\nof the night--that vague stir in the windless woods, as if the forest\nbreathes, the far-away tinkle of water hidden in the darkness--and the\nmoon is among the summits.\n\nThe men remained within, for Absalom avoided the chill night air, and\ncrouched over the smouldering fire. Peter's wife sedulously held aloof\nfrom the ostracized Quimbey woman. But her mother-in-law had fallen into\nthe habit of sitting upon the porch these moonlit nights. The sparse,\nnewly-leafed hop and gourd vines clambering to its roof were all\ndelicately imaged on the floor, and the old woman's clumsy figure, her\ngrotesque sun-bonnet, her awkward arm-chair, were faithfully reproduced\nin her shadow on the log wall of the cabin--even to the up-curling smoke\nfrom her pipe. Once she suddenly took the stem from her mouth.\n\"Eveliny,\" she said, \"'pears like ter me ye talk mighty little. Thar\nain't no use in gittin' tongue-tied up hyar on the mounting.\"\n\nEvelina started and raised her eyes, dilated with a stare of amazement\nat this unexpected overture.\n\n\"I ain't keerin',\" said the old woman, recklessly, to herself, although\nconsciously recreant to the traditions of the family, and sacrificing\nwith a pang her distorted sense of loyalty and duty to her kindlier\nimpulse. \"I warn't born a Kittredge nohow.\"\n\n\"Yes,'m,\" said Evelina, meekly; \"but I don't feel much like talkin'\nnoways; I never talked much, bein' nobody but men-folks ter our house.\nI'd ruther hear ye talk 'n talk myself.\"\n\n\"Listen at ye now! The headin' young folks o' this kentry 'll never rest\ntill they make thar elders shoulder _all_ the burdens. An' what air ye\nwantin' a pore ole 'oman like me ter talk about?\"\n\nEvelina hesitated a moment, then looked up, with a face radiant in the\nmoonbeams. \"Tell all 'bout Abs'lom--afore I ever seen him.\"\n\nHis mother laughed. \"Ye air a powerful fool, Eveliny.\"\n\nThe girl laughed a little, too. \"I dunno ez I want ter be no wiser,\" she\nsaid.\n\nBut one was his wife, and the other was his mother, and as they talked\nof him daily and long, the bond between them was complete.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"I hev got 'em both plumb fooled,\" the handsome Absalom boasted at the\nsettlement, when the gossips wondered once more, as they had often done,\nthat there should be such unity of interest between old Joel Quimbey's\ndaughter and old Josiah Kittredge's widow. As time went on many rumors\nof great peace on the mountain-side came to the father's ears, and he\ngrew more testy daily as he grew visibly older. These rumors multiplied\nwith the discovery that they were as wormwood and gall to him. Not that\nhe wished his daughter to be unhappy, but the joy which was his grief\nand humiliation was needlessly flaunted into his face; the idlers about\nthe county town had invariably a new budget of details, being supplied,\nsomewhat maliciously, it must be confessed, by the Kittredges\nthemselves. The ceremony of planting one foot on the neck of the\nvanquished was in their minds one of the essential concomitants of\nvictory. The bold Absalom, not thoroughly known to either of the women\nwho adored him, was ingenious in expedients, and had applied the\nknowledge gleaned from his wife's reminiscences of her home, her\nfather, and her brothers to more accurately aim his darts. Sometimes\nold Quimbey would fairly flee the town, and betake himself in a towering\nrage to his deserted hearth, to brood futilely over the ashes, and\ndevise impotent schemes of vengeance.\n\nHe often wondered afterward in dreary retrospection how he had survived\nthat first troublous year after his daughter's elopement, when he was so\nlonely, so heavy-hearted at home, so harried and angered abroad. His\ncomforts, it is true, were amply insured: a widowed sister had come to\npreside over his household--a deaf old woman, who had much to be\nthankful for in her infirmity, for Joel Quimbey in his youth, before he\nacquired religion, had been known as a singularly profane man--\"a mos'\nsurvigrus cusser\"--and something of his old proficiency had returned to\nhim. Perhaps public sympathy for his troubles strengthened his hold upon\nthe regard of the community. For it was in the second year of Evelina's\nmarriage, in the splendid midsummer, when all the gifts of nature climax\nto a gorgeous perfection, and candidates become incumbents, that he\nunexpectedly attained the great ambition of his life. He was said to\nhave made the race for justice of the peace from sheer force of habit,\nbut by some unexplained freak of popularity the oft-defeated candidate\nwas successful by a large majority at the August election.\n\n\"Laws-a-massy, boys,\" he said, tremulously, to his triumphant sons, when\nthe result was announced, the excited flush on his thin old face\nsuffusing his hollow veinous temples, and rising into his fine white\nhair, \"how glad Eveliny would hev been ef--ef--\" He was about to say if\nshe had lived, for he often spoke of her as if she were dead. He turned\nsuddenly back, and began to eagerly absorb the details of the race, as\nif he had often before been elected, with calm superiority canvassing\nthe relative strength, or rather the relative weakness, of the defeated\naspirants.\n\nHe could scarcely have measured the joy which the news gave to Evelina.\nShe was eminently susceptible of the elation of pride, the fervid glow\nof success, but her tender heart melted in sympathetic divination of all\nthat this was to him who had sought it so long, and so unabashed by\ndefeat. She pined to see his triumph in his eyes, to hear it in his\nvoice. She wondered--nay, she knew that he longed to tell it to her. As\nthe year rolled around again to summer, and she heard from time to time\nof his quarterly visits to the town as a member of the worshipful\nQuarterly County Court, she began to hope that, softened by his\nprosperity, lifted so high by his honors above all the cavillings of the\nKittredges, he might be more leniently disposed toward her, might pity\nher, might even go so far as to forgive.\n\nBut none of her filial messages reached her father's fiery old heart.\n\n\"Ye'll be sure, Abs'lom, ef ye see Joe Boyd in town, ye'll tell him ter\ngin dad my respec's, an' the word ez how the baby air a-thrivin', an' I\nwants ter fotch him ter see the fambly at home, ef they'll lemme.\"\n\nThen she would watch Absalom with all the confidence of happy\nanticipation, as he rode off down the mountain with his hair flaunting,\nand his spurs jingling, and his shy young horse curveting.\n\nBut no word ever came in response; and sometimes she would take the\nchild in her arms and carry him down a path, worn smooth by her own\nfeet, to a jagged shoulder thrust out by the mountain where all the\nslopes fell away, and a crag beetled over the depths of the Cove. Thence\nshe could discern certain vague lines marking the enclosure, and a tiny\ncluster of foliage hardly recognizable as the orchard, in the midst of\nwhich the cabin nestled. She could not distinguish them, but she knew\nthat the cows were coming to be milked, lowing and clanking their bells\ntunefully, fording the river that had the sunset emblazoned upon it, or\nstanding flank deep amidst its ripples, the chickens might be going to\nroost among the althea bushes; the lazy old dogs were astir on the\nporch. She could picture her brothers at work about the barn; most often\na white-haired man who walked with a stick--alack! she did not fancy how\nfeebly, nor that his white hair had grown long and venerable, and tossed\nin the breeze. \"Ef he would jes lemme kem fur one haff'n hour!\" she\nwould cry.\n\nBut all her griefs were bewept on the crag, that there might be no tears\nto distress the tenderhearted Absalom when she should return to the\nhouse.\n\nThe election of Squire Quimbey was a sad blow to the arrogant spirit of\nthe Kittredges. They had easily accustomed themselves to ascendency, and\nthey hotly resented the fact that fate had forborne the opportunity to\nhit Joel Quimbey when he was down. They had used their utmost influence\nto defeat him in the race, and had openly avowed their desire to see him\nbite the dust. The inimical feeling between the families culminated one\nrainy autumnal day in the town where the quarterly county court was in\nsession.\n\nA fire had been kindled in the great rusty stove, and crackled away with\ngrudging merriment inside, imparting no sentiment of cheer to the gaunt\nbare room, with its dusty window-panes streaked with rain, its shutters\ndrearily flapping in the wind, and the floor bearing the imprint of many\nboots burdened with the red clay of the region. The sound of slow\nstrolling feet in the brick-paved hall was monotonous and somnolent.\n\nSquire Quimbey sat in his place among the justices. Despite his pride of\noffice, he had not the heart for business that might formerly have been\nhis. More than once his attention wandered. He looked absently out of\nthe nearest window at the neighboring dwelling--a little frame-house\nwith a green yard; a well-sweep was defined against the gray sky, and\nabout the curb a file of geese followed with swaying gait the wise old\ngander. \"What a hand for fow-_els_ Eveliny war!\" he muttered to himself;\n\"an' she hed luck with sech critters.\" He used the obituary tense, for\nEvelina had in some sort passed away.\n\nHe rubbed his hand across his corrugated brow, and suddenly he became\naware that her husband was in the room, speaking to the chairman of the\ncounty court, and claiming a certificate in the sum of two dollars each\nfor the scalps of one wolf, \"an' one painter,\" he continued, laying the\nsmall furry repulsive objects upon the desk, \"an' one dollar fur the\nskelp of one wild-cat.\" He was ready to take his oath that these animals\nwere killed by him running at large in this county.\n\nHe had stooped a little in making the transfer. He came suddenly to his\nfull height, and stood with one hand in his leather belt, the other\nshouldering his rifle. The old man scanned him curiously. The crude\nlight from the long windows was full upon his tall slim figure; his\nyellow hair curled down upon the collar of his blue jeans coat; his\ngreat miry boots were drawn high over the trousers to the knee; his\npensive deer-like eyes brightened with a touch of arrogance and enmity\nas, turning slowly to see who was present, his glance encountered his\nfather-in-law's fiery gaze.\n\n\"Mr. Cheerman! Mr. Cheerman!\" exclaimed the old man, tremulously, \"lemme\nexaminate that thar wild-cat skelp. Thanky, sir; thanky, sir; I wanter\nsee ef 'tain't off'n the head o' some old tame tomcat. An' this air a\npainter's\"--affecting to scan it by the window--\"two ears 'cordin' to\nlaw; yes, sir, two; and this\"--his keen old face had all the white light\nof the sad gray day on its bleaching hair and its many lines, and his\neager old hands trembled with the excitement of the significant satire\nhe enacted--\"an' this air a wolf's, ye say? Yes; it's a Kittredge's;\nsame thing, Mr. Cheerman, by a diff'ent name; nuthin' in the code\n'bout'n a premium fur a Kittredge's skelp; but same natur'; coward,\nbully, thief--_thief_!\"\n\nThe words in the high cracked voice rang from the bare walls and bare\nfloors as he tossed the scalps from him, and sat down, laughing silently\nin painful, mirthless fashion, his toothless jaw quivering, and his\nshaking hands groping for the arms of his chair.\n\n\"Who says a Kittredge air a thief says a lie!\" cried out the young man,\nrecovering from his tense surprise. \"I don't keer how old he be,\" he\nstipulated--for he had not thought to see her father so aged--\"he lies.\"\n\nThe old man fixed him with a steady gaze and a sudden alternation of\ncalmness. \"Ye air a Kittredge; ye stole my daughter from me.\"\n\n\"I never. She kem of her own accord.\"\n\n\"Damn ye!\" the old man retorted to the unwelcome truth. There was\nnothing else for him to say. \"Damn the whole tribe of ye; everything\nthat goes by the accursed name of Kittredge, that's got a drop o' yer\nblood, or a bone o' yer bones, or a puff o' yer breath--\"\n\n\"Squair! squair!\" interposed an officious old colleague, taking him by\nthe elbow, \"jes' quiet down now; ye air a-cussin' yer own gran'son.\"\n\n\"So be! so be!\" cried the old man, in a frenzy of rage. \"Damn 'em\nall--all the Kittredge tribe!\" He gasped for breath; his lips still\nmoved speechlessly as he fell back in his chair.\n\nKittredge let his gun slip from his shoulder, the butt ringing heavily\nas it struck upon the floor. \"I ain't a-goin' ter take sech ez that\noff'n ye, old man,\" he cried, pallid with fury, for be it remembered\nthis grandson was that august institution, a first baby. \"He sha'n't sit\nup thar an' cuss the baby, Mr. Cheerman.\" He appealed to the presiding\njustice, holding up his right arm as tremulous as old Quimbey's own. \"I\nwant the law! I ain't a-goin' ter tech a old man like him, an' my wife's\nfather, so I ax in the name o' peace fur the law. Don't deny it\"--with a\nwarning glance--\"'kase I ain't school-larned, an' dunno how ter get it.\nDon't ye deny me the law! I _know_ the law don't 'low a magistrate an' a\njestice ter cuss in his high office, in the presence of the county\ncourt. I want the law! I want the law!\"\n\nThe chairman of the court, who had risen in his excitement, turning\neagerly first to one and then to the other of the speakers, striving to\nsilence the colloquy, and in the sudden surprise of it at a momentary\nloss how to take action, sat down abruptly, and with a face of\nconsternation. Profanity seemed to him so usual and necessary an\nincident of conversation that it had never occurred to him until this\nmoment that by some strange aberration from the rational estimate of\nessentials it was entered in the code as a violation of law. He would\nfain have overlooked it, but the room was crowded with spectators. The\nchairman would be a candidate for re-election as justice of the peace at\nthe expiration of his term. And after all what was old Quimbey to him,\nor he to old Quimbey, that, with practically the whole town looking on,\nhe should destroy his political prospects and disregard the dignity of\nhis office. He had a certain twinge of conscience, and a recollection of\nthe choice and fluent oaths of his own repertory, but as he turned over\nthe pages of the code in search of the section he deftly argued that\nthey were uttered in his own presence as a person, not as a justice.\n\nAnd so for the first time old Joel Quimbey appeared as a law-breaker,\nand was duly fined by the worshipful county court fifty cents for each\noath, that being the price at which the State rates the expensive and\nimpious luxury of swearing in the hearing of a justice of the peace, and\nwhich in its discretion the court saw fit to adopt in this instance.\n\nThe old man offered no remonstrance; he said not a word in his own\ndefence. He silently drew out his worn wallet, with much contortion of\nhis thin old anatomy in getting to his pocket, and paid his fines on the\nspot. Absalom had already left the room, the clerk having made out the\ncertificates, the chairman of the court casting the scalps into the open\ndoor of the stove, that they might be consumed by fire according to law.\n\nThe young mountaineer wore a heavy frown, and his heart was ill at ease.\nHe sought some satisfaction in the evident opinion of the crowd which\nnow streamed out, for the excitements within were over, that he had done\na fine thing; a very clever thought, they considered it, to demand the\nlaw of Mr. Chairman, that one of their worships should be dragged from\nthe bench and arraigned before the quarterly county court of which he\nwas a member. The result gave general satisfaction, although there were\nthose who found fault with the court's moderation, and complained that\nthe least possible cognizance had been taken of the offence.\n\n\"Ho! ho! ho!\" laughed an old codger in the street. \"I jes knowed that\nhurt old Joel Quimbey wuss 'n ef a body hed druv a knife through him;\nhe's been so proud o' bein' jestice 'mongst his betters, an' bein'\n'lected at las', many times ez he hev run. Waal, Abs'lom, ye hev proved\nthar's law fur jestices too. I tell ye ye hev got sense in yer\nskull-i-bone.\"\n\nBut Absalom hung his head before these congratulations; he found no\nrelish in the old man's humbled pride. Yet had he not cursed the baby,\nlumping him among the Kittredges? Absalom went about for a time, with a\nhopeful anxiety in his eyes, searching for one of the younger Quimbeys,\nin order to involve him in a fight that might have a provocation and a\nresult more to his mind. Somehow the recollection of the quivering and\naged figure of his wife's father, of the smitten look on his old face,\nof his abashed and humbled demeanor before the court, was a reproach to\nhim, vivid and continuously present with his repetitious thoughts\nforever re-enacting the scene. His hands trembled; he wanted to lay hold\non a younger man, to replace this aesthetic revenge with a quarrel more\nwholesome in the estimation of his own conscience. But the Quimbey sons\nwere not in town to-day. He could only stroll about and hear himself\npraised for this thing that he had done, and wonder how he should meet\nEvelina with his conscience thus arrayed against himself for her\nfather's sake. \"Plumb turned Quimbey, I swear,\" he said, in helpless\nreproach to this independent and coercive moral force within. His\ndejection, he supposed, had reached its lowest limits, when a rumor\npervaded the town, so wild that he thought it could be only fantasy. It\nproved to be fact. Joel Quimbey, aggrieved, humbled, and indignant, had\nresigned his office, and as Absalom rode out of town toward the\nmountains, he saw the old man in his crumpled brown jeans suit, mounted\non his white mare, jogging down the red clay road, his head bowed before\nthe slanting lines of rain, on his way to his cheerless fireside. He\nturned off presently, for the road to the levels of the Cove was not the\nshorter cut that Absalom travelled to the mountains. But all the way the\nyoung man fancied that he saw from time to time, as the bridle-path\ncurved in the intricacies of the laurel, the bowed old figure among the\nmists, jogging along, his proud head and his stiff neck bent to the\nslanting rain and the buffets of his unkind fate. And yet, pressing the\nyoung horse to overtake him, Absalom could find naught but the fleecy\nmists drifting down the bridle-path as the wind might will, or lurking\nin the darkling nooks of the laurel when the wind would.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe sun was shining on the mountains, and Absalom went up from the sad\ngray rain and through the gloomy clouds of autumn hanging over the Cove\ninto a soft brilliant upper atmosphere--a generous after-thought of\nsummer--and the warm brightness of Evelina's smile. She stood in the\ndoorway as she saw him dismounting, with her finger on her lips, for the\nbaby was sleeping: he put much of his time into that occupation. The\ntiny gourds hung yellow among the vines that clambered over the roof of\nthe porch, and a brave jack-bean--a friend of the sheltering eaves--made\nshift to bloom purple and white, though others of the kind hung crisp\nand sere, and rattled their dry bones in every gust. The \"gyarden spot\"\nat the side of the house was full of brown and withered skeletons of the\nsummer growths; among the crisp blades of the Indian-corn a sibilant\nvoice was forever whispering; down the tawny-colored vistas the pumpkins\nglowed. The sky was blue; the yellow hickory flaming against it and\nhanging over the roof of the cabin was a fine color to see. The red\nsour-wood tree in the fence corner shook out a myriad of white tassels;\nthe rolling tumult of the gray clouds below thickened, and he could hear\nthe rain a-falling--falling into the dreary depths of the Cove.\n\nAll this for him: why should he disquiet himself for the storm that\nburst upon others?\n\nEvelina seemed a part of the brightness; her dark eyes so softly alight,\nher curving red lips, the faint flush in her cheeks, her rich brown\nhair, and the purplish kerchief about the neck of her yellow dress. Once\nmore she looked smilingly at him, and shook her head and laid her finger\non her lip.\n\n\"I oughter been sati'fied with all I got, stiddier hectorin' other folks\ntill they 'ain't got no heart ter hold on ter what they been at sech\ntrouble ter git,\" he said, as he turned out the horse and strode\ngloomily toward the house with the saddle over his arm.\n\n\"Hev ennybody been spiteful ter you-uns ter-day?\" she asked, in an\nalmost maternal solicitude, and with a flash of partisan anger in her\neyes.\n\n\"Git out'n my road, Eveliny,\" he said, fretfully, pushing by, and\nthrowing the saddle on the floor. There was no one in the room but the\noccupant of the rude box on rockers which served as cradle.\n\nAbsalom had a swift, prescient fear. \"She'll git it all out'n me ef I\ndon't look sharp,\" he said to himself. Then aloud, \"Whar's mam?\" he\ndemanded, flinging himself into a chair and looking loweringly about.\n\n\"Topknot hev jes kem off'n her nest with fourteen deedies, an' she an'\n'Melia hev gone ter the barn ter see 'bout'n 'em.\"\n\n\"Whar's Pete?\"\n\n\"A-huntin'.\"\n\nA pause. The fire smouldered audibly; a hickory-nut fell with a sharp\nthwack on the clapboards of the roof, and rolled down and bounded to the\nground.\n\nSuddenly: \"I seen yer dad ter-day,\" he began, without coercion. \"He gin\nme a cussin', in the court-room, 'fore all the folks. He cussed all the\nKittredges, _all_ o' 'em; him too\"--he glanced in the direction of the\ncradle--\"cussed 'em black an' blue, an' called me a _thief_ fur marryin'\nye an kerry-in' ye off.\"\n\nHer face turned scarlet, then pale. She sat down, her trembling hands\nreaching out to rock the cradle, as if the youthful Kittredge might be\ndisturbed by the malediction hurled upon his tribe. But he slept\nsturdily on.\n\n\"Waal, now,\" she said, making a great effort at self-control, \"ye\noughtn't ter mind it. Ye know he war powerful tried. I never purtended\nter be ez sweet an' pritty ez the baby air, but how would you-uns feel\nef somebody ye despised war ter kem hyar an' tote him off from we-uns\nforever?\"\n\n\"I'd cut thar hearts out,\" he said, with prompt barbarity.\n\n\"Thar, now!\" exclaimed his wife, in triumphant logic.\n\nHe gloomily eyed the smouldering coals. He was beginning to understand\nthe paternal sentiment. By his own heart he was learning the heart of\nhis wife's father.\n\n\"I'd chop 'em inter minch-meat,\" he continued, carrying his just\nreprisals a step further.\n\n\"Waal, don't do it right now,\" said his wife, trying to laugh, yet\nvaguely frightened by his vehemence.\n\n\"Eveliny,\" he cried, springing to his feet, \"I be a-goin' ter tell ye\nall 'bout'n it. I jes called on the cheerman fur the law agin him.\"\n\n\"Agin _dad_!--the law!\" Her voice dropped as she contemplated aghast\nthis terrible uncomprehended force brought to oppress old Joel Quimbey;\nshe felt a sudden poignant pang for his forlorn and lonely estate.\n\n\"Never mind, never mind, Eveliny,\" Absalom said, hastily, repenting of\nhis frantic candor and seeking to soothe her.\n\n\"I _will_ mind,\" she said, sternly. \"What hev ye done ter dad?\"\n\n\"Nuthin',\" he replied, sulkily--\"nuthin'.\"\n\n\"Ye needn't try ter fool me, Abs'lom Kittredge. Ef ye ain't minded ter\ntell me, I'll foot it down ter town an' find out. What did the law do\nter him?\"\n\n\"Jes fined him,\" he said, striving to make light of it.\n\n\"An' ye done that fur--_spite_!\" she cried. \"A-settin' the law ter\nchouse a old man out'n money, fur gittin' mad an' sayin' ye stole his\nonly darter. Oh, I'll answer fur him\"--she too had risen; her hand\ntrembled on the back of the chair, but her face was scornfully\nsmiling--\"he don't mind the _money_; he'll never git you-uns _fined_ ter\npay back the gredge. He don't take his wrath out on folkses' _wallets_;\nhe grips thar throats, or teches the trigger o' his rifle. Laws-a-massy!\ntakin' out yer gredge that-a-way! It's _ye_ poorer fur them dollars,\nAbs'lom--'tain't him.\" She laughed satirically, and turned to rock the\ncradle.\n\n\"What d'ye want me ter do? Fight a old man?\" he exclaimed, angrily.\n\nShe kept silence, only looking at him with a flushed cheek and a\nscornful laughing eye.\n\nHe went on, resentfully: \"I ain't 'shamed,\" he stoutly asserted. \"Nobody\n'lowed I oughter be. It's him, plumb bowed down with shame.\"\n\n\"The shoe's on the t'other foot,\" she cried. \"It's ye that oughter be\n'shamed, an' ef ye ain't, it's more shame ter ye. What hev he got ter be\n'shamed of?\"\n\n\"'Kase,\" he retorted, \"he war fetched up afore a court on a crim'nal\noffence--a-cussin' afore the court! Ye may think it's no shame, but he\ndo; he war so 'shamed he gin up his office ez jestice o' the peace, what\nhe hev run fur four or five times, an' always got beat 'ceptin' wunst.\"\n\n\"Dad!\" but for the whisper she seemed turning to stone; her dilated\neyes were fixed as she stared into his face.\n\n\"An' I seen him a-ridin' off from town in the rain arterward, his head\nhangin' plumb down ter the saddle-bow.\"\n\nHer amazed eyes were still fastened upon his face, but her hand no\nlonger trembled on the back of the chair.\n\nHe suddenly held out his own hand to her, his sympathy and regret\nreturning as he recalled the picture of the lonely wayfarer in the rain\nthat had touched him so. \"Oh, Eveliny!\" he cried, \"I never war so beset\nan' sorry an'--\"\n\nShe struck his hand down; her eyes blazed. Her aspect was all instinct\nwith anger.\n\n\"I do declar' I'll never furgive ye--ter spite him so--an' kem an' tell\n_me_! An' shame him so ez he can't hold his place--an' kem an' tell\n_me_! An' bow him down so ez he can't show his face whar he hev been so\nrespected by all--an' kem an' tell _me_! An' all fur spite, fur he hev\ngot nuthin' ye want now. An' I gin him up an' lef him lonely, an' all\nfur you-uns. Ye air mean, Abs'lom Kittredge, an' I'm the mos' fursaken\nfool on the face o' the yearth!\"\n\nHe tried to speak, but she held up her hand in expostulation.\n\n\"Nare word--fur I won't answer. I do declar' I'll never speak ter ye\nagin ez long ez I live.\"\n\nHe flung away with a laugh and a jeer. \"That's right,\" he said,\nencouragingly; \"plenty o' men would be powerful glad ef thar wives would\ntake pattern by that.\"\n\nHe caught up his hat and strode out of the room. He busied himself in\nstabling his horse, and in looking after the stock. He could hear the\nwomen's voices from the loft of the barn as they disputed about the best\nmethods of tending the newly hatched chickens, that had chipped the\nshell so late in the fall as to be embarrassed by the frosts and the\ncoming cold weather. The last bee had ceased to drone about the great\ncrimson prince's-feather by the door-step, worn purplish through long\nflaunting, and gone to seed. The clouds were creeping up and up the\nslope, and others were journeying hither from over the mountains. A\nsense of moisture was in the air, although a great column of dust sprang\nup from the dry corn-field, with panic-stricken suggestions, and went\nwhirling away, carrying off withered blades in the rush. The first drops\nof rain were pattering, with a resonant timbre in the midst, when Pete\ncame home with a newly killed deer on his horse, and the women, with\nfluttering skirts and sun-bonnets, ran swiftly across from the barn to\nthe back door of the shed-room. Then the heavy downpour made the cabin\nrock.\n\n\"Why, Eveliny an' the baby oughtn't ter be out in this hyar\nrain--they'll be drenched,\" said the old woman, when they were all\nsafely housed except the two. \"Whar be she?\"\n\n\"A-foolin' in the gyarden spot a-getherin' seed an' sech, like she\nalways be,\" said the sister-in-law, tartly.\n\nAbsalom ran out into the rain without his hat, his heart in the clutch\nof a prescient terror. No; the summer was over for the garden as well as\nfor him; all forlorn and rifled, its few swaying shrubs tossed wildly\nabout, a mockery of the grace and bloom that had once embellished it.\nHis wet hair streaming backward in the wind caught on the laurel boughs\nas he went down and down the tangled path that her homesick feet had\nworn to the crag which overlooked the Cove. Not there! He stood, himself\nenveloped in the mist, and gazed blankly into the folds of the\ndun-colored clouds that with tumultuous involutions surged above the\nvalley and baffled his vision. He realized it with a sinking heart. She\nwas gone.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat afternoon--it was close upon nightfall--Stephen Quimbey, letting\ndown the bars for the cows, noticed through the slanting lines of rain,\nserried against the masses of sober-hued vapors which hid the great\nmountain towering above the Cove, a woman crossing the foot-bridge. He\nturned and lifted down another bar, and then looked again. Something was\nfamiliar in her aspect, certainly. He stood gravely staring. Her\nsun-bonnet had fallen back upon her shoulders, and was hanging loosely\nthere by the strings tied beneath her chin; her brown hair, dishevelled\nby the storm, tossed back and forth in heavy wave-less locks, wet\nthrough and through. When the wind freshened they lashed, thong-like,\nher pallid oval face; more than once she put up her hand and tried to\ngather them together, or to press them back--only one hand, for she\nclasped a heavy bundle in her arms, and as she toiled along slowly up\nthe rocky slope, Stephen suddenly held his palm above his eyes. The\nrecognition was becoming definite, and yet he could scarcely believe\nhis senses: was it indeed Evelina, wind-tossed, tempest-beaten, and with\nas many tears as rain-drops on her pale cheek? Evelina, forlorn and\nsorry, and with swollen sad dark eyes, and listless exhausted step--here\nagain at the bars, where she had not stood since she dragged her wounded\nlover thence on that eventful night two years and more ago.\n\nResentment for the domestic treachery was uppermost in his mind, and he\ndemanded surlily, when she had advanced within the sound of his words,\n\"What hev ye kem hyar fur?\"\n\n\"Ter stay,\" she responded, briefly.\n\nHis hand in an uncertain gesture laid hold upon his tuft of beard.\n\n\"Fur good?\" he faltered, amazed.\n\nShe nodded silently.\n\nHe stooped to lift down the lowest bar that she might pass. Suddenly the\nbundle she clasped gave a dexterous twist; a small head, with yellow\ndowny hair, was thrust forth; a pair of fawn-like eyes fixed an\ninquiring stare upon him; the pink face distended with a grin, to which\nthe two small teeth in the red mouth, otherwise empty, lent a singularly\nmerry expression; and with a manner that was a challenge to pursuit, the\nhead disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, tucked with affected\nshyness under Evelina's arm.\n\nShe left Stephen standing with the bar in his hand, staring blankly\nafter her, and ran into the cabin.\n\nHer father had no questions to ask--nor she.\n\nAs he caught her in his arms he gave a great cry of joy that rang\nthrough the house, and brought Timothy from the barn, in astonishment,\nto the scene.\n\n\"Eveliny's _home_!\" he cried out to Tim, who, with the ox-yoke in his\nhand, paused in the doorway. \"Kem ter stay! Eveliny's _home_! I knowed\nshe'd kem back to her old daddy. Eveliny's kem ter stay fur good.\"\n\n\"They tole me they'd hectored ye plumb out'n the town an' out'n yer\noffice. They hed the insurance ter tell _me_ that word!\" she cried,\nsobbing on his breast.\n\n\"What d'ye reckon I keer fur enny jestice's cheer when I hev got ye agin\nter set alongside o' me by the fire?\" he exclaimed, his cracked old\nvoice shrill with triumphant gladness.\n\nHe pushed her into her rocking-chair in the chimney-corner, and laughed\nagain with the supreme pleasure of the moment, although she had leaned\nher head against the logs of the wall, and was sobbing aloud with the\ncontending emotions that tore her heart.\n\n\"Didn't ye ever want ter kem afore, Eveliny?\" he demanded. \"I hev been\na-pinin' fur a glimge o' ye.\" He was in his own place now, his hands\ntrembling as they lay on the arms of his chair, a pathetic reproach was\nin his voice. \"Though old folks oughtn't ter expec' too much o' young\nones, ez be all tuk up naterally with tharse'fs,\" he added, bravely. He\nwould not let his past lonely griefs mar the bright present. \"Old folks\nair mos'ly cumberers--mos'ly cumberers o' the yearth, ennyhow.\"\n\nHer weeping had ceased; she was looking at him with dismayed surprise\nin her eyes, still lustrous with unshed tears. \"Why, dad I sent ye a\nhundred messages ef I mought kem. I tole Abs'lom ter tell Joe\nBoyd--bein' as ye liked Joe--I wanted ter see ye.\" She leaned forward\nand looked up at him with frowning intensity. \"They never gin ye that\nword?\"\n\nHe laughed aloud in sorry scorn. \"We can't teach our chil'n nuthin',\" he\nphilosophized. \"They hev got ter hurt tharse'fs with all the thorns an'\nthe stings o' the yearth. Our sperience with the sharp things an' bitter\nones don't do them no sarvice. Naw, leetle darter--naw! Ye mought ez\nwell gin a message o' kindness ter a wolf, an' expec' him ter kerry it\nter some lonesome, helpless thing a-wounded by the way-side, ez gin it\nter a Kittredge.\"\n\n\"I never will speak ter one o' 'em agin ez long ez I live,\" she cried,\nwith a fresh gust of tears.\n\n\"Waal,\" exclaimed the old man, reassuringly, and chirping high, \"hyar we\nall be agin, jes' the same ez we war afore. Don't cry, Eveliny; it's\njes' the same.\"\n\nA sudden babbling intruded upon the conversation. The youthful\nKittredge, as he sat upon the wide flat stones of the hearth, was as\nunwelcome here in the Cove as a Quimbey had been in the cabin on the\nmountain. The great hickory fire called for his unmixed approval, coming\nin, as he had done, from the gray wet day. He shuffled his bare pink\nfeet--exceedingly elastic and agile members they seemed to be, and he\nhad a remarkable \"purchase\" upon their use--and brought them smartly\ndown upon their heels as if this were one of the accepted gestures of\napplause. Then he looked up at the dark frowning faces of his mother's\nbrothers, and gurgled with laughter, showing the fascinating spectacle\nof his two front teeth. Perhaps it was the only Kittredge eye that they\nwere not willing to meet. They solemnly gazed beyond him and into the\nfire, ignoring his very existence. He sustained the slight with an\nadmirable cheerfulness, and babbled and sputtered and flounced about\nwith his hands. He grew pinker in the generous firelight, and he looked\nvery fat as he sat in a heap on the floor. He seemed to have threads\ntightly tied about his bolster-shaped limbs in places where elder people\nprefer joints--in his ankles and wrists and elbows--for his arms were\nbare, and although his frock of pink calico hung decorously high on one\nshoulder, it drooped quite off from the other, showing a sturdy chest.\n\nHis mother took slight notice of him; she was beginning to look about\nthe room with a certain critical disfavor at the different arrangement\nof the household furniture adopted by her father's deaf and widowed old\nsister who presided here now, and who, it chanced, had been called away\nby the illness of a relative. Evelina got up presently, and shifted the\nposition of the spinning-wheels, placing the flax-wheel where the large\nwheel had been. She then pushed out the table from the corner. \"What\nailed her ter sot it hyar?\" she grumbled, in a disaffected undertone,\nand shoved it to the centre of the floor, where it had always stood\nduring her own sway. She cast a discerning glance up among the strings\nof herbs and peppers hanging from above, and examined the shelves where\nthe simple stores for table use were arranged in earthen-ware bowls or\ngourds--all with an air of vague dissatisfaction. She presently stepped\ninto the shed-room, and there looked over the piles of quilts. They were\nin order, certainly, but placed in a different method from her own;\nanother woman's hand had been at work, and she was jealous of its very\ntouch among these familiar old things to which she seemed positively\nakin. \"I wonder how I made out ter bide so long on the mounting,\" she\nsaid; and with the recollection of the long-haired Absalom there was\nanother gush of tears and sobs, which she stifled as she could in one of\nthe old quilts that held many of her own stitches and was soothing to\ntouch.\n\nThe infantile Kittredge, who was evidently not born to blush unseen,\nseemed to realize that he had failed to attract the attention of the\nthree absorbed Quimbeys who sat about the fire. He blithely addressed\nhimself to another effort. He suddenly whisked himself over on\nall-fours, and with a certain ursine aspect went nimbly across the\nhearth, still holding up his downy yellow head, his pink face agrin, and\nalluringly displaying his two facetious teeth. He caught the rung of\nTim's chair, and lifted himself tremulously to an upright posture. And\nthen it became evident that he was about to give an exhibition of the\nthrilling feat of walking around a chair. With a truly Kittredge\nperversity he had selected the one that had the savage Timothy seated in\nit. For an instant the dark-browed face scowled down into his\nunaffrighted eyes: it seemed as if Tim might kick him into the fire.\nThe next moment he had set out to circumnavigate, as it were. What a\nprodigious force he expended upon it! How he gurgled and grinned and\ntwisted his head to observe the effect upon the men, all sedulously\ngazing into the fire! how he bounced, and anon how he sank with sudden\ngenuflections! how limber his feet seemed, and what free agents! Surely\nhe never intended to put them down at that extravagant angle. More than\nonce one foot was placed on top of the other--an attitude that impeded\nlocomotion and resulted in his sitting down in an involuntary manner and\nwith some emphasis. With an appalling temerity he clutched Tim's great\nmiry boots to help him up and on his way round. Occasionally he swayed\nto and fro, with his teeth on exhibition, laughing and babbling and\nshrilly exclaiming, inarticulately bragging of his agile prowess, as if\nhe were able to defy all the Quimbeys, who would not notice him. And\nwhen it was all over he went in his wriggling ursine gait back to the\nhearth-stone, and there he was sitting, demurely enough, and as if he\nhad never moved, when his mother returned and found him.\n\nThere was no indication that he had attracted a moment's attention. She\nlooked gravely down at him; then took her chair. A pair of blue yarn\nsocks was in her hand. \"I never see sech darnin' ez Aunt Sairy Ann do\nfur ye, dad; I hev jes tuk my shears an' cut this heel smang out, an' I\nbe goin' ter do it over.\"\n\nShe slipped a tiny gourd into the heel, and began to draw the slow\nthreads to and fro across it.\n\nThe blaze, red and yellow, and with elusive purple gleams, leaped up the\nchimney. The sap was still in the wood; it sang a summer-tide song. But\nan autumn wind was blowing shrilly down the chimney; one could hear the\nsibilant rush of the dead leaves on the blast. The window and the door\nshook, and were still, and once more rattled as if a hand were on the\nlatch.\n\nSuddenly--\"Ever weigh him?\" her father asked.\n\nShe sat upright with a nervous start. It was a moment before she\nunderstood that it was of the Kittredge scion he spoke.\n\nWith his high cracked laugh the old man leaned over, his outspread hand\nhovering about the plump baby, uncertain where, in so much soft fatness,\nit might be practicable to clutch him. There were some large horn\nbuttons on the back of his frock, a half-dozen of which, gathered\ntogether, afforded a grasp. He lifted the child by them, laughing in\nundisguised pleasure to feel the substantial strain upon the garment.\n\n\"Toler'ble survigrus,\" he declared, with his high chirp.\n\nHis daughter suddenly sprang up with a pallid face and a pointing hand.\n\n\"The winder!\" she huskily cried--\"suthin's at the winder!\"\n\nBut when they looked they saw only the dark square of tiny panes, with\nthe fireside scene genially reflected on it. And then she fell to\ndeclaring that she had been dreaming, and besought them not to take down\ntheir guns nor to search, and would not be still until they had all\nseemed to concede the point; it was she who fastened the doors and\nshutters, and she did not lie down to rest till they were all asleep and\nhours had passed. None of them doubted that it was Absalom's face that\nshe had seen at the window, where the light had once lured him before,\nand she knew that she had dreamed no dream like this.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nIt soon became evident that whenever Joe Boyd was intrusted with a\nmessage he would find means to deliver it. For upon him presently\ndevolved the difficult duties of ambassador. The first time that his\nhonest square face appeared at the rail fence, and the sound of his\nvoice roused Evelina as she stood feeding the poultry close by, she\nreturned his question with a counter-question hard to answer.\n\n\"I hev been up the mounting,\" he said, smiling, as he hooked his arms\nover the rail fence. \"Abs'lom he say he wanter know when ye'll git yer\nvisit out an' kem home.\"\n\nShe leaned her elbow against the ash-hopper, balancing the wooden bowl\nof corn-meal batter on its edge and trembling a little; the geese and\nchickens and turkeys crowded, a noisy rout, about her feet.\n\n\"Joe,\" she said, irrelevantly, \"ye air one o' the few men on this yearth\nez ain't a liar.\"\n\nHe stared at her gravely for a moment, then burst into a forced laugh.\n\"Ho! ho! I tell a bushel o' 'em a day, Eveliny!\" He wagged his head in\nan anxious affectation of mirth.\n\n\"Why'n't ye gin dad them messages ez Abs'lom gin ye from me?\"\n\nJoe received this in blank amaze; then, with sudden comprehension, his\nlower jaw dropped. He looked at her with a plea for pity in his eyes.\nAnd yet his ready tact strove to reassert itself.\n\n\"I mus' hev furgot 'em,\" he faltered.\n\n\"Did Abs'lom ever gin 'em ter ye?\" she persisted.\n\n\"_Ef he did_, I mus' hev furgot 'em,\" he repeated, crestfallen and\nhopeless.\n\nShe laughed and turned jauntily away, once more throwing the corn-meal\nbatter to the greedily jostling poultry. \"Tell Abs'lom I hev f'und him\nout,\" she said. \"He can't sot me agin dad no sech way. This be my home,\nan' hyar I be goin' ter 'bide.\"\n\nAnd so she left the good Joe Boyd hooked on by the elbows to the fence.\n\nThe Quimbeys, who had heard this conversation from within, derived from\nit no small elation. \"She hev gin 'em the go-by fur good,\" Timothy said,\nconfidently, to his father, who laughed in triumph, and pulled calmly at\nhis pipe, and looked ten years younger.\n\nBut Steve was surlily anxious. \"I'd place heap mo' dependence in Eveliny\nef she didn't hev this hyar way o' cryin' all the time. She 'lows she's\nglad she kem--_so glad_ she hev lef' Abs'lom fur good an' all--an' then\nshe busts out a-cryin' agin. I ain't able ter argufy on sech.\"\n\n\"Shucks! wimmen air always a-cryin', an' they don't mean _nuthin_' by\nit,\" exclaimed the old man, in the plenitude of his wisdom. \"It air jes'\none o' thar most contrarious ways. I hev seen 'em set down an' cry fur\njoy an' pleasure.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"'WHY'N'T YE GIN DAD THEM MESSAGES?'\"]\n\nBut Steve was doubtful. \"It be a powerful low-sperited gift fur them ez\nhev ter 'bide along of 'em. Eveliny never useter be tearful in nowise.\nNow she cries a heap mo' 'n that thar shoat\"--his lips curled in\ncontempt as he glanced toward the door, through which was visible a\nsmall rotund figure in pink calico, seated upon the lowest log of the\nwood-pile--\"ez she fotched down hyar with her. _He_ never hev hed a\nreg'lar blate but two or three times sence he hev been hyar, an' them\nwar when that thar old tur-rkey gobbler teetered up ter him an' tuk his\ncorn-dodger that he war a-eatin' on plumb out'n his hand. _He_ hed\nsuthin' to holler fur--hed los' his breakfus.\"\n\n\"Don't he 'pear ter you-uns to be powerful peegeon-toed?\" asked Tim,\nanxiously, turning to his father.\n\n\"The gawbbler?\" faltered the amazed old man.\n\n\"Naw; him, _him_--_Kittredge_,\" said Tim, jerking his big thumb in the\ndirection of the small boy.\n\n\"Law-dy Gawd A'mighty! _naw! naw!_\" The grandfather indignantly\nrepudiated the imputation of the infirmity. One would have imagined that\nhe would deem it meet that a Kittredge should be pigeon-toed. \"It's jes\nthe way _all_ babies hev got a-walkin'; he ain't right handy yit with\nhis feet--jes a-beginnin' ter walk, an' sech. Peegeon-toed! I say it, ye\nfool!\" He cast a glance of contempt on his eldest-born, and arrogantly\npuffed his pipe.\n\nAgain Joe Boyd came, and yet again. He brought messages contrite and\npromissory from Absalom; he brought commands stern and insistent. He\ncame into the house at last, and sat and talked at the fireside in the\npresence of the men of the family, who bore themselves in a manner\ncalculated to impress the Kittredge emissary with their triumph and\ncontempt for his mission, although they studiously kept silence, leaving\nit to Evelina to answer.\n\nAt last the old man, leaning forward, tapped Joe on the knee. \"See hyar,\nJoe. Ye hev always been a good frien' o' mine. This hyar man he stole my\ndarter from me, an' whenst she wanted ter be frien's, an' not let her\nold dad die unforgivin', he wouldn't let her send the word ter me. An'\nthen he sot himself ter spite an' hector me, an' fairly run me out'n the\ntown, an' harried me out'n my office, an' when she f'und out--she\nwouldn't take my word fur it--the deceivin' natur' o' the Kittredge\ntribe, she hed hed enough o' 'em. I hev let ye argufy 'bout'n it; ye hev\nhed yer fill of words. An' now I be tired out. Ye ain't 'lowin' she'll\never go back ter her husband, air ye?\"\n\nJoe dolorously shook his head.\n\n\"Waal, ef ever ye kem hyar talkin' 'bout'n it agin, I'll be 'bleeged ter\ntake down my rifle ter ye.\"\n\nJoe gazed, unmoved, into the fire.\n\n\"An' that would be mighty hard on me, Joe, 'kase ye be so pop'lar\n'mongst all, I dunno _what_ the kentry-side would do ter me ef I war ter\nput a bullet inter ye. Ye air a young man, Joe. Ye oughter spare a old\nman sech a danger ez that.\"\n\nAnd so it happened that Joe Boyd's offices as mediator ceased.\n\nA week went by in silence and without result. Evelina's tears seemed to\nkeep count of the minutes. The brothers indignantly noted it, and even\nthe old man was roused from the placid securities of his theories\nconcerning lachrymose womankind, and remonstrated sometimes, and\nsometimes grew angry and exhorted her to go back. What did it matter to\nher how her father was treated? He was a cumberer of the ground, and\nmany people besides her husband had thought he had no right to sit in a\njustice's chair. And then she would burst into tears once more, and\ndeclare again that she would never go back.\n\nThe only thoroughly cheerful soul about the place was the intruding\nKittredge. He sat continuously--for the weather was fine--on the lowest\nlog of the wood-pile, and swung his bare pink feet among the chips and\nbark, and seemed to have given up all ambition to walk. Occasionally red\nand yellow leaves whisked past his astonished eyes, although these were\nfew now, for November was on the wane. He babbled to the chickens, who\npecked about him with as much indifference as if he were made of wood.\nHis two teeth came glittering out whenever the rooster crowed, and his\ngleeful laugh--he rejoiced so in this handsomely endowed bird--could be\nheard to the barn. The dogs seemed never to have known that he was a\nKittredge, and wagged their tails at the very sound of his voice, and\nseized surreptitious opportunities to lick his face. Of all his\nunderfoot world only the gobbler awed him into gravity and silence; he\nwould gaze in dismay as the marauding fowl irresolutely approached from\naround the wood-pile, with long neck out-stretched and undulating gait,\napplying first one eye and then the other to the pink hands, for the\ngobbler seemed to consider them a perpetual repository of corn-dodgers,\nwhich indeed they were. Then the head and the wabbling red wattles would\ndart forth with a sudden peck, and the shriek that ensued proved that\nnothing could be much amiss with the Kittredge lungs.\n\nOne fine day he sat thus in the red November sunset. The sky, seen\nthrough the interlacing black boughs above his head, was all amber and\ncrimson, save for a wide space of pure and pallid green, against which\nthe purplish-garnet wintry mountains darkly gloomed. Beyond the rail\nfence the avenues of the bare woods were carpeted with the sere\nyellowish leaves that gave back the sunlight with a responsive\nilluminating effect, and thus the sylvan vistas glowed. The long\nslanting beams elongated his squatty little shadow till it was hardly a\ncaricature. He heard the cow lowing as she came to be milked, fording\nthe river where the clouds were so splendidly reflected. The chickens\nwere going to roost. The odor of the wood, the newly-hewn chips,\nimparted a fresh and fragrant aroma to the air. He had found among them\na sweet-gum ball and a pine cone, and was applying them to the\ninvariable test of taste. Suddenly he dropped them with a nervous start,\nhis lips trembled, his lower jaw fell, he was aware of a stealthy\napproach. Something was creeping behind the wood-pile. He hardly had\ntime to bethink himself of his enemy the gobbler when he was clutched\nunder the arm, swung through the air with a swiftness that caused the\nscream to evaporate in his throat, and the next moment he looked\nquakingly up into his father's face with unrecognizing eyes; for he had\nforgotten Absalom in these few weeks. He squirmed and wriggled as he was\nheld on the pommel of the saddle, winking and catching his breath and\nspluttering, as preliminary proceedings to an outcry. There was a sudden\nsound of heavily shod feet running across the puncheon floor within, a\nwild, incoherent exclamation smote the air, an interval of significant\nsilence ensued.\n\n\"Get up!\" cried Absalom, not waiting for Tim's rifle, but spurring the\nyoung horse, and putting him at the fence. The animal rose with the\nelasticity and lightness of an uprearing ocean wave. The baby once more\ntwisted his soft neck, and looked anxiously into the rider's face. This\nwas not the gobbler. The gobbler did not ride horseback. Then the\naffinity of the male infant for the noble equine animal suddenly\noverbore all else. In elation he smote with his soft pink hand the\nglossy arched neck before him. \"Dul-lup!\" he arrogantly echoed Absalom's\nwords. And thus father and son at a single bound disappeared into woods,\nand so out of sight.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe savage Tim was leaning upon his rifle in the doorway, his eyes\ndilated, his breath short, his whole frame trembling with excitement, as\nthe other men, alarmed by Evelina's screams, rushed down from the barn.\n\n\"What ails ye, Tim? Why'n't ye fire?\" demanded his father.\n\nTim turned an agitated, baffled look upon him. \"I--I mought hev hit the\nbaby,\" he faltered.\n\n\"Hain't ye got no aim, ye durned sinner?\" asked Stephen, furiously.\n\n\"Bullet mought hev gone through him and struck inter the baby,\"\nexpostulated Tim.\n\n\"An' then agin it moughtn't!\" cried Stephen. \"Lawd, ef _I_ hed hed the\nchance!\"\n\n\"Ye wouldn't hev done no differ,\" declared Tim.\n\n\"Hyar!\" Steve caught his brother's gun and presented it to Tim's lips.\n\"Suck the bar'l. It's 'bout all ye air good fur.\"\n\nThe horses had been turned out. By the time they were caught and saddled\npursuit was evidently hopeless. The men strode in one by one, dashing\nthe saddles and bridles on the floor, and finding in angry expletives a\nvent for their grief. And indeed it might have seemed that the Quimbeys\nmust have long sought a choice Kittredge infant for adoption, so far did\ntheir bewailings discount Rachel's mourning.\n\n\"Don't cry, Eveliny,\" they said, ever and anon. \"We-uns'll git him back\nfur ye.\"\n\nBut she had not shed a tear. She sat speechless, motionless, as if\nturned to stone.\n\n\"Laws-a-massy, child, ef ye would jes hev b'lieved _me_ 'bout'n them\nKittredges--Abs'lom in partic'lar--ye'd be happy an' free now,\" said the\nold man, his imagination somewhat extending his experience, for he had\nhad no knowledge of his son-in-law until their relationship began.\n\nThe evening wore drearily on. Now and then the men roused themselves,\nand with lowering faces discussed the opportunities of reprisal, and\nthe best means of rescuing the child. And whether they schemed to burn\nthe Kittredge cabin, or to arm themselves, burst in upon their enemies,\nshooting and killing all who resisted, Evelina said nothing, but stared\ninto the fire with unnaturally dilated eyes, her white lined face all\ndrawn and somehow unrecognizable.\n\n\"Never mind,\" her father said at intervals, taking her cold hand,\n\"we-uns 'll git him back, Eveliny. The Lord hed a mother wunst, an' I'll\nbe bound He keeps a special pity for a woman an' her child.\"\n\n\"Oh, great gosh! who'd hev dreamt we'd hev missed him so!\" cried Tim,\nshifting his position, and slipping his left arm over the back of his\nchair. \"Jes ter think o' the leetle size o' him, an' the great big gap\nhe hev lef' roun' this hyar ha'th-stone!\"\n\n\"An' yit he jes sot underfoot, 'mongst the cat an' the dogs, jes ez\nhumble!\" said Stephen.\n\n\"I'd git him back even ef he warn't no kin ter me, Eveliny,\" declared\nTim, and he spoke advisedly, remembering that the youth was a Kittredge.\n\nStill Evelina said not a word. All that night she silently walked the\npuncheon floor, while the rest of the household slept. The dogs, in\nvague disturbance, because of the unprecedented vigil and stir in the\nmidnight, wheezed uneasily from time to time, and crept restlessly about\nunder the cabin, now and again thumping their backs or heads against the\nfloor; but at last they betook themselves to slumber. The hickory logs\nbroke in twain as they burned, and fell on either side, and presently\nthere was only the dull red glow of the embers on her pale face, and the\nroom was full of brown shadows, motionless, now that the flames flared\nno more. Once when the red glow, growing ever dimmer, seemed almost\nsubmerged beneath the gray ashes, she paused and stirred the coals. The\nrenewed glimmer showed a fixed expression in her eyes, becoming momently\nmore resolute. At intervals she knelt at the window and placed her hands\nabout her face to shut out the light from the hearth, and looked out\nupon the night. How the chill stars loitered! How the dawn delayed! The\ngreat mountain gloomed darkling above the Cove. The waning moon, all\nmelancholy and mystic, swung in the purple sky. The bare, stark boughs\nof the trees gave out here and there a glimmer of hoar-frost. There was\nno wind; when she heard the dry leaves whisk she caught a sudden glimpse\nof a fox that, with his crafty shadow pursuing him, leaped upon the\nwood-pile, nimbly ran along its length, and so, noiselessly, away--while\nthe dogs snored beneath the house. A cock crew from the chicken-roost;\nthe mountain echoed the resonant strain. She saw a mist come stealing\nsoftly along a precipitous gorge; the gauzy web hung shimmering in the\nmoon; presently the trees were invisible; anon they showed rigid among\nthe soft enmeshment of the vapor, and again were lost to view.\n\nShe rose; there was a new energy in her step; she walked quickly across\nthe floor and unbarred the door.\n\nThe little cabin on the mountain was lost among the clouds. It was not\nyet day, but the old woman, with that proclivity to early rising\ncharacteristic of advancing years, was already astir. It was in the\nprincipal room of the cabin that she slept, and it contained another\nbed, in which, placed crosswise, were five billet-shaped objects under\nthe quilts, which when awake identified themselves as Peter Kittredge's\nchildren. She had dressed and uncovered the embers, and put on a few of\nthe chips which had been spread out on the hearth to dry, and had sat\ndown in the chimney corner. A timid blaze began to steal up, and again\nwas quenched, and only the smoke ascended in its form; then the light\nflickered out once more, casting a gigantic shadow of her\nsun-bonnet--for she had donned it thus early--half upon the brown and\nyellow daubed wall, and half upon the dark ceiling, making a specious\nstir amidst the peltry and strings of pop-corn hanging motionless\nthence.\n\nShe sighed heavily once or twice, and with an aged manner, and leaned\nher elbows on her knees and gazed contemplatively at the fire. All at\nonce the ashes were whisked about the hearth as in a sudden draught, and\nthen were still. In momentary surprise she pushed her chair back,\nhesitated, then replaced it, and calmly settled again her elbows on her\nknees. Suddenly once more a whisking of the ashes; a cold shiver ran\nthrough her, and she turned to see a hand fumbling at the batten shutter\nclose by. She stared for a moment as if paralyzed; her spectacles fell\nto the floor from her nerveless hand, shattering the lenses on the\nhearth. She rose trembling to her feet, and her lips parted as if to\ncry out. They emitted no sound, and she turned with a terrified\nfascination and looked back. The shutter had opened, there was no glass,\nthe small square of the window showed the nebulous gray mist without,\nand defined upon it was Evelina's head, her dark hair streaming over the\nred shawl held about it, her fair oval face pallid and pensive, and with\na great wistfulness upon it; her lustrous dark eyes glittered.\n\n\"Mother,\" her red lips quivered out.\n\nThe old crone recognized no treachery in her heart. She laid a warning\nfinger upon her lips. All the men were asleep.\n\nEvelina stretched out her yearning arms. \"Gin him ter me!\"\n\n\"Naw, naw, Eveliny,\" huskily whispered Absalom's mother. \"Ye oughter kem\nhyar an' 'bide with yer husband--ye know ye ought.\"\n\nEvelina still held out her insistent arms. \"Gin him ter me!\" she\npleaded.\n\nThe old woman shook her head sternly. \"Ye kem in, an' 'bide whar ye\nb'long.\"\n\nEvelina took a step nearer the window. She laid her hand on the sill.\n\"Spos'n 'twar Abs'lom whenst he war a baby,\" she said, her eyes softly\nbrightening, \"an' another woman hed him an' kep' him, 'kase ye an' his\ndad fell out--would ye hev 'lowed she war right ter treat ye like ye\ntreat me--whenst Abs'lom war a baby?\"\n\nOnce more she held out her arms.\n\nThere was a step in the inner shed-room; then silence.\n\n\"Ye hain't got no excuse,\" the soft voice urged; \"ye know jes how I\nfeel, how ye'd hev felt, whenst Abs'lom war a baby.\"\n\nThe shawl had fallen back from her tender face; her eyes glowed, her\ncheek was softly flushed. A sudden terror thrilled through her as she\nagain heard the heavy step approaching in the shed-room. \"Whenst Abs'lom\nwar a baby,\" she reiterated, her whole pleading heart in the tones.\n\nA sudden radiance seemed to illumine the sad, dun-colored folds of the\nencompassing cloud; her face shone with a transfiguring happiness, for\nthe hustling old crone had handed out to her a warm, somnolent bundle,\nand the shutter closed upon the mists with a bang.\n\n\"The wind's riz powerful suddint,\" Peter said, noticing the noise as he\ncame stumbling in, rubbing his eyes. He went and fastened the shutter,\nwhile his mother tremulously mended the fire.\n\nThe absence of the baby was not noticed for some time, and when the\nfather's hasty and angry questions elicited the reluctant facts, the\noutcry for his loss was hardly less bitter among the Kittredges than\namong the Quimbeys. The fugitives were shielded from capture by the\nenveloping mist, and when Absalom returned from the search he could do\nnaught but indignantly upbraid his mother.\n\nShe was terrified by her own deed, and cowered under Absalom's wrath. It\nwas in a moral collapse, she felt, that she could have done this thing.\nShe flung her apron over her head, and sat still and silent--a\nmonumental figure--among them. Once, roused by Absalom's reproaches, she\nmade some effort to defend and exculpate herself, speaking from behind\nthe enveloping apron.\n\n\"I ain't born no Kittredge nohow,\" she irrelevantly asseverated, \"an' I\nnever war. An' when Eveliny axed me how I'd hev liked ter hev another\n'oman take Abs'lom whenst he war a baby, I couldn't hold out no longer.\"\n\n\"Shucks!\" cried Absalom, unfilially; \"ye'd a heap better be a-studyin'\n'bout'n my good now 'n whenst I war a baby--a-givin' away _my_ child ter\nthem Quimbeys; a-h'istin' him out'n the winder!\"\n\nShe was glad to retort that he was \"impident,\" and to take refuge in an\naggrieved silence, as many another mother has done when outmatched by\nlogic.\n\nAfter this there was more cheerfulness in her hidden face than might\nhave been argued from her port of important sorrow. \"Bes' ter hev no\njawin', though,\" she said to herself, as she sat thus inscrutably\nveiled. And deep in her repentant heart she was contradictorily glad\nthat Evelina and the baby were safe together down in the Cove.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nOld Joel Quimbey, putting on his spectacles, with a look of keenest\ncuriosity, to read a paper which the deputy-sheriff of the county\npresented when he drew rein by the wood-pile one afternoon some three\nweeks later, had some difficulty in identifying a certain Elnathan\nDaniel Kittredge specified therein. He took off his spectacles, rubbed\nthem smartly, and put them on again. The writing was unchanged. Surely\nit must mean the baby. That was the only Kittredge whose body they could\nbe summoned to produce on the 24th of December before the judge of\nthe circuit court, now in session. He turned the paper about and looked\nat it, his natural interest as a man augmented by his recognition as an\nex-magistrate of its high important legal character.\n\n[Illustration: \"SHE FLUNG HER APRON OVER HER HEAD\"]\n\n\"Eveliny,\" he quavered, at once flattered and furious, \"dad-burned ef\nAbs'lom hain't gone an' got out a _habeas corpus_ fur the baby!\"\n\nThe phrase had a sound so deadly that there was much ado to\nsatisfactorily explain the writ and its functions to Evelina, who had\nfelt at ease again since the baby was at home, and so effectually\nguarded that to kidnap him was necessarily to murder two or three of the\nvigilant and stalwart Quimbey men. So much joy did it afford the old man\nto air his learning and consult his code--a relic of his\njusticeship--that he belittled the danger of losing the said Elnathan\nDaniel Kittredge in the interest with which he looked forward to the day\nfor him to be produced before the court.\n\nThere was a gathering of the clans on that day. Quimbeys and Kittredges\nwho had not visited the town for twenty years were jogging thither\nbetimes that morning on the red clay roads, all unimpeded by the deep\nmud which, frozen into stiff ruts and ridges here and there, made the\nway hazardous to the running-gear. The lagging winter had come, and the\nground was half covered with a light fall of snow.\n\nThe windows of the court-house were white with frost; the weighted doors\nclanged continuously. An old codger, slowly ascending the steps, and\npushing into the semi-obscurity of the hall, paused as the door slammed\nbehind him, stared at the sheriff in surprise, then fixed him with a\nbantering leer. The light that slanted through the open court-room door\nfell upon the official's burly figure, his long red beard, his big\nbroad-brimmed hat pushed back from his laughing red face, consciously\nludicrous and abashed just now.\n\n\"Hev ye made a find?\" demanded the new-comer.\n\nFor in the strong arms of the law sat, bolt-upright, Elnathan Daniel\nKittredge, his yellow head actively turning about, his face decorated\nwith a grin, and on most congenial terms with the sheriff.\n\n\"They're lawin' 'bout'n him in thar\"--the sheriff jerked his thumb\ntoward the door. \"_Habeas corpus_ perceedin's. Dunno ez I ever see a\nfriskier leetle cuss. Durned ef I 'ain't got a good mind ter run off\nwith him myself.\"\n\nThe said Elnathan Daniel Kittredge once more squirmed round and settled\nhimself comfortably in the hollow of the sheriff's elbow, who marvelled\nto find himself so deft in holding him, for it was twenty years since\nhis son--a gawky youth who now affected the company at the saloon, and\nwas none too filial--was the age and about the build of this infant\nKittredge.\n\n\"They hed a reg'lar scrimmage hyar in the hall--them fool men--Quimbey\nan' Kittredge. Old man Quimbey said suthin' ter Abs'lom Kittredge--I\ndunno what all. Abs'lom never jawed back none. He jes made a dart an'\nsnatched this hyar leetle critter out'n his mother's arms, stiddier\nwaitin' fur the law, what he summonsed himself. Blest ef I didn't hev\nter hold my revolver ter his head, an' then crack him over the knuckles,\nter make him let go the child. I didn't want ter arrest him--mighty\nclever boy, Abs'lom Kittredge! I promised that young woman I'd keep holt\no' the child till the law gins its say-so. I feel sorry fur her; she's\nbeen through a heap.\"\n\n\"Waal, ye look mighty pritty, totin' him around hyar,\" his friend\nencouraged him with a grin. \"I'll say that fur ye--ye look mighty\npritty.\"\n\nAnd in fact the merriment in the hall at the sheriff's expense began to\ngrow so exhilarating as to make him feel that the proceedings within\nwere too interesting to lose. His broad red face with its big red beard\nreappeared in the doorway--slightly embarrassed because of the sprightly\nmanners of his charge, who challenged to mirth every eye that glanced at\nhim by his toothful grin and his gurgles and bounces; he was evidently\nenjoying the excitement and his conspicuous position. He manfully gnawed\nat his corn-dodger from time to time, and from the manner in which he\nfraternized with his new acquaintance, the sheriff, he seemed old enough\nto dispense with maternal care, and, but for his incomplete methods of\nlocomotion, able to knock about town with the boys. The Quimbeys took\nnote of his mature demeanor with sinking hearts; they looked anxiously\nat the judge, wondering if he had ever before seen such\nprecocity--anything so young to be so old: \"He 'ain't never afore\n'peared so survigrus--so _durned_ survigrus ez he do ter-day,\" they\nwhispered to each other.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" his father was saying, on examination, \"year old. Eats\nanything he kin git--cabbage an' fat meat an' anything. _Could_ walk if\nhe wanted ter. But he 'ain't been raised right\"--he glanced at his wife\nto observe the effect of this statement. He felt a pang as he noted her\npensive, downcast face, all tremulous and agitated, overwhelmed as she\nwas by the crowd and the infinite moment of the decision. But Absalom,\ntoo, had his griefs, and they expressed themselves perversely.\n\n\"He hev been pompered an' fattened by bein' let ter eat an' sleep so\nmuch, till he be so heavy ter his self he don't wanter take the trouble\nter git about. He _could_ walk ennywhar. He's plumb survigrus.\"\n\nAnd as if in confirmation, the youthful Kittredge lifted his voice to\ndisplay his lung power. He hilariously babbled, and suddenly roared out\na stentorian whoop, elicited by nothing in particular, then caught the\nsheriff's beard, and buried in it his conscious pink face.\n\nThe judge looked gravely up over his spectacles. He had a bronzed\ncomplexion, a serious, pondering expression, a bald head, and a gray\nbeard. He wore a black broadcloth suit, somewhat old-fashioned in cut,\nand his black velvet waist-coat had suffered an eruption of tiny red\nsatin spots. He had great respect for judicial decorums, and no\nKittredge, however youthful, or survigrus, or exalted in importance by\n_habeas corpus_ proceedings, could \"holler\" unmolested where he\npresided.\n\n\"Mr. Sheriff,\" he said, solemnly, \"remove that child from the presence\nof the court.\"\n\nAnd the said Elnathan Daniel Kittredge went out gleefully kicking in the\narms of the law.\n\nThe hundred or so grinning faces in the court-room relapsed quickly into\ngravity and excited interest. The rows of jeans-clad countrymen seated\nupon the long benches on either side of the bar leaned forward with\nintent attitudes. For this was a rich feast of local gossip, such as had\nnot been so bountifully spread within their recollection. All the\nancient Quimbey and Kittredge feuds contrived to be detailed anew in\noffering to the judge reasons why father or mother was the more fit\ncustodian of the child in litigation.\n\nAs Absalom sat listening to all this, his eyes were suddenly arrested by\nhis wife's face--half draped it was, half shadowed by her sun-bonnet,\nits fine and delicate profile distinctly outlined against the\ncrystalline and frosted pane of the window near which she sat. The snow\nwithout threw a white reflection upon it; its rich coloring in contrast\nwas the more intense; it was very pensive, with the heavy lids drooping\nover the lustrous eyes, and with a pathetic appeal in its expression.\n\nAnd suddenly his thoughts wandered far afield. He wondered that it had\ncome to this; that she could have misunderstood him so; that he had\nthought her hard and perverse and unforgiving. His heart was all at once\nmelting within him; somehow he was reminded how slight a thing she was,\nand how strong was the power that nerved her slender hand to drag his\nheavy weight, in his dead and helpless unconsciousness, down to the bars\nand into the safety of the sheltering laurel that night, when he lay\nwounded and bleeding under the lighted window of the cabin in the Cove.\nA deep tenderness, an irresistible yearning had come upon him; he was\nabout to rise, he was about to speak he knew not what, when suddenly her\nface was irradiated as one who sees a blessed vision; a happy light\nsprang into her eyes; her lips curved with a smile; the quick tears\ndropped one by one on her hands, nervously clasping and unclasping each\nother. He was bewildered for a moment. Then he heard Peter gruffly\ngrowling a half-whispered curse, and the voice of the judge, in the\nexercise of his discretion, methodically droning out his reasons for\nleaving so young a child in the custody of its mother, disregarding the\nparamount rights of the father. The judge concluded by dispassionately\nrecommending the young couple to betake themselves home, and to try to\nlive in peace together, or, at any rate, like sane people. Then he\nthrust his spectacles up on his forehead, drew a long sigh of dismissal,\nand said, with a freshened look of interest, \"Mr. Clerk, call the next\ncase.\"\n\nThe Quimbey and Kittredge factions poured into the hall; what cared they\nfor the disputed claims of Jenkins _versus_ Jones? The lovers of\nsensation cherished a hope that there might be a lawless effort to\nrescue the infant Kittredge from the custody to which he had been\ncommitted by the court. The Quimbeys watchfully kept about him in a\nclose squad, his pink sun-bonnet, in which his head was eclipsed,\nvisible among their brawny jeans shoulders, as his mother carried him in\nher arms. The sheriff looked smilingly after him from the court-house\nsteps, then inhaled a long breath, and began to roar out to the icy air\nthe name of a witness wanted within. Instead of a gate there was a\nflight of steps on each side of the fence, surmounted by a small\nplatform. Evelina suddenly shrank back as she stood on the platform, for\nbeside the fence Absalom was waiting. Timothy hastily vaulted over the\nfence, drew his \"shooting-iron\" from his boot-leg, and cocked it with a\nmetallic click, sharp and peremptory in the keen wintry air. For a\nmoment Absalom said not a word. He looked up at Evelina with as much\nreproach as bitterness in his dark eyes. They were bright with the anger\nthat fired his blood; it was hot in his bronzed cheek; it quivered in\nhis hands. The dry and cold atmosphere amplified the graces of his long\ncurling yellow hair that she and his mother loved. His hat was pushed\nback from his face. He had not spoken to her since the day of his\nill-starred confidence, but he would not be denied now.\n\n\"Ye'll repent it,\" he said, threateningly. \"I'll take special pains fur\nthat.\"\n\nShe bestowed on him one defiant glance, and laughed--a bitter little\nlaugh. \"Ye air ekal ter it; ye have a special gift fur makin' folks\nrepent they ever seen ye.\"\n\n\"The jedge jes gin him ter ye 'kase ye made him out sech a fibble little\npusson,\" he sneered. \"But it's jes fur a time.\"\n\nShe held the baby closer. He busied himself in taking off his sun-bonnet\nand putting it on hind part before, gurgling with smothered laughter to\nfind himself thus queerly masked, and he made futile efforts to play\n\"peep-eye\" with anybody jovially disposed in the crowd. But they were\nall gravely absorbed in the conjugal quarrel at which they were\nprivileged to assist.\n\n\"It's jes fur a time,\" he reiterated.\n\n\"Wait an' see!\" she retorted, triumphantly.\n\n\"I won't wait,\" he declared, goaded; \"I'll take him yit; an' when I do\nI'll clar out'n the State o' Tennessee--see ef I don't!\"\n\nShe turned white and trembled. \"Ye dassent,\" she cried out shrilly.\n\"Ye'll be 'feared o' the law.\"\n\n\"Wait an' see!\" He mockingly echoed her words, and turned in his old\nconfident manner, and strode out of the crowd.\n\nFaint and trembling, she crept into the old canvas-covered wagon, and as\nit jogged along down the road stiff with its frozen ruts and ever\nnearing the mountains, she clasped the cheerful Kittredge with a\nyearning sense of loss, and declared that the judge had made him no\nsafer than before. It was in vain that her father, speaking from the\nlegal lore of the code, detailed the contempt of court that the\nKittredges would commit should they undertake to interfere with the\njudicial decision--it might be even considered kidnapping.\n\n\"But what good would that do me--an' the baby whisked plumb out'n the\nState? Ef Abs'lom ain't 'feared o' Tim's rifle, what's he goin' ter keer\nfur the pore jedge with nare weepon but his leetle contempt o'\ncourt--ter jail Abs'lom, ef he kin make out ter ketch him!\"\n\nShe leaned against the swaying hoop of the cover of the wagon and burst\ninto tears. \"Oh, none o' ye'll do nuthin' fur me!\" she exclaimed, in\nfrantic reproach. \"Nuthin'!\"\n\n\"Ye talk like 'twar we-uns ez made up sech foolishness ez _habeas\ncorpus_ out'n our own heads,\" said Timothy. \"I 'ain't never looked ter\nthe law fur pertection. Hyar's the pertecter.\" He touched the trigger of\nhis rifle and glanced reassuringly at his sister as he sat beside her on\nthe plank laid as a seat from side to side of the wagon.\n\nShe calmed herself for a moment; then suddenly looked aghast at the\nrifle, and with some occult and hideous thought, burst anew into tears.\n\n\"Waal, sir,\" exclaimed Stephen, outdone, \"what with all this hyar daily\nweepin' an' nightly mournin', I 'ain't got spunk enough lef' ter stan'\nup agin the leetlest Kittredge a-goin'. I ain't man enough ter sight a\nrifle. Kittredges kin kem enny time an' take my hide, horns, an' tallow\nef they air minded so ter do.\"\n\n\"I 'lowed I hearn suthin' a-gallopin' down the road,\" said Tim,\nabruptly.\n\nHer tears suddenly ceased. She clutched the baby closer, and turned and\nlifted the flap of the white curtain at the back of the wagon, and\nlooked out with a wild and terror-stricken eye. The red clay road\nstretched curveless, a long way visible and vacant. The black bare trees\nstood shivering in the chilly blast on either side; among them was an\noccasional clump of funereal cedars. Away off the brown wooded hills\nrose; snow lay in thin crust-like patches here and there, and again the\nearth wore the pallid gray of the crab-grass or the ochreous red of the\ngully-washed clay.\n\n\"I don't see nuthin',\" she said, in the bated voice of affrighted\nsuspense.\n\nWhile she still looked out flakes suddenly began to fly, hardly falling\nat first, but poised tentatively, fluctuating athwart the scene,\npresently thickening, quickening, obscuring it all, isolating the woods\nwith an added sense of solitude since the sight of the world and the\nsound of it were so speedily annulled. Even the creak of the\nwagon-wheels was muffled. Through the semicircular aperture in the front\nof the wagon-cover the horns of the oxen were dimly seen amidst the\nserried flakes; the snow whitened the backs of the beasts and added its\nburden to their yoke. Once as they jogged on she fancied again that she\nheard hoof-beats--this time a long way ahead, thundering over a little\nbridge high above a swirling torrent, that reverberated with a hollow\ntone to the faintest footfall. \"Jes somebody ez hev passed we-uns,\ntakin' the short-cut by the bridle-path,\" she ruminated. No pursuer,\nevidently.\n\nEverything was deeply submerged in the snow before they reached the dark\nlittle cabin nestling in the Cove. Motionless and dreary it was; not\neven a blue and gauzy wreath curled out of the chimney, for the fire had\ndied on the hearth in their absence. No living creature was to be seen.\nThe fowls were huddled together in the hen-house, and the dogs had\naccompanied the family to town, trotting beneath the wagon with lolling\ntongues and smoking breath; when they nimbly climbed the fence their\ncircular footprints were the first traces to mar the level expanse of\nthe door-yard. The bare limbs of the trees were laden; the cedars\nbore great flower-like tufts amidst the interlacing fibrous foliage. The\neaves were heavily thatched; the drifts lay in the fence corners.\n\n[Illustration: \"HE STOLE NOISELESSLY IN THE SOFT SNOW\"]\n\nEverything was covered except, indeed, one side of the fodder-stack that\nstood close to the barn. Evelina, going out to milk the cow, gazed at it\nfor a moment in surprise. The snow had slipped down from it, and lay in\nrolls and piles about the base, intermixed with the sere husks and\nblades that seemed torn out of the great cone. \"Waal, sir, Spot mus' hev\nbeen hongry fur true, ter kem a-foragin' this wise. Looks ez ef she hev\nbeen fairly a-burrowin'.\"\n\nShe turned and glanced over her shoulder at tracks in the\nsnow--shapeless holes, and filling fast--which she did not doubt were\nthe footprints of the big red cow, standing half in and half out of the\nwide door, slowly chewing her cud, her breath visibly curling out on the\nchill air, her great lips opening to emit a muttered low. She moved\nforward suddenly into the shelter as Evelina started anew toward it,\nholding the piggin in one hand and clasping the baby in the other arm.\n\nEvelina noted the sound of her brothers' two axes, busy at the\nwood-pile, their regular cleavage splitting the air with a sharp stroke\nand bringing a crystalline shivering echo from the icy mountain. She did\nnot see the crouching figure that came cautiously burrowing out from the\nstack. Absalom rose to his full height, looking keenly about him the\nwhile, and stole noiselessly in the soft snow to the stable, and peered\nin through a crevice in the wall.\n\nEvelina had placed the piggin upon the straw-covered ground, and stood\namong the horned cattle and the huddling sheep, her soft melancholy face\nhalf shaded by the red shawl thrown over her head and shoulders. A tress\nof her brown hair escaped and curled about her white neck, and hung down\nover the bosom of her dark-blue homespun dress. Against her shoulder the\ndun-colored cow rubbed her horned head. The baby was in a pensive mood,\nand scarcely babbled. The reflection of the snow was on his face,\nheightening the exquisite purity of the tints of his infantile\ncomplexion. His gentle, fawn-like eyes were full of soft and lustrous\nlanguors. His long lashes drooped over them now, and again were lifted.\nHis short down of yellow hair glimmered golden against the red shawl\nover his mother's shoulders.\n\nOne of the beasts sank slowly upon the ground--a tired creature\ndoubtless, and night was at hand; then another, and still another. Their\nposture reminded Absalom, as he looked, that this was Christmas Eve, and\nof the old superstition that the cattle of the barns spend the night\nupon their knees, in memory of the wondrous Presence that once graced\ntheir lowly place. The boughs rattled suddenly in the chill blast above\nhis head; the drifts fell about him. He glanced up mechanically to see\nin the zenith a star of gracious glister, tremulous and tender, in the\nrifts of the breaking clouds.\n\n\"I wonder ef it air the same star o' Bethlehem?\" he said, thinking of\nthe great sidereal torch heralding the Light of the World. He had a\nvague sense that this star has never set, however the wandering planets\nmay come and go in their wide journeys as the seasons roll. He looked\nagain into the glooming place, at the mother and her child, remembering\nthat the Lord of heaven and earth had once lain in a manger, and clung\nto a humble earthly mother.\n\nThe man shook with a sudden affright. He had intended to wrest the child\nfrom her grasp, and mount and ride away; he was roused from his reverie\nby the thrusting upon him of his opportunity, facilitated a hundredfold.\nEvelina had evidently forgotten something. She hesitated for a moment;\nthen put the baby down upon a great pile of straw among the horned\ncreatures, and, catching her shawl about her head, ran swiftly to the\nhouse.\n\nAbsalom moved mechanically into the doorway. The child, still pensive\nand silent, and looking tenderly infantile, lay upon the straw. A sudden\npang of pity for her pierced his heart: how her own would be desolated!\nHis horse, hitched in a clump of cedars, awaited him ten steps away. It\nwas his only chance--his last chance. And he had been hardly entreated.\nThe child's eyes rested, startled and dilated, upon him; he must be\nquick.\n\nThe next instant he turned suddenly, ran hastily through the snow,\ncrashed among the cedars, mounted his horse, and galloped away.\n\nIt was only a moment that Evelina expected to be at the house, but the\ngourd of salt which she sought was not in its place. She hurried out\nwith it at last, unprescient of any danger until all at once she saw the\nfootprints of a man in the snow, otherwise untrodden, about the\nfodder-stack. She still heard the two axes at the wood-pile. Her\nfather, she knew, was at the house.\n\nA smothered scream escaped her lips. The steps had evidently gone into\nthe stable, and had come out thence. Her faltering strength could\nscarcely support her to the door. And then she saw lying in the straw\nElnathan Daniel, beginning to babble and gurgle again, and to grow very\npink with joy over a new toy--a man's glove, a red woollen glove,\naccidentally dropped in the straw. She caught it from his hands, and\nturned it about curiously. She had knit it herself--for Absalom!\n\nWhen she came into the house, beaming with joy, the baby holding the\nglove in his hands, the men listened to her in dumfounded amaze, and\nwith significant side glances at each other.\n\n\"He wouldn't take the baby whenst he hed the chance, 'kase he knowed\n'twould hurt me so. An' he never wanted ter torment me--I reckon he\nnever _did_ mean ter torment me. An' he did 'low wunst he war sorry he\nspited dad. Oh! I hev been a heap too quick an' spiteful myself. I hev\nbeen so terrible wrong! Look a-hyar; he lef this glove ter show me he\nhed been hyar, an' could hev tuk the baby ef he hed hed the heart ter do\nit. Oh! I'm goin' right up the mounting an' tell him how sorry I be.\"\n\n\"Toler'ble cheap!\" grumbled Stephen--\"one old glove. An' he'll git\nElnathan Daniel an' ye too. A smart fox he be.\"\n\nThey could not dissuade her. And after a time it came to pass that the\nQuimbey and Kittredge feuds were healed, for how could the heart of a\ngrandfather withstand a toddling spectacle in pink calico that ran\naway one day some two years later, in company with an adventurous dog,\nand came down the mountain to the cabin in the Cove, squeezing through\nthe fence rails after the manner of his underfoot world, proceeding\nthence to the house, where he made himself very merry and very welcome?\nAnd when Tim mounted his horse and rode up the mountain with the\nyoungster on the pommel of the saddle, lest Evelina should be out of her\nmind with fright because of his absence, how should he and old Mrs.\nKittredge differ in their respective opinions of his vigorous growth,\nand grace of countenance, and peartness of manner? On the strength of\nthis concurrence Tim was induced to \"'light an' hitch,\" and he even sat\non the cabin porch and talked over the crops with Absalom, who, the next\ntime he went to town, stopped at the cabin in the Cove to bring word how\nElnathan Daniel was \"thrivin'.\" The path that Evelina had worn to the\ncrag in those first homesick days on the mountain rapidly extended\nitself into the Cove, and widened and grew smooth, as the grandfather\nwent up and the grandson came down.\n\n[Illustration: OLD QUIMBEY AND HIS GRANDSON]\n\n\n\n\n'WAY DOWN IN LONESOME COVE\n\n\nOne memorable night in Lonesome Cove the ranger of the county entered\nupon a momentous crisis in his life. What hour it was he could hardly\nhave said, for the primitive household reckoned time by the sun when it\nshone, by the domestic routine when no better might be. It was late. The\nold crone in the chimney-corner nodded over her knitting. In the\ntrundle-bed at the farther end of the shadowy room were transverse\nbillows under the quilts, which intimated that the small children were\nnumerous enough for the necessity of sleeping crosswise. He had smoked\nout many pipes, and at last knocked the cinder from the bowl. The great\nhickory logs had burned asunder and fallen from the stones that served\nas andirons. He began to slowly cover the embers with ashes, that the\nfire might keep till morning.\n\nHis wife, a faded woman, grown early old, was bringing the stone jar of\nyeast to place close by the hearth, that it might not \"take a chill\" in\nsome sudden change of the night. It was heavy, and she bent in carrying\nit. Awkward, and perhaps nervous, she brought it sharply against the\nshovel in his hands.\n\nThe clash roused the old crone in the corner. She recognized the\nsituation instantly, and the features that sleep had relaxed into\ninexpressiveness took on a weary apprehension, which they wore like a\nhabit. The man barely raised his surly black eyes, but his wife drew\nback humbly with a mutter of apology.\n\nThe next moment the shovel was almost thrust out of his grasp. A tiny\nbarefooted girl, in a straight unbleached cotton night-gown and a quaint\nlittle cotton night-cap, cavalierly pushed him aside, that she might\ncover in the hot ashes a burly sweet-potato, destined to slowly roast by\nmorning. A long and careful job she made of it, and unconcernedly kept\nhim waiting while she pottered back and forth about the hearth. She\nlooked up once with an authoritative eye, and he hastily helped to\nadjust the potato with the end of the shovel. And then he glanced at\nher, incongruously enough, as if waiting for her autocratic nod of\napproval. She gravely accorded it, and pattered nimbly across the\npuncheon floor to the bed.\n\n\"Now,\" he drawled, in gruff accents, \"ef you-uns hev all had yer fill o'\nfoolin' with this hyar fire, I'll kiver it, like I hev started out ter\ndo.\"\n\nAt this moment there was a loud trampling upon the porch without. The\nbatten door shook violently. The ranger sprang up. As he frowned the\nhair on his scalp, drawn forward, seemed to rise like bristles.\n\n\"Dad-burn that thar fresky filly!\" he cried, angrily. \"Jes' brung her\nnoisy bones up on that thar porch agin, an' her huffs will bust spang\nthrough the planks o' the floor the fust thing ye know.\"\n\nThe narrow aperture, as he held the door ajar, showed outlined against\nthe darkness the graceful head of a young mare, and once more hoof-beats\nresounded on the rotten planks of the porch.\n\nClouds were adrift in the sky. No star gleamed in the wide space high\nabove the sombre mountains. On every side they encompassed Lonesome\nCove, which seemed to have importunately thrust itself into the darkling\nsolemnities of their intimacy.\n\nAll at once the ranger let the door fly from his hand, and stood gazing\nin blank amazement. For there was a strange motion in the void\nvastnesses of the wilderness. They were creeping into view. How, he\ncould not say, but the summit of the great mountain opposite was\nmarvellously distinct against the sky. He saw the naked, gaunt, December\nwoods. He saw the grim, gray crags. And yet Lonesome Cove below and the\nspurs on the other side were all benighted. A pale, flickering light was\ndawning in the clouds; it brightened, faded, glowed again, and their\nsad, gray folds assumed a vivid vermilion reflection, for there was a\nfire in the forest below. Only these reactions of color on the clouds\nbetokened its presence and its progress. Sometimes a fluctuation of\norange crossed them, then a glancing line of blue, and once more that\nliving red hue which only a pulsating flame can bestow.\n\n\"Air it the comin' o' the Jedgmint Day, Tobe?\" asked his wife, in a meek\nwhisper.\n\n\"I'd be afraid so if I war ez big a sinner ez you-uns,\" he returned.\n\n\"The woods air afire,\" the old woman declared, in a shrill voice.\n\n\"They be a-soakin' with las' night's rain,\" he retorted, gruffly.\n\nThe mare was standing near the porch. Suddenly he mounted her and rode\nhastily off, without a word of his intention to the staring women in the\ndoorway.\n\nHe left freedom of speech behind him. \"Take yer bones along, then, ye\ntongue-tied catamount!\" his wife's mother apostrophized him, with all\nthe acrimony of long repression. \"Got no mo' politeness 'n a settin'\nhen,\" she muttered, as she turned back into the room.\n\nThe young woman lingered wistfully. \"I wisht he wouldn't go a-ridin' off\nthat thar way 'thout lettin' we-uns know whar he air bound fur, an' when\nhe'll kem back. He mought git hurt some ways roun' that thar fire--git\novertook by it, mebbe.\"\n\n\"Ef he war roasted 'twould be mighty peaceful round in Lonesome,\" the\nold crone exclaimed, rancorously.\n\nHer daughter stood for a moment with the bar of the door in her hand,\nstill gazing out at the flare in the sky. The unwonted emotion had\nconjured a change in the stereotyped patience in her face--even anxiety,\neven the acuteness of fear, seemed a less pathetic expression than that\nmeek monotony bespeaking a broken spirit. As she lifted her eyes to the\nmountain one might wonder to see that they were so blue. In the many\nhaggard lines drawn upon her face the effect of the straight lineaments\nwas lost; but just now, embellished with a flush, she looked young--as\nyoung as her years.\n\nAs she buttoned the door and put up the bar her mother's attention was\ncaught by the change. Peering at her critically, and shading her eyes\nwith her hand from the uncertain flicker of the tallow dip, she broke\nout, passionately: \"Wa'al, 'Genie, who would ever hev thought ez yer\ncake would be _all_ dough? Sech a laffin', plump, spry gal ez ye useter\nbe--fur all the worl' like a fresky young deer! An' sech a pack o' men\nez ye hed the choice amongst! An' ter pick out Tobe Gryce an' marry him,\nan' kem 'way down hyar ter live along o' him in Lonesome Cove!\"\n\nShe chuckled aloud, not that she relished her mirth, but the\nharlequinade of fate constrained a laugh for its antics. The words\nrecalled the past to Eugenia; it rose visibly before her. She had had\nscant leisure to reflect that her life might have been ordered\ndifferently. In her widening eyes were new depths, a vague terror, a\nwild speculation, all struck aghast by its own temerity.\n\n\"Ye never said nuthin ter hender,\" she faltered.\n\n\"I never knowed Tobe, sca'cely. How's ennybody goin' ter know a man ez\nlived 'way off down hyar in Lonesome Cove?\" her mother retorted,\nacridly, on the defensive. \"He never courted _me_, nohows. All the word\nhe gin me war, 'Howdy,' an' I gin him no less.\"\n\nThere was a pause.\n\nEugenia knelt on the hearth. She placed together the broken chunks, and\nfanned the flames with a turkey wing. \"I won't kiver the fire yit,\" she\nsaid, thoughtfully. \"He mought be chilled when he gits home.\"\n\nThe feathery flakes of the ashes flew; they caught here and there in her\nbrown hair. The blaze flared up, and flickered over her flushed, pensive\nface, and glowed in her large and brilliant eyes.\n\n\"Tobe said 'Howdy,'\" her mother bickered on. \"I knowed by that ez he hed\nthe gift o' speech, but he spent no mo' words on me.\" Then, suddenly,\nwith a change of tone: \"I war a fool, though, ter gin my cornsent ter\nyer marryin' him, bein' ez ye war the only child I hed, an' I knowed I'd\nhev ter live with ye 'way down hyar in Lonesome Cove. I wish now ez ye\nbed abided by yer fust choice, an' married Luke Todd.\"\n\nEugenia looked up with a gathering frown. \"I hev no call ter spen' words\n'bout Luke Todd,\" she said, with dignity, \"ez me an' him are both\nmarried ter other folks.\"\n\n\"I never said ye hed,\" hastily replied the old woman, rebuked and\nembarrassed. Presently, however, her vagrant speculation went recklessly\non. \"Though ez ter Luke's marryin', 'tain't wuth while ter set store on\nsech. The gal he found over thar in Big Fox Valley favors ye ez close ez\ntwo black-eyed peas. That's why he married her. She looks precisely like\nye useter look. An' she laffs the same. An' I reckon _she_ 'ain't hed no\ncall ter quit laffin', 'kase he air a powerful easy-goin' man.\nLeastways, he useter be when we-uns knowed him.\"\n\n\"That ain't no sign,\" said Eugenia. \"A saafter-spoken body I never seen\nthan Tobe war when he fust kem a-courtin' round the settlemint.\"\n\n\"Sech ez that ain't goin' ter las' noways,\" dryly remarked the\nphilosopher of the chimney-corner.\n\nThis might seem rather a reflection upon the courting gentry in general\nthan a personal observation. But Eugenia's consciousness lent it point.\n\n\"Laws-a-massy,\" she said, \"Tobe ain't so rampagious, nohows, ez folks\nmake him out. He air toler'ble peaceable, cornsiderin' ez nobody hev\never hed grit enough ter make a stand agin him, 'thout 'twar the Cunnel\nthar.\"\n\nShe glanced around at the little girl's face framed in the frill of her\nnight-cap, and peaceful and infantile as it lay on the pillow.\n\n\"Whenst the Cunnel war born,\" Eugenia went on, languidly reminiscent,\n\"Tobe war powerful outed 'kase she war a gal. I reckon ye 'members ez\nhow he said he hed no use for sech cattle ez that. An' when she tuk sick\nhe 'lowed he seen no differ. 'Jes ez well die ez live,' he said. An'\nbein' ailin', the Cunnel tuk it inter her head ter holler. Sech\nhollerin' we-uns hed never hearn with none o' the t'other chil'ren. The\nboys war nowhar. But a-fust it never 'sturbed Tobe. He jes spoke out\nsame ez he useter do at the t'others, 'Shet up, ye pop-eyed buzzard!'\nWa'al, sir, the Cunnel jes blinked at him, an' braced herself ez stiff,\nan' _yelled_! I 'lowed 'twould take off the roof. An' Tobe said he'd\nwring her neck ef she warn't so mewlin'-lookin' an' peaked. An' he tuk\nher up an' walked across the floor with her, an' she shet up; an' he\nwalked back agin, an' she stayed shet up. Ef he sot down fur a minit,\nshe yelled so ez ye'd think ye'd be deef fur life, an' ye 'most hoped ye\nwould be. So Tobe war obleeged ter tote her agin ter git shet o' the\nnoise. He got started on that thar 'forced march,' ez he calls it, an'\nhe never could git off'n it. Trot he must when the Cunnel pleased. He\n'lowed she reminded him o' that thar old Cunnel that he sarved under in\nthe wars. Ef it killed the regiment, he got thar on time. Sence then the\nCunnel jes gins Tobe her orders, an' he moseys ter do 'em quick, jes\nlike he war obleeged ter obey. I b'lieve he air, somehows.\"\n\n\"Wa'al, some day,\" said the disaffected old woman, assuming a port of\nprophetic wisdom, \"Tobe will find a differ. Thar ain't no man so headin'\nez don't git treated with perslimness by somebody some time. I knowed a\nman wunst ez owned fower horses an' cattle-critters quarryspondin', an'\nhe couldn't prove ez he war too old ter be summonsed ter work on the\nroad, an' war fined by the overseer 'cordin' ter law. Tobe will git his\nwheel scotched yit, sure ez ye air born. Somebody besides the Cunnel\nwill skeer up grit enough ter make a stand agin him. I dunno how other\nmen kin sleep o' night, knowin' how he be always darin' folks ter differ\nwith him, an' how brigaty he be. The Bible 'pears ter me ter hev Tobe in\nspecial mind when it gits ter mournin' 'bout'n the stiff-necked ones.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe spirited young mare that the ranger rode strove to assert herself\nagainst him now and then, as she went at a breakneck speed along the\nsandy bridle-path through the woods. How was she to know that the\nwhite-wanded young willow by the way-side was not some spiritual\nmanifestation as it suddenly materialized in a broken beam from a rift\nin the clouds? But as she reared and plunged she felt his heavy hand and\nhis heavy heel, and so forward again at a steady pace. The forests\nserved to screen the strange light in the sky, and the lonely road was\ndark, save where the moonbeam was splintered and the mists loitered.\n\nPresently there were cinders flying in the breeze, a smell of smoke\npervaded the air, and the ranger forgot to curse the mare when she\nstumbled.\n\n\"I wonder,\" he muttered, \"what them no 'count half-livers o' town folks\nhev hed the shiftlessness ter let ketch afire thar!\"\n\nAs he neared the brink of the mountain he saw a dense column of smoke\nagainst the sky, and a break in the woods showed the little town--the\nfew log houses, the \"gyarden spots\" about them, and in the centre of the\nSquare a great mass of coals, a flame flickering here and there, and two\ngaunt and tottering chimneys where once the court-house had stood. At\nsome distance--for the heat was still intense--were grouped the\nslouching, spiritless figures of the mountaineers. On the porches of the\nhouses, plainly visible in the unwonted red glow, were knots of women\nand children--ever and anon a brat in the scantiest of raiment ran\nnimbly in and out. The clouds still borrowed the light from below, and\nthe solemn, leafless woods on one side were outlined distinctly against\nthe reflection in the sky. The flare showed, too, the abrupt precipice\non the other side, the abysmal gloom of the valley, the austere\nsummit-line of the mountain beyond, and gave the dark mysteries of the\nnight a sombre revelation, as in visible blackness it filled the\nillimitable space.\n\nThe little mare was badly blown as the ranger sprang to the ground. He\nhimself was panting with amazement and eagerness.\n\n\"The stray-book!\" he cried. \"Whar's the stray-book?\"\n\nOne by one the slow group turned, all looking at him with a peering\nexpression as he loomed distorted through the shimmer of the heat above\nthe bed of live coals and the hovering smoke.\n\n\"Whar's the stray-book?\" he reiterated, imperiously.\n\n\"Whar's the court-house, I reckon ye mean to say,\" replied the\nsheriff--a burly mountaineer in brown jeans and high boots, on which the\nspurs jingled; for in his excitement he had put them on as mechanically\nas his clothes, as if they were an essential part of his attire.\n\n\"Naw, I _ain't_ meanin' ter say whar's the court-house,\" said the\nranger, coming up close, with the red glow of the fire on his face, and\nhis eyes flashing under the broad brim of his wool hat. He had a\nthreatening aspect, and his elongated shadow, following him and\nrepeating the menace of his attitude, seemed to back him up. \"Ye air\nsech a triflin', slack-twisted tribe hyar in town, ez ennybody would\nknow ef a spark cotched fire ter suthin, ye'd set an' suck yer paws, an'\neye it till it bodaciously burnt up the court-house--sech a dad-burned\nlazy set o' half-livers ye be! I never axed 'bout'n the court-house. I\nwant ter know whar's that thar stray-book,\" he concluded,\ninconsequently.\n\n\"Tobe Gryce, ye air fairly demented,\" exclaimed the register--a\nchin-whiskered, grizzled old fellow, sitting on a stump and hugging his\nknee with a desolate, bereaved look--\"talkin' 'bout the _stray-book_,\nan' all the records gone! What will folks do 'bout thar deeds, an'\nmortgages, an' sech? An' that thar keerful index ez I had made--ez\nstraight ez a string--all cinders!\"\n\nHe shook his head, mourning alike for the party of the first part and\nthe party of the second part, and the vestiges of all that they had\nagreed together.\n\n\"An' ye ter kem mopin' hyar this time o' night arter the _stray-book_,\"\nsaid the sheriff. \"Shucks!\" And he turned aside and spat disdainfully on\nthe ground.\n\n\"I want that thar stray-book!\" cried Gryce, indignantly. \"Ain't nobody\nseen it?\" Then realizing the futility of the question, he yielded to a\nfresh burst of anger, and turned upon the bereaved register. \"An' did ye\njes set thar an' say, 'Good Mister Fire, don't burn the records; what'll\nfolks do 'bout thar deeds an' sech?' an' hold them claws o' yourn, an'\nsee the court-house burn up, with that thar stray-book in it?\"\n\nHalf a dozen men spoke up. \"The fire tuk inside, an' the court-house war\nhaffen gone 'fore 'twar seen,\" said one, in sulky extenuation.\n\n\"Leave Tobe be--let him jaw!\" said another, cavalierly.\n\n\"Tobe 'pears ter be sp'ilin' fur a fight,\" said a third, impersonally,\nas if to direct the attention of any belligerent in the group to the\nopportunity.\n\nThe register had an expression of slow cunning as he cast a glance up at\nthe overbearing ranger.\n\n\"What ailed the stray-book ter bide hyar in the court-house all night,\nTobe? Couldn't ye gin it house-room? Thar warn't no special need fur it\nto be hyar.\"\n\nTobe Gryce's face showed that for once he was at a loss. He glowered\ndown at the register and said nothing.\n\n\"Ez ter me,\" resumed that worthy, \"by the law o' the land my books war\nobligated ter be thar.\" He quoted, mournfully, \"'Shall at all times be\nand remain in his office.'\"\n\nHe gathered up his knee again and subsided into silence.\n\nAll the freakish spirits of the air were a-loose in the wind. In fitful\ngusts they rushed up the gorge, then suddenly the boughs would fall\nstill again, and one could hear the eerie rout a-rioting far off down\nthe valley. Now and then the glow of the fire would deepen, the coals\ntremble, and with a gleaming, fibrous swirl, like a garment of flames, a\nsudden animation would sweep over it, as if an apparition had passed,\nleaving a line of flying sparks to mark its trail.\n\n\"I'm goin' home,\" drawled Tobe Gryce, presently. \"I don't keer a frog's\ntoe-nail ef the whole settlemint burns bodaciously up; 'tain't nuthin\nter me. I hev never hankered ter live in towns an' git tuk up with town\nways, an' set an' view the court-house like the apple o' my eye. We-uns\ndon't ketch fire down in the Cove, though mebbe we ain't so peart ez\nfolks ez herd tergether like sheep an' sech.\"\n\nThe footfalls of the little black mare annotated the silence of the\nplace as he rode away into the darkling woods. The groups gradually\ndisappeared from the porches. The few voices that sounded at long\nintervals were low and drowsy. The red fire smouldered in the centre of\nthe place, and sometimes about it appeared so doubtful a shadow that it\ncould hardly argue substance. Far away a dog barked, and then all was\nstill.\n\nPresently the great mountains loom aggressively along the horizon. The\nblack abysses, the valleys and coves, show duncolored verges and grow\ngradually distinct, and on the slopes the ash and the pine and the oak\nare all lustrous with a silver rime. The mists are rising, the wind\nsprings up anew, the clouds set sail, and a beam slants high.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"What I want ter know,\" said a mountaineer newly arrived on the scene,\nsitting on the verge of the precipice, and dangling his long legs over\nthe depths beneath, \"air how do folks ez live 'way down in Lonesome\nCove, an' who nobody knowed nuthin about noways, ever git 'lected ranger\no' the county, ennyhow. I ain't s'prised none ter hear 'bout Tobe\nGryce's goin's-on hyar las' night. I hev looked fur more'n that.\"\n\n\"Wa'al, I'll tell ye,\" replied the register. \"Nuthin' but favoritism in\nthe county court. Ranger air 'lected by the jestices. Ye know,\" he\nadded, vainglorious of his own tenure of office by the acclaiming voice\nof the sovereign people, \"ranger ain't 'lected, like the register, by\npop'lar vote.\"\n\nA slow smoke still wreathed upward from the charred ruins of the\ncourt-house. Gossiping groups stood here and there, mostly the\njeans-clad mountaineers, but there were a few who wore \"store clothes,\"\nbeing lawyers from more sophisticated regions of the circuit. Court had\nbeen in session the previous day. The jury, serving in a criminal\ncase--still strictly segregated, and in charge of an officer--were\nwalking about wearily in double file, waiting with what patience they\nmight their formal discharge.\n\nThe sheriff's dog, a great yellow cur, trotted in the rear. When the\nofficer was first elected, this animal, observing the change in his\nmaster's habits, deduced his own conclusions. He seemed to think the\ncourt-house belonged to the sheriff, and thence-forward guarded the door\nwith snaps and growls; being a formidable brute, his idiosyncrasies\ninvested the getting into and getting out of law with abnormal\ndifficulties. Now, as he followed the disconsolate jury, he bore the\nvigilant mien with which he formerly drove up the cows, and if a juror\nloitered or stepped aside from the path, the dog made a slow detour as\nif to round him in, and the melancholy cortege wandered on as before.\nMore than one looked wistfully at the group on the crag, for it was\ndistinguished by that sprightly interest which scandal excites so\nreadily.\n\n\"Ter my way of thinkin',\" drawled Sam Peters, swinging his feet over the\ngiddy depths of the valley, \"Tobe ain't sech ez oughter be set over the\ncounty ez a ranger, noways. 'Pears not ter me, an' I hev been keepin' my\neye on him mighty sharp.\"\n\nA shadow fell among the group, and a man sat down on a bowlder hard by.\nHe, too, had just arrived, being lured to the town by the news of the\nfire. His slide had been left at the verge of the clearing, and one of\nthe oxen had already lain down; the other, although hampered by the yoke\nthus diagonally displaced, stood meditatively gazing at the distant blue\nmountains. Their master nodded a slow, grave salutation to the group,\nproduced a plug of tobacco, gnawed a fragment from it, and restored it\nto his pocket. He had a pensive face, with an expression which in a man\nof wider culture we should discriminate as denoting sensibility. He had\nlong yellow hair that hung down to his shoulders, and a tangled yellow\nbeard. There was something at once wistful and searching in his gray\neyes, dull enough, too, at times. He lifted them heavily, and they had a\ndrooping lid and lash. There seemed an odd incongruity between this\nsensitive, weary face and his stalwart physique. He was tall and well\nproportioned. A leather belt girded his brown jeans coat. His great\ncowhide boots were drawn to the knee over his trousers. His pose, as he\nleaned on the rock, had a muscular picturesqueness.\n\n\"Who be ye a-talkin' about?\" he drawled.\n\nPeters relished his opportunity. He laughed in a distorted fashion, his\npipe-stem held between his teeth.\n\n\"_You-uns_ ain't wantin' ter swop lies 'bout sech ez him, Luke! We war\na-talkin' 'bout Tobe Gryce.\"\n\nThe color flared into the new-comer's face. A sudden animation fired his\neye.\n\n\"Tobe Gryce air jes the man I'm always wantin' ter hear a word about.\nJes perceed with yer rat-killin'. I'm with ye.\" And Luke Todd placed\nhis elbows on his knees and leaned forward with an air of attention.\n\nPeters looked at him, hardly comprehending this ebullition. It was not\nwhat he had expected to elicit. No one laughed. His fleer was wide of\nthe mark.\n\n\"Wa'al\"--he made another effort--\"Tobe, we war jes sayin', ain't fitten\nfur ter be ranger o' the county. He be ez peart in gittin' ter own other\nfolkses' stray cattle ez he war in courtin' other folkses' sweetheart,\nan', ef the truth mus' be knowed, in marryin' her.\" He suddenly twisted\nround, in some danger of falling from his perch. \"I want ter ax one o'\nthem thar big-headed lawyers a question on a p'int o' law,\" he broke\noff, abruptly.\n\n\"What be Tobe Gryce a-doin' of now?\" asked Luke Todd, with eager\ninterest in the subject.\n\n\"Wa'al,\" resumed Peters, nowise loath to return to the gossip, \"Tobe, ye\nsee, air the ranger o' this hyar county, an' by law all the stray horses\nez air tuk up by folks hev ter be reported ter him, an' appraised by two\nhouseholders, an' swore to afore the magistrate an' be advertised by the\nranger, an' ef they ain't claimed 'fore twelve months, the taker-up kin\npay into the county treasury one-haffen the appraisement an' hev the\ncritter fur his'n. An' the owner can't prove it away arter that.\"\n\n\"Thanky,\" said Luke Todd, dryly. \"S'pose ye teach yer gran'mammy ter\nsuck aigs. I knowed all that afore.\"\n\nPeters was abashed, and with some difficulty collected himself.\n\n\"An' I knowed ye knowed it, Luke,\" he hastily conceded. \"But hyar be\nwhat I'm a-lookin' at--the law 'ain't got no pervision fur a stray horse\nez kem of a dark night, 'thout nobody's percuremint, ter the ranger's\nown house. Now, the p'int o' law ez I wanted ter ax the lawyers 'bout\nair this--kin the ranger be the ranger an' the taker-up too?\"\n\nHe turned his eyes upon the great landscape lying beneath, flooded with\nthe chill matutinal sunshine, and flecked here and there with the\nelusive shadows of the fleecy drifting clouds. Far away the long\nhorizontal lines of the wooded spurs, converging on either side of the\nvalley and rising one behind the other, wore a subdued azure, all unlike\nthe burning blue of summer, and lay along the calm, passionless sky,\nthat itself was of a dim, repressed tone. On the slopes nearer, the\nleafless boughs, massed together, had purplish-garnet depths of color\nwherever the sunshine struck aslant, and showed richly against the\nfaintly tinted horizon. Here and there among the boldly jutting gray\ncrags hung an evergreen-vine, and from a gorge on the opposite mountain\ngleamed a continuous flash, like the waving of a silver plume, where a\ncataract sprang down the rocks. In the depths of the valley, a field in\nwhich crab-grass had grown in the place of the harvested wheat showed a\ntiny square of palest yellow, and beside it a red clay road, running\nover a hill, was visible. Above all a hawk was flying.\n\n\"Afore the winter fairly set in las' year,\" Peters resumed, presently,\n\"a stray kem ter Tobe's house. He 'lowed ter me ez he fund her\na-standin' by the fodder-stack a-pullin' off'n it. An' he 'quired round,\nan' he never hearn o' no owner. I reckon he never axed outside o'\nLonesome,\" he added, cynically. He puffed industriously at his pipe for\na few moments; then continued: \"Wa'al, he 'lowed he couldn't feed the\ncritter fur fun. An' he couldn't work her till she war appraised an'\nsech, that bein' agin the law fur strays. So he jes ondertook ter be\nranger an' taker-up too--the bangedest consarn in the kentry! Ef the\nleetle mare hed been wall-eyed, or lame, or ennything, he wouldn't hev\nwanted ter be ranger an' taker-up too. But she air the peartest little\nbeastis--she war jes bridle-wise when she fust kem--young an' spry!\"\n\nLuke Todd was about to ask a question, but Peters, disregarding him,\npersisted:\n\n\"Wa'al, Tobe tuk up the beastis, an' I reckon he reported her ter\nhisself, bein' the ranger--the critter makes me laff--an' he hed that\nthar old haffen-blind uncle o' his'n an' Perkins Bates, ez be never\nsober, ter appraise the vally o' the mare, an' I s'pose he delivered\nthar certificate ter hisself, an' I reckon he tuk oath that she kem\n'thout his procure_mint_ ter his place, in the presence o' the ranger.\"\n\n\"I reckon thar ain't no law agin the ranger's bein' a ranger an' a\ntaker-up too,\" put in one of the bystanders. \"'Tain't like a sher'ff's\nbuyin' at his own sale. An' he hed ter pay haffen her vally into the\ntreasury o' the county arter twelve months, ef the owner never proved\nher away.\"\n\n\"Thar ain't no sign he ever paid a cent,\" said Peters, with a malicious\ngrin, pointing at the charred remains of the court-house, \"an' the\ntreasurer air jes dead.\"\n\n\"Wa'al, Tobe hed ter make a report ter the jedge o' the county court\nevery six months.\"\n\n\"The papers of his office air cinders,\" retorted Peters.\n\n\"Wa'al, then,\" argued the optimist, \"the stray-book will show ez she war\nreported an' sech.\"\n\n\"The ranger took mighty partic'lar pains ter hev his stray-book in that\nthar court-house when 'twar burnt.\"\n\nThere was a long pause while the party sat ruminating upon the\nsuspicions thus suggested.\n\nLuke Todd heard them, not without a thrill of satisfaction. He found\nthem easy to adopt. And he, too, had a disposition to theorize.\n\n\"It takes a mighty mean man ter steal a horse,\" he said. \"Stealin' a\nhorse air powerful close ter murder. Folkses' lives fairly depend on a\nhorse ter work thar corn an' sech, an' make a support fur em. I hev\nknowed folks ter kem mighty close ter starvin' through hevin thar horse\nstole. Why, even that thar leetle filly of our'n, though she hedn't been\nfairly bruk ter the plough, war mightily missed. We-uns hed ter make out\nwith the old sorrel, ez air nigh fourteen year old, ter work the crap,\nan' we war powerful disapp'inted. But we ain't never fund no trace o'\nthe filly sence she war tolled off one night las' fall a year ago.\"\n\nThe hawk floating above the valley and its winged shadow disappeared\ntogether in the dense glooms of a deep gorge. Luke Todd watched them as\nthey vanished.\n\nSuddenly he lifted his eyes. They were wide with a new speculation. An\nangry flare blazed in them. \"What sort'n beastis is this hyar mare ez\nthe ranger tuk up?\" he asked.\n\nPeters looked at him, hardly comprehending his tremor of excitement.\n\"Seems sorter sizable,\" he replied, sibilantly, sucking his pipe-stem.\n\nTodd nodded meditatively several times, leaning his elbows on his knees,\nhis eyes fixed on the landscape. \"Hev she got enny partic'lar marks, ez\nye knows on?\" he drawled.\n\n\"Wa'al, she be ez black ez a crow, with the nigh fore-foot white. An'\nshe hev got a white star spang in the middle o' her forehead, an' the\nleft side o' her nose is white too.\"\n\nTodd rose suddenly to his feet. \"By gum!\" he cried, with a burst of\npassion, \"she air _my_ filly! An' 'twar that thar durned horse-thief of\na ranger ez tolled her off!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nDeep among the wooded spurs Lonesome Cove nestles, sequestered from the\nworld. Naught emigrates thence except an importunate stream that forces\nits way through a rocky gap, and so to freedom beyond. No stranger\nintrudes; only the moon looks in once in a while. The roaming wind may\nexplore its solitudes; and it is but the vertical sunbeams that strike\nto the heart of the little basin, because of the massive mountains that\nwall it round and serve to isolate it. So nearly do they meet at the gap\nthat one great assertive crag, beetling far above, intercepts the view\nof the wide landscape beyond, leaving its substituted profile jaggedly\nserrating the changing sky. Above it, when the weather is fair, appear\nvague blue lines, distant mountain summits, cloud strata, visions. Below\nits jutting verge may be caught glimpses of the widening valley without.\nBut pre-eminent, gaunt, sombre, it sternly dominates \"Lonesome,\" and is\nthe salient feature of the little world it limits.\n\nTobe Gryce's house, gray, weather-beaten, moss-grown, had in comparison\nan ephemeral, modern aspect. For a hundred years its inmates had come\nand gone and lived and died. They took no heed of the crag, but never a\nsound was lost upon it. Their drawling iterative speech the iterative\nechoes conned. The ringing blast of a horn set astir some phantom chase\nin the air. When the cows came lowing home, there were lowing herds in\nviewless company. Even if one of the children sat on a rotting log\ncrooning a vague, fragmentary ditty, some faint-voiced spirit in the\nrock would sing. Lonesome Cove?--home of invisible throngs!\n\nAs the ranger trotted down the winding road, multitudinous hoof-beats,\nas of a troop of cavalry, heralded his approach to the little girl who\nstood on the porch of the log-cabin and watched for him.\n\n\"Hy're, Cunnel!\" he cried, cordially.\n\nBut the little \"Colonel\" took no heed. She looked beyond him at the\nvague blue mountains, against which the great grim rock was heavily\nimposed, every ledge, every waving dead crisp weed, distinct.\n\nHe noticed the smoke curling briskly up in the sunshine from the clay\nand stick chimney. He strode past her into the house, as Eugenia, with\nall semblance of youth faded from her countenance, haggard and\nhollow-eyed in the morning light, was hurrying the corn-dodgers and\nvenison steak on the table.\n\nPerhaps he did not appreciate that the women were pining with curiosity,\nfor he vouchsafed no word of the excitements in the little town; and he\nhimself was ill at ease.\n\n\"What ails the Cunnel, 'Genie?\" he asked, presently, glancing up sharply\nfrom under his hat brim, and speaking with his mouth full.\n\n\"The cat 'pears ter hev got her tongue,\" said Eugenia, intending that\nthe \"Colonel\" should hear, and perhaps profit. \"She ain't able ter talk\nnone this mornin'.\"\n\nThe little body cast so frowning a glance upon them as she stood in the\ndoorway that her expression was but slightly less lowering than her\nfather's. It was an incongruous demonstration, with her infantile\nfeatures, her little yellow head, and the slight physical force she\nrepresented. She wore a blue cotton frock, fastened up the back with\ngreat horn buttons; she had on shoes laced with leather strings; one of\nher blue woollen stockings fell over her ankle, disclosing the pinkest\nof plump calves; the other stocking was held in place by an unabashed\ncotton string. She had a light in her dark eyes and a color in her\ncheek, and albeit so slight a thing, she wielded a strong coercion.\n\n\"Laws-a-massy, Cunnel!\" said Tobe, in a harried manner, \"couldn't ye\nfind me nowhar? I'm powerful sorry. I couldn't git back hyar no sooner.\"\n\nBut not in this wise was she to be placated. She fixed her eyes upon\nhim, but made no sign.\n\nHe suddenly rose from his half-finished breakfast. \"Look-a-hyar,\nCunnel,\" he cried, joyously, \"don't ye want ter ride the filly?--ye knew\nye hanker ter ride the filly.\"\n\nEven then she tried to frown, but the bliss of the prospect overbore\nher. Her cheek and chin dimpled, and there was a gurgling display of two\nrows of jagged little teeth as the doughty \"Colonel\" was swung to his\nshoulder and he stepped out of the door.\n\nHe laughed as he stood by the glossy black mare and lifted the child to\nthe saddle. The animal arched her neck and turned her head and gazed\nback at him curiously. \"Hold on tight, Cunnel,\" he said as he looked up\nat her, his face strangely softened almost beyond recognition. And she\ngurgled and laughed and screamed with delight as he began to slowly lead\nthe mare along.\n\nThe \"Colonel\" had the gift of continuance. Some time elapsed before she\nexhausted the joys of exaltation. More than once she absolutely refused\nto dismount. Tobe patiently led the beast up and down, and the \"Colonel\"\nrode in state. It was only when the sun had grown high, and occasionally\nshe was fain to lift her chubby hands to her eyes, imperiling her safety\non the saddle, that he ventured to seriously remonstrate, and finally\nshe permitted herself to be assisted to the ground. When, with the\nlittle girl at his heels, he reached the porch, he took off his hat, and\nwiped the perspiration from his brow with his great brown hand.\n\n\"I tell ye, jouncin' round arter the Cunnel air powerful hot work,\" he\ndeclared.\n\nThe next moment he paused. His wife had come to the door, and there was\na strange expression of alarm among the anxious lines of her face.\n\n\"Tobe,\" she said, in a bated voice, \"who war them men?\"\n\nHe stared at her, whirled about, surveyed the vacant landscape, and once\nmore turned dumfounded toward her. \"What men?\" he asked.\n\n\"Them men ez acted so cur'ous,\" she said. \"I couldn't see thar faces\nplain, an' I dunno who they war.\"\n\n\"Whar war they?\" And he looked over his shoulder once more.\n\n\"Yander along the ledges of the big rock. Thar war two of 'em, hidin'\nahint that thar jagged aidge. An' ef yer back war turned they'd peep out\nat ye an' the Cunnel ridin'. But whenst ye would face round agin, they'd\ndrap down ahint the aidge o' the rock. I 'lowed wunst ez I'd holler ter\nye, but I war feared ye moughtn't keer ter know.\" Her voice fell in its\ndeprecatory cadence.\n\nHe stood in silent perplexity. \"Ye air a fool, 'Genie, an' ye never seen\nnuthin'. Nobody hev got enny call ter spy on me.\"\n\nHe stepped in-doors, took down his rifle from the rack, and went out\nfrowning into the sunlight.\n\nThe suggestion of mystery angered him. He had a vague sense of impending\ndanger. As he made his way along the slope toward the great beetling\ncrag all his faculties were on the alert. He saw naught unusual when he\nstood upon its dark-seamed summit, and he went cautiously to the verge\nand looked down at the many ledges. They jutted out at irregular\nintervals, the first only six feet below, and all accessible enough to\nan expert climber. A bush grew in a niche. An empty nest, riddled by the\nwind, hung dishevelled from a twig. Coarse withered grass tufted the\ncrevices. Far below he saw the depths of the Cove--the tops of the\nleafless trees, and, glimpsed through the interlacing boughs, the rush\nof a mountain rill, and a white flash as a sunbeam slanted on the foam.\n\nHe was turning away, all incredulous, when with a sudden start he looked\nback. On one of the ledges was a slight depression. It was filled with\nsand and earth. Imprinted upon it was the shape of a man's foot. The\nranger paused and gazed fixedly at it. \"Wa'al, by the Lord!\" he\nexclaimed, under his breath. Presently, \"But they hev no call!\" he\nargued. Then once more, softly, \"By the Lord!\"\n\nThe mystery baffled him. More than once that day he went up to the crag\nand stood and stared futilely at the footprint. Conjecture had license\nand limitations, too. As the hours wore on he became harassed by the\nsense of espionage. He was a bold man before the foes he knew, but this\nidea of inimical lurking, of furtive scrutiny for unknown purposes,\npreyed upon him. He brooded over it as he sat idle by the fire. Once he\nwent to the door and stared speculatively at the great profile of the\ncliff. The sky above it was all a lustrous amber, for the early sunset\nof the shortest days of the year was at hand. The mountains, seen partly\nabove and partly below it, wore a glamourous purple. There were clouds,\nand from their rifts long divergent lines of light slanted down upon the\nvalley, distinct among their shadows. The sun was not visible--only in\nthe western heavens was a half-veiled effulgence too dazzlingly white to\nbe gazed upon. The ranger shaded his eyes with his hand. No motion, no\nsound; for the first time in his life the unutterable loneliness of the\nplace impressed him.\n\n\"'Genie,\" he said, suddenly, looking over his shoulder within the cabin,\n\"be you-uns _sure_ ez they war--_folks_?\"\n\n\"I dunno what you mean,\" she faltered, her eyes dilated. \"They _looked_\nlike folks.\"\n\n\"I reckon they war,\" he said, reassuring himself. \"The Lord knows I hope\nthey war.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThat night the wind rose. The stars all seemed to have burst from their\nmoorings, and were wildly adrift in the sky. There was a broken tumult\nof billowy clouds, and the moon tossed hopelessly amongst them, a lunar\nwreck, sometimes on her beam ends, sometimes half submerged, once more\ngallantly struggling to the surface, and again sunk. The bare boughs of\nthe trees beat together in a dirge-like monotone. Now and again a leaf\nwent sibilantly whistling past. The wild commotion of the heavens and\nearth was visible, for the night was not dark. The ranger, standing\nwithin the rude stable of unhewn logs, all undaubed, noted how pale were\nthe horizontal bars of gray light alternating with the black logs of the\nwall. He was giving the mare a feed of corn, but he had not brought his\nlantern, as was his custom. That mysterious espionage had in some sort\nshaken his courage, and he felt the obscurity a shield. He had brought,\ninstead, his rifle.\n\nThe equine form was barely visible among the glooms. Now and then, as\nthe mare noisily munched, she lifted a hoof and struck it upon the\nground with a dull thud. How the gusts outside were swirling up the\ngorge! The pines swayed and sighed. Again the boughs of the chestnut-oak\nabove the roof crashed together. Did a fitful blast stir the door?\n\nHe lifted his eyes mechanically. A cold thrill ran through every fibre.\nFor there, close by the door, somebody--something--was peering through\nthe space between the logs of the wall. The face was invisible, but the\nshape of a man's head was distinctly defined. He realized that it was no\nsupernatural manifestation when a husky voice began to call the mare, in\na hoarse whisper, \"Cobe! Cobe! Cobe!\" With a galvanic start he was about\nto spring forward to hold the door. A hand from without was laid upon\nit.\n\nHe placed the muzzle of his gun between the logs, a jet of red light was\nsuddenly projected into the darkness, the mare was rearing and plunging\nviolently, the little shanty was surcharged with roar and reverberation,\nand far and wide the crags and chasms echoed the report of the rifle.\n\nThere was a vague clamor outside, an oath, a cry of pain. Hasty\nfootfalls sounded among the dead leaves and died in the distance.\n\nWhen the ranger ventured out he saw the door of his house wide open, and\nthe firelight flickering out among the leafless bushes. His wife met him\nhalfway down the hill.\n\n\"Air ye hurt, Tobe?\" she cried. \"Did yer gun go off suddint?\"\n\n\"Mighty suddint,\" he replied, savagely.\n\n\"Ye didn't fire it a-purpose?\" she faltered.\n\n\"Edzactly so,\" he declared.\n\n\"Ye never hurt nobody, did ye, Tobe?\" She had turned very pale. \"I\n'lowed it couldn't be the wind ez I hearn a-hollerin'.\"\n\n\"I hopes an' prays I hurt 'em,\" he said, as he replaced the rifle in the\nrack. He was shaking the other hand, which had been jarred in some way\nby the hasty discharge of the weapon. \"Some dad-burned horse-thief war\narter the mare. Jedgin' from the sound o' thar runnin', 'peared like to\nme ez thar mought be two o' 'em.\"\n\nThe next day the mare disappeared from the stable. Yet she could not be\nfar off, for Tobe was about the house most of the time, and when he and\nthe \"Colonel\" came in-doors in the evening the little girl held in her\nhand a half-munched ear of corn, evidently abstracted from the mare's\nsupper.\n\n\"Whar be the filly hid, Tobe?\" Eugenia asked, curiosity overpowering\nher.\n\n\"Ax me no questions an' I'll tell ye no lies,\" he replied, gruffly.\n\nIn the morning there was a fall of snow, and she had some doubt whether\nher mother, who had gone several days before to a neighbor's on the\nsummit of the range, would return; but presently the creak of unoiled\naxles heralded the approach of a wagon, and soon the old woman, bundled\nin shawls, was sitting by the fire. She wore heavy woollen socks over\nher shoes as protection against the snow. The incompatibility of the\nshape of the hose with the human foot was rather marked, and as they\nwere somewhat inelastic as well, there was a muscular struggle to get\nthem off only exceeded by the effort which had been required to get them\non. She shook her head again and again, with a red face, as she bent\nover the socks, but plainly more than this discomfort vexed her.\n\n\"Laws-a-massy, 'Genie! I hearn a awful tale over yander 'mongst them\nJenkins folks. Ye oughter hev married Luke Todd, an' so I tole ye an'\nfairly beset ye ter do ten year ago. _He_ keered fur ye. An'\nTobe--shucks! Wa'al, laws-a-massy, child! I hearn a awful tale 'bout\nTobe up yander at Jenkinses'.\"\n\nEugenia colored.\n\n\"Folks hed better take keer how they talk 'bout Tobe,\" she said, with a\ntouch of pride. \"They be powerful keerful ter do it out'n rifle range.\"\n\nWith one more mighty tug the sock came off, the red face was lifted, and\nMrs. Pearce shook her head ruefully.\n\n\"The Bible say 'words air foolishness.' Ye dunno what ye air talkin'\n'bout, child.\"\n\nWith this melancholy preamble she detailed the gossip that had arisen at\nthe county town and pervaded the country-side. Eugenia commented,\ndenied, flashed into rage, then lapsed into silence. Although it did not\nconstrain credulity, there was something that made her afraid when her\nmother said:\n\n\"Ye hed better not be talkin' 'bout rifle range so brash, 'Genie,\nnohows. They 'lowed ez Luke Todd an' Sam Peters kem hyar--'twar jes\nnight before las'--aimin' ter take the mare away 'thout no words an' no\nlawin', 'kase they didn't want ter wait. Luke hed got a chance ter view\nthe mare, an' knowed ez she war his'n. An' Tobe war hid in the dark\nbeside the mare, an' fired at 'em, an' the rifle-ball tuk Sam right\nthrough the beam o' his arm. I reckon, though, ez that warn't true, else\nye would hev knowed it.\"\n\nShe looked up anxiously over her spectacles at her daughter.\n\n\"I hearn Tobe shoot,\" faltered Eugenia. \"I seen blood on the leaves.\"\n\n\"Laws-a-massy!\" exclaimed the old woman, irritably. \"I be fairly feared\nter bide hyar; 'twouldn't s'prise me none ef they kem hyar an' hauled\nTobe out an' lynched him an' sech, an' who knows who mought git hurt in\nthe scrimmage?\"\n\nThey both fell silent as the ranger strode in. They would need a braver\nheart than either bore to reveal to him the suspicions of horse-stealing\nsown broadcast over the mountain. Eugenia felt that this in itself was\ncoercive evidence of his innocence. Who dared so much as say a word to\nhis face?\n\nThe weight of the secret asserted itself, however. As she went about her\naccustomed tasks, all bereft of their wonted interest, vapid and\nburdensome, she carried so woe-begone a face that it caught his\nattention, and he demanded, angrily, \"What ails ye ter look so durned\npeaked?\"\n\nThis did not abide long in his memory, however, and it cost her a pang\nto see him so unconscious.\n\nShe went out upon the porch late that afternoon to judge of the weather.\nSnow was falling again. The distant summits had disappeared. The\nmountains near at hand loomed through the myriads of serried white\nflakes. A crow flew across the Cove in its midst. It heavily thatched\nthe cabin, and tufts dislodged by the opening of the door fell down upon\nher hair. Drifts lay about the porch. Each rail of the fence was laden.\nThe ground, the rocks, were deeply covered. She reflected with\nsatisfaction that the red splotch of blood on the dead leaves was no\nlonger visible. Then a sudden idea struck her that took her breath away.\nShe came in, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright, with an excited\ndubitation.\n\nHer husband commented on the change. \"Ye air a powerful cur'ous critter,\n'Genie,\" he said: \"a while ago ye looked some fower or five hundred year\nold--now ye favors yerself when I fust kem a-courtin' round the\nsettlemint.\"\n\nShe hardly knew whether the dull stir in her heart were pleasure or\npain. Her eyes filled with tears, and the irradiated iris shone through\nthem with a liquid lustre. She could not speak.\n\nHer mother took ephemeral advantage of his softening mood. \"Ye useter be\nmighty perlite and saaft-spoken in them days, Tobe,\" she ventured.\n\n\"I hed ter be,\" he admitted, frankly, \"'kase thar war sech a many o'\nthem mealy-mouthed cusses a-waitin' on 'Genie. The kentry 'peared ter me\nter bristle with Luke Todd; he 'minded me o' brumsaidge--_everywhar_ ye\nseen his yaller head, ez homely an' ez onwelcome.\"\n\n\"I never wunst gin Luke a thought arter ye tuk ter comin' round the\nsettlemint,\" Eugenia said, softly.\n\n\"I wisht I hed knowed that then,\" he replied; \"else I wouldn't hev been\nso all-fired oneasy an' beset. I wasted mo' time a-studyin' 'bout ye an'\nLuke Todd 'n ye war both wuth, an' went 'thout my vittles an' sot up o'\nnights. Ef I hed spent that time a-moanin' fur my sins an' settin' my\nsoul at peace, I'd be 'quirin' roun' the throne o' Grace now! Young\nfolks air powerful fursaken fools.\"\n\nSomehow her heart was warmer for this allusion. She was more hopeful.\nHer resolve grew stronger and stronger as she sat and knitted, and\nlooked at the fire and saw among the coals all her old life at the\nsettlement newly aglow. She was remembering now that Luke Todd had been\nas wax in her hands. She recalled that when she was married there was a\ngleeful \"sayin'\" going the rounds of the mountain that he had taken to\nthe woods with grief, and he was heard of no more for weeks. The gossips\nrelished his despair as the corollary of the happy bridal. He had had no\nreproaches for her. He had only looked the other way when they met, and\nshe had not spoken to him since.\n\n\"He set store by my word in them days,\" she said to herself, her lips\nvaguely moving. \"I misdoubts ef he hev furgot.\"\n\nAll through the long hours of the winter night she silently canvassed\nher plan. The house was still noiseless and dark when she softly opened\nthe door and softly closed it behind her.\n\nIt had ceased to snow, and the sky had cleared. The trees, all the limbs\nwhitened, were outlined distinctly upon it, and through the boughs\noverhead a brilliant star, aloof and splendid, looked coldly down. Along\ndark spaces Orion had drawn his glittering blade. Above the snowy\nmountains a melancholy waning moon was swinging. The valley was full of\nmist, white and shining where the light fell upon it, a vaporous purple\nwhere the shadows held sway. So still it was! the only motion in all the\nworld the throbbing stars and her palpitating heart. So solemnly silent!\nIt was a relief, as she trudged on and on, to note a gradual change; to\nwatch the sky withdraw, seeming fainter; to see the moon grow filmy,\nlike some figment of the frost; to mark the gray mist steal on apace,\nwrap mountain, valley, and heaven with mystic folds, shut out all vision\nof things familiar. Through it only the sense of dawn could creep.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nShe recognized the locality; her breath was short; her step quickened.\nShe appeared, like an apparition out of the mists, close to a fence, and\npeered through the snow-laden rails. A sudden pang pierced her heart.\n\nFor there, within the enclosure, milking the cow, she saw, all blooming\nin the snow--herself; the azalea-like girl she had been!\n\nShe had not known how dear to her was that bright young identity she\nremembered. She had not realized how far it had gone from her. She felt\na forlorn changeling looking upon her own estranged estate.\n\nA faint cry escaped her.\n\nThe cow, with lifted head and a muttered low of surprise, moved out of\nreach of the milker, who, half kneeling upon the ground, stared with\nwide blue eyes at her ghost in the mist.\n\nThere was a pause. It was only a moment before Eugenia spoke; it seemed\nyears, so charged it was with retrospect.\n\n\"I kem over hyar ter hev a word with ye,\" she said.\n\nAt the sound of a human voice Luke Todd's wife struggled to her feet.\nShe held the piggin with one arm encircled about it, and with the other\nhand she clutched the plaid shawl around her throat. Her bright hair was\ntossed by the rising wind.\n\n\"I 'lowed I'd find ye hyar a-milkin' 'bout now.\"\n\nThe homely allusion reassured the younger woman.\n\n\"I hev ter begin toler'ble early,\" she said. \"Spot gins 'bout a gallon a\nmilkin' now.\"\n\nSpot's calf, which subsisted on what was left over, seemed to find it\ncruel that delay should be added to his hardships, and he lifted up his\nvoice in a plaintive remonstrance. This reminded Mrs. Todd of his\nexistence; she turned and let down the bars that served to exclude him.\n\nThe stranger was staring at her very hard. Somehow she quailed under\nthat look. Though it was fixed upon her in unvarying intensity, it had a\nstrange impersonality. This woman was not seeing her, despite that wide,\nwistful, yearning gaze; she was thinking of something else, seeing some\none else.\n\nAnd suddenly Luke Todd's wife began to stare at the visitor very hard,\nand to think of something that was not before her.\n\n\"I be the ranger's wife,\" said Eugenia. \"I kem over hyar ter tell ye he\nnever tuk yer black mare nowise but honest, bein' the ranger.\"\n\nShe found it difficult to say more. Under that speculative, unseeing\nlook she too faltered.\n\n\"They tell me ez Luke Todd air powerful outed 'bout'n it. An' I 'lowed\nef he knowed from me ez 'twar tuk fair, he'd b'lieve me.\"\n\nShe hesitated. Her courage was flagging; her hope had fled. The eyes of\nthe man's wife burned upon her face.\n\n\"We-uns useter be toler'ble well 'quainted 'fore he ever seen ye, an' I\n'lowed he'd b'lieve my word,\" Eugenia continued.\n\nAnother silence. The sun was rising; long liquescent lines of light of\npurest amber-color were streaming through the snowy woods; the shadows\nof the fence rails alternated with bars of dazzling glister; elusive\nprismatic gleams of rose and lilac and blue shimmered on every\nslope--thus the winter flowered. Tiny snow-birds were hopping about; a\ngreat dog came down from the little snow-thatched cabin, and was\nstretching himself elastically and yawning most portentously.\n\n\"An' I 'lowed I'd see ye an' git you-uns ter tell him that word from me,\nan' then he'd b'lieve it,\" said Eugenia.\n\nThe younger woman nodded mechanically, still gazing at her.\n\nAnd was this her mission! Somehow it had lost its urgency. Where was its\npotency, her enthusiasm? Eugenia realized that her feet were wet, her\nskirts draggled; that she was chilled to the bone and trembling\nviolently. She looked about her doubtfully. Then her eyes came back to\nthe face of the woman before her.\n\n\"Ye'll tell him, I s'pose?\"\n\nOnce more Luke Todd's wife nodded mechanically, still staring.\n\nThere was nothing further to be said. A vacant interval ensued. Then, \"I\n'lowed I'd tell ye,\" Eugenia reiterated, vaguely, and turned away,\nvanishing with the vanishing mists.\n\nLuke Todd's wife stood gazing at the fence through which the apparition\nhad peered. She could see yet her own face there, grown old and worn.\nThe dog wagged his tail and pressed against her, looking up and claiming\nher notice. Once more he stretched himself elastically and yawned\nwidely, with shrill variations of tone. The calf was frisking about in\nawkward bovine elation, and now and then the cow affectionately licked\nits coat with the air of making its toilet. An assertive chanticleer was\nproclaiming the dawn within the hen-house, whence came too an impatient\nclamor, for the door, which served to exclude any marauding fox, was\nstill closed upon the imprisoned poultry. Still she looked steadily at\nthe fence where the ranger's wife had stood.\n\n\"That thar woman favors me,\" she said, presently. And suddenly she burst\ninto tears.\n\nPerhaps it was well that Eugenia could not see Luke Todd's expression as\nhis wife recounted the scene. She gave it truly, but without, alas! the\nglamour of sympathy.\n\n\"She 'lowed ez ye'd b'lieve her, bein' ez ye useter be 'quainted.\"\n\nHis face flushed. \"Wa'al, sir! the insurance o' that thar woman!\" he\nexclaimed. \"I war 'quainted with her; I war mighty well 'quainted with\nher.\" He had a casual remembrance of those days when \"he tuk ter the\nwoods ter wear out his grief.\" \"She never gin me no promise, but me an'\nher war courtin' some. Sech dependence ez I put on her war mightily\nwasted. I dunno what ails the critter ter 'low ez I set store by her\nword.\"\n\nPoor Eugenia! There is nothing so dead as ashes. His flame had clean\nburned out. So far afield were all his thoughts that he stood amazed\nwhen his wife, with a sudden burst of tears, declared passionately that\nshe knew it--she saw it--she favored Eugenia Gryce. She had found out\nthat he had married her because she looked like another woman.\n\n\"'Genie Gryce hev got powerful little ter do ter kem a-jouncin' through\nthe snow over hyar ter try ter set ye an' me agin one another,\" he\nexclaimed, angrily. \"Stealin' the filly ain't enough ter sati'fy her!\"\n\nHis wife was in some sort mollified. She sought to reassure herself.\n\n\"Air we-uns of a favor?\"\n\n\"I dunno,\" he replied, sulkily. \"I 'ain't seen the critter fur nigh on\nter ten year. I hev furgot the looks of her. 'Pears like ter me,\" he\nwent on, ruminating, \"ez 'twar in my mind when I fust seen ye ez thar\nwar a favor 'twixt ye. But I misdoubts now. Do she 'low ez I hev hed\nnuthin ter study 'bout sence?\"\n\nPerhaps Eugenia is not the only woman who overrates the strength of a\nsentimental attachment. A gloomy intuition of failure kept her company\nall the lengthening way home. The chill splendors of the wintry day\ngrated upon her dreary mood. How should she care for the depth and\nrichness of the blue deepening toward the zenith in those vast skies?\nWhat was it to her that the dead vines, climbing the grim rugged crags,\nwere laden with tufts and corollated shapes wherever these fantasies of\nflowers might cling, or that the snow flashed with crystalline\nscintillations? She only knew that they glimmered and dazzled upon the\ntears in her eyes, and she was moved to shed them afresh. She did not\nwonder whether her venture had resulted amiss. She only wondered that\nshe had tried aught. And she was humbled.\n\nWhen she reached Lonesome Cove she found the piggin where she had hid\nit, and milked the cow in haste. It was no great task, for the animal\nwas going dry. \"Their'n gins a gallon a milkin',\" she said, in rueful\ncomparison.\n\nAs she came up the slope with the piggin on her head, her husband was\nlooking down from the porch with a lowering brow. \"Why n't ye spen' the\nday a-milkin' the cow?\" he drawled. \"Dawdlin' yander in the cow-pen till\nthis time in the mornin'! An' ter-morrer's Chrismus!\"\n\nThe word smote upon her weary heart with a dull pain. She had no\ncultured phrase to characterize the sensation as a presentiment, but she\nwas conscious of the prophetic process. To-night \"all the mounting\"\nwould be riotous with that dubious hilarity known as \"Chrismus in the\nbones,\" and there was no telling what might come from the combined orgy\nand an inflamed public spirit.\n\nShe remembered the familiar doom of the mountain horse-thief, the men\nlurking on the cliff, the inimical feeling against the ranger. She\nfurtively watched him with forebodings as he came and went at intervals\nthroughout the day.\n\nDusk had fallen when he suddenly looked in and beckoned to the\n\"Colonel,\" who required him to take her with him whenever he fed the\nmare.\n\n\"Let me tie this hyar comforter over the Cunnel's head,\" Eugenia said,\nas he bundled the child in a shawl and lifted her in his arms.\n\n\"'Tain't no use,\" he declared. \"The Cunnel ain't travellin' fur.\"\n\nShe heard him step from the creaking porch. She heard the dreary wind\nwithout.\n\nWithin, the clumsy shadows of the warping-bars, the spinning-wheel, and\nthe churn were dancing in the firelight on the wall. The supper was\ncooking on the live coals. The children, popping corn in the ashes, were\nlaughing; as her eye fell upon the \"Colonel's\" vacant little chair her\nmind returned to the child's excursion with her father, and again she\nwondered futilely where the mare could be hid. The next moment she was\nheartily glad that she did not know.\n\nIt was like the fulfillment of some dreadful dream when the door opened.\nA man entered softly, slowly; the flickering fire showed his shadow--was\nit?--nay, another man, and still another, and another.\n\nThe old crone in the corner sprang up, screaming in a shrill, tremulous,\ncracked voice. For they were masked. Over the face of each dangled a bit\nof homespun, with great empty sockets through which eyes vaguely\nglanced. Even the coarse fibre of the intruders responded to that\nquavering, thrilling appeal. One spoke instantly:\n\n\"Laws-a-massy! Mis' Pearce, don't ye feel interrupted none--nor Mis'\nGryce nuther. We-uns ain't harmful noways--jes want ter know whar that\nthar black mare hev disappeared to. She ain't in the barn.\"\n\nHe turned his great eye-sockets on Eugenia. The plaid homespun mask\ndangling about his face was grotesquely incongruous with his intent,\nserious gaze.\n\n\"I dunno,\" she faltered; \"I dunno.\"\n\nShe had caught at the spinning-wheel for support. The fire crackled. The\nbaby was counting aloud the grains of corn popping from the ashes. \"Six,\ntwo, free,\" he babbled. The kettle merrily sang.\n\nThe man still stared silently at the ranger's wife. The expression in\nhis eyes changed suddenly. He chuckled derisively. The others echoed his\nmocking mirth. \"Ha! ha! ha!\" they laughed aloud; and the eye-sockets in\nthe homespun masks all glared significantly at each other. Even the dog\ndetected something sinister in this laughter. He had been sniffing about\nthe heels of the strangers; he bristled now, showed his teeth, and\ngrowled. The spokesman hastily kicked him in the ribs, and the animal\nfled yelping to the farther side of the fireplace behind the baby, where\nhe stood and barked defiance. The rafters rang with the sound.\n\nSome one on the porch without spoke to the leader in a low voice. This\nman, who seemed to have a desire to conceal his identity which could not\nbe served by a mask, held the door with one hand that the wind might not\nblow it wide open. The draught fanned the fire. Once the great bowing,\nwaving white blaze sent a long, quivering line of light through the\nnarrow aperture, and Eugenia saw the dark lurking figure outside. He had\none arm in a sling. She needed no confirmation to assure her that this\nwas Sam Peters, whom her husband had shot at the stable door.\n\nThe leader instantly accepted his suggestion. \"Wa'al, Mis' Gryce, I\nreckon ye dunno whar Tobe be, nuther?\"\n\n\"Naw, I dunno,\" she said, in a tremor.\n\nThe homespun mask swayed with the distortions of his face as he sneered:\n\n\"Ye mean ter say ye don't 'low ter tell us.\"\n\n\"I dunno whar he be.\" Her voice had sunk to a whisper.\n\nAnother exchange of glances.\n\n\"Wa'al, ma'am, jes gin us the favor of a light by yer fire, an' we-uns\n'll find him.\"\n\nHe stepped swiftly forward, thrust a pine torch into the coals, and with\nit all whitely flaring ran out into the night; the others followed his\nexample; and the terror-stricken women, hastily barring up the door,\npeered after them through the little batten shutter of the window.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe torches were already scattered about the slopes of Lonesome Cove\nlike a fallen constellation. What shafts of white light they cast upon\nthe snow in the midst of the dense blackness of the night! Somehow they\nseemed endowed with volition, as they moved hither and thither, for\ntheir brilliancy almost cancelled the figures of the men that bore\nthem--only an occasional erratic shapeless shadow was visible. Now and\nthen a flare pierced the icicle-tipped holly bushes, and again there was\na fibrous glimmer in the fringed pines.\n\nThe search was terribly silent. The snow deadened the tread. Only the\nwind was loud among the muffled trees, and sometimes a dull thud sounded\nwhen the weight of snow fell from the evergreen laurel as the men\nthrashed through its dense growth. They separated after a time, and only\nhere and there an isolated stellular light illumined the snow, and\nconjured white mystic circles into the wide spaces of the darkness. The\neffort flagged at last, and its futility sharpened the sense of injury\nin Luke Todd's heart.\n\nHe was alone now, close upon the great rock, and looking at its jagged\nledges all cloaked with snow. Above those soft white outlines drawn\nagainst the deep clear sky the frosty stars scintillated. Beneath were\nthe abysmal depths of the valley masked by the darkness.\n\nHis pride was touched. In the old quarrel his revenge had been hampered,\nfor it was the girl's privilege to choose, and she had chosen. He cared\nnothing for that now, but he felt it indeed a reproach to tamely let\nthis man take his horse when he had all the mountain at his back. There\nwas a sharp humiliation in his position. He felt the pressure of public\nopinion.\n\n\"Dad-burn him!\" he exclaimed. \"Ef I kin make out ter git a glimge o'\nhim, I'll shoot him dead--dead!\"\n\nHe leaned the rifle against the rock. It struck upon a ledge. A metallic\nvibration rang out. Again and again the sound was repeated--now loud,\nstill clanging; now faint, but clear; now soft and away to a doubtful\nmurmur which he hardly was sure that he heard. Never before had he known\nsuch an echo. And suddenly he recollected that this was the great\n\"Talking Rock,\" famed beyond the limits of Lonesome. It had traditions\nas well as echoes. He remembered vaguely that beneath this cliff there\nwas said to be a cave which was utilized in the manufacture of saltpetre\nfor gunpowder in the War of 1812.\n\nAs he looked down the slope below he thought the snow seemed broken--by\nfootprints, was it? With the expectation of a discovery strong upon him,\nhe crept along a wide ledge of the crag, now and then stumbling and\nsending an avalanche of snow and ice and stones thundering to the foot\nof the cliff. He missed his way more than once. Then he would turn\nabout, laboriously retracing his steps, and try another level of the\nledges. Suddenly before him was the dark opening he sought. No creature\nhad lately been here. It was filled with growing bushes and dead leaves\nand brambles. Looking again down upon the slope beneath, he felt very\nsure that he saw footprints.\n\n\"The old folks useter 'low ez thar war two openings ter this hyar cave,\"\nhe said. \"Tobe Gryce mought hev hid hyar through a opening down yander\non the slope. But _I'll_ go the way ez I hev hearn tell on, an' peek in,\nan' ef I kin git a glimge o' him, I'll make him tell me whar that thar\nfilly air, or I'll let daylight through him, sure!\"\n\nHe paused only to bend aside the brambles, then he crept in and took his\nway along a low, narrow passage. It had many windings, but was without\nintersections or intricacy. He heard his own steps echoed like a\npursuing footfall. His labored breathing returned in sighs from the\ninanimate rocks. It was an uncanny place, with strange, sepulchral,\nsolemn effects. He shivered with the cold. A draught stole in from some\nsecret crevice known only to the wild mountain winds. The torch flared,\ncrouched before the gust, flared again, then darkness. He hesitated,\ntook one step forward, and suddenly--a miracle!\n\nA soft aureola with gleaming radiations, a low, shadowy chamber, a beast\nfeeding from a manger, and within it a child's golden head.\n\nHis heart gave a great throb. Somehow he was smitten to his knees.\nChristmas Eve! He remembered the day with a rush of emotion. He stared\nagain at the vouchsafed vision. He rubbed his eyes. It had changed.\n\nOnly hallucination caused by an abrupt transition from darkness to\nlight; only the most mundane facts of the old troughs and ash-hoppers,\nrelics of the industry that had served the hideous carnage of battle;\nonly the yellow head of the ranger's brat, who had climbed into one of\nthem, from which the mare was calmly munching her corn.\n\nYet this was Christmas Eve. And the Child did lie in a manger.\n\nPerhaps it was well for him that his ignorant faith could accept the\nillusion as a vision charged with all the benignities of peace on earth,\ngood-will toward men. With a keen thrill in his heart, on his knees he\ndrew the charge from his rifle, and flung it down a rift in the rocks.\n\"Chrismus Eve,\" he murmured.\n\n[Illustration: \"YET THIS WAS CHRISTMAS EVE\"]\n\nHe leaned his empty weapon against the wall, and strode out to the\nlittle girl who was perched up on the trough.\n\n\"Chrismus gift, Cunnel!\" he cried, cheerily. \"Ter-morrer's Chrismus.\"\n\nThe echoes caught the word. In vibratory jubilance they repeated it.\n\"Chrismus!\" rang from the roof, scintillating with calc-spar;\n\"Chrismus!\" sounded from the colonnade of stalactites that hung down to\nmeet the uprising stalagmites; \"Chrismus!\" repeated the walls incrusted\nwith roses that, shut in from the light and the fresh air of heaven,\nbloomed forever in the stone. Was ever chorus so sweet as this?\n\nIt reached Tobe Gryce, who stood at his improvised corn-bin. With a\nbundle of fodder still in his arms he stepped forward. There beside the\nlittle Colonel and the black mare he beheld a man seated upon an\ninverted half-bushel measure, peacefully lighting his pipe with a bunch\nof straws which he kindled at the lantern on the ash-hopper.\n\nThe ranger's black eyes were wide with wonder at this intrusion, and\nangrily flashed. He connected it at once with the attack on the stable.\nThe hair on his low forehead rose bristlingly as he frowned. Yet he\nrealized with a quaking heart that he was helpless. He, although the\ncrack shot of the county, would not have fired while the Colonel was\nwithin two yards of his mark for the State of Tennessee.\n\nHe stood his ground with stolid courage--a target.\n\nThen, with a start of surprise, he perceived that the intruder was\nunarmed. Twenty feet away his rifle stood against the wall.\n\nTobe Gryce was strangely shaken. He experienced a sudden revolt of\ncredulity. This was surely a dream.\n\n\"Ain't that thar Luke Todd? Why air ye a-waitin' thar?\" he called out in\na husky undertone.\n\nTodd glanced up, and took his pipe from his mouth; it was now fairly\nalight.\n\n\"Kase it be Chrismus Eve, Tobe,\" he said, gravely.\n\nThe ranger stared for a moment; then came forward and gave the fodder to\nthe mare, pausing now and then and looking with oblique distrust down\nupon Luke Todd as he smoked his pipe.\n\n\"I want ter tell ye, Tobe, ez some o' the mounting boys air a-sarchin\nfur ye outside.\"\n\n\"Who air they?\" asked the ranger, calmly.\n\nHis tone was so natural, his manner so unsuspecting, that a new doubt\nbegan to stir in Luke Todd's mind.\n\n\"What ails ye ter keep the mare down hyar, Tobe?\" he asked, suddenly.\n\"'Pears like ter me ez that be powerful comical.\"\n\n\"Kase,\" said Tobe, reasonably, \"some durned horse-thieves kem arter her\none night. I fired at 'em. I hain't hearn on 'em sence. An' so I jes hid\nthe mare.\"\n\nTodd was puzzled. He shifted his pipe in his mouth. Finally he said:\n\"Some folks 'lowed ez ye hed no right ter take up that mare, bein' ez ye\nwar the ranger.\"\n\nTobe Gryce whirled round abruptly. \"What war I a-goin' ter do, then?\nFeed the critter fur nuthin till the triflin' scamp ez owned her kem\narter her? I couldn't work her 'thout takin' her up an' hevin her\nappraised. Thar's a law agin sech. An' I couldn't git somebody ter toll\nher off an' take her up. That ain't fair. What ought I ter hev done?\"\n\n\"Wa'al,\" said Luke, drifting into argument, \"the town-folks 'low ez ye\nhev got nuthin ter prove it by, the stray-book an' records bein' burnt.\nThe town-folks 'low ez ye can't prove by writin' an' sech ez ye ever\ntried ter find the owner.\"\n\n\"The town-folks air fairly sodden in foolishness,\" exclaimed the ranger,\nindignantly.\n\nHe drew from his ample pocket a roll of ragged newspapers, and pointed\nwith his great thumb at a paragraph. And Luke Todd read by the light of\nthe lantern the advertisement and description of the estray printed\naccording to law in the nearest newspaper.\n\nThe newspaper was so infrequent a factor in the lives of the mountain\ngossips that this refutation of their theory had never occurred to them.\n\nThe sheet was trembling in Luke Todd's hand; his eyes filled. The cavern\nwith its black distances, its walls close at hand sparkling with\ndelicate points of whitest light; the yellow flare of the lantern; the\ngrotesque shadows on the ground; the fair little girl with her golden\nhair; the sleek black mare; the burly figure of the ranger--all the\nscene swayed before him. He remembered the gracious vision that had\nsaluted him; he shuddered at the crime from which he was rescued. Pity\nhim because he knew naught of the science of optics; of the bewildering\neffects of a sudden burst of light upon the delicate mechanism of the\neye; of the vagaries of illusion.\n\n\"Tobe,\" he said, in a solemn voice--all the echoes were bated to awed\nwhispers--\"I hev been gin ter view a vision this night, bein' 'twar\nChrismus Eve. An' now I want ter shake hands on it fur peace.\"\n\nThen he told the whole story, regardless of the ranger's demonstrations,\nalbeit they were sometimes violent enough. Tobe sprang up with a snort\nof rage, his eyes flashing, his thick tongue stumbling with the curses\ncrowding upon it, when he realized the suspicions rife against him at\nthe county town. But he stood with his clinched hand slowly relaxing,\nand with the vague expression which one wears who looks into the past,\nas he listened to the recital of Eugenia's pilgrimage in the snowy\nwintry dawn. \"Mighty few folks hev got a wife ez set store by 'em like\nthat,\" Luke remarked, impersonally.\n\nThe ranger's rejoinder seemed irrelevant.\n\n\"'Genie be a-goin' ter see a powerful differ arter this,\" he said, and\nfell to musing.\n\nSnow, fatigue, and futility destroyed the ardor of the lynching party\nafter a time, and they dispersed to their homes. Little was said of this\nexpedition afterward, and it became quite impossible to find a man who\nwould admit having joined it. For the story went the rounds of the\nmountain that there had been a mistake as to unfair dealing on the part\nof the ranger, and Luke Todd was quite content to accept from the county\ntreasury half the sum of the mare's appraisement--with the deduction of\nthe stipulated per cent.--which Tobe Gryce had paid, the receipt for\nwhich he produced.\n\nThe gossips complained, however, that after all this was settled\naccording to law, Tobe wouldn't keep the mare, and insisted that Luke\nshould return to him the money he had paid into the treasury, half her\nvalue, \"bein' so brigaty he wouldn't own Luke Todd's beast. An' Luke\nagreed ter so do; but he didn't want ter be outdone, so fur the keep o'\nthe filly he gin the Cunnel a heifer. An' Tobe war mighty nigh tickled\nter death fur the Cunnel ter hev a cow o' her own.\"\n\nAnd now when December skies darken above Lonesome Cove, and the snow in\ndizzying whirls sifts softly down, and the gaunt brown leafless heights\nare clothed with white as with a garment, and the wind whistles and\nshouts shrilly, and above the great crag loom the distant mountains, and\nbelow are glimpsed the long stretches of the valley, the two men\nremember the vision that illumined the cavernous solitudes that night,\nand bless the gracious power that sent salvation 'way down to Lonesome\nCove, and cherish peace and good-will for the sake of a little Child\nthat lay in a manger.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MOONSHINERS AT HOHO-HEBEE FALLS\n\n\nI\n\nIf the mission of the little school-house in Holly Cove was to impress\nupon the youthful mind a comprehension and appreciation of the eternal\nverities of nature, its site could hardly have been better chosen. All\nalong the eastern horizon deployed the endless files of the Great Smoky\nMountains--blue and sunlit, with now and again the apparition of an\nunfamiliar peak, hovering like a straggler in the far-distant rear, and\nmade visible for the nonce by some exceptional clarification of the\natmosphere; or lowering, gray, stern; or with ranks of clouds hanging on\ntheir flanks, while all the artillery of heaven whirled about them, and\nthe whole world quaked beneath the flash and roar of its volleys. The\nseasons successively painted the great landscape--spring, with its\ntimorous touch, its illumined haze, its tender, tentative green and gray\nand yellow; summer, with its flush of completion, its deep, luscious,\ndefinite verdure, and the golden richness of fruition; autumn, with a\nfull brush and all chromatic splendors; winter, in melancholy sepia\ntones, black and brown and many sad variations of the pallors of white.\nSo high was the little structure on the side of a transverse ridge that\nit commanded a vast field of sky above the wooded ranges; and in the\nimmediate foreground, down between the slopes which were cleft to the\nheart, was the river, resplendent with the reflected moods of the\nheavens. In this deep gorge the winds and the pines chanted like a Greek\nchorus; the waves continuously murmured an intricate rune, as if conning\nit by frequent repetition; a bird would call out from the upper air some\njoyous apothegm in a language which no creature of the earth has learned\nenough of happiness to translate.\n\nBut the precepts which prevailed in the little school-house were to the\neffect that rivers, except as they flowed as they listed to confusing\npoints of the compass, rising among names difficult to remember, and\nemptying into the least anticipated body of water, were chiefly to be\navoided for their proclivity to drown small boys intent on swimming or\nangling. Mountains, aside from the desirability of their recognition as\nforming one of the divisions of land somewhat easily distinguishable by\nthe more erudite youth from plains, valleys, and capes, were full of\ncrags and chasms, rattlesnakes and vegetable poisons, and a further\nfamiliarity with them was liable to result in the total loss of the\nadventurous--to see friends, family, and home no more.\n\nThese dicta, promulgated from the professorial chair, served to keep the\nsmall body of callow humanity, with whose instruction Abner Sage was\nintrusted by the State, well within call and out of harm's way during\nthe short recesses, while under his guidance they toddled along the\nrough road that leads up the steeps to knowledge. But one there was who\neither bore a charmed life or possessed an unequalled craft in\nsuccessfully defying danger; who fished and swam with impunity; who was\nragged and torn from much climbing of crags; whose freckled face bore\nfrequent red tokens of an indiscriminate sampling of berries. It is too\nmuch to say that Abner Sage would have been glad to have his warnings\nmade terrible by some bodily disaster to the juvenile dare-devil of the\nschool, but Leander Yerby's disobedient incredulity as to the terrors\nthat menaced him, and his triumphant immunity, fostered a certain grudge\nagainst him. Covert though it was, unrecognized even by Sage himself, it\nwas very definitely apparent to Tyler Sudley when sometimes, often,\nindeed, on his way home from hunting, he would pause at the school-house\nwindow, pulling open the shutter from the outside, and gravely watch his\nprotege, who stood spelling at the head of the class.\n\nFor Leander Yerby's exploits were not altogether those of a physical\nprowess. He was a mighty wrestler with the multiplication table. He had\nmet and overthrown the nine line in single-handed combat. He had\nattained unto some interesting knowledge of the earth on which he lived,\nand could fluently bound countries with neatness and precision, and was\non terms of intimacy with sundry seas, volcanoes, islands, and other\nsizable objects. The glib certainty of his contemptuous familiarity\nwith the alphabet and its untoward combinations, as he flung off words\nin four syllables in his impudent chirping treble, seemed something\nuncanny, almost appalling, to Tyler Sudley, who could not have done the\nlike to save his stalwart life. He would stare dumfounded at the erudite\npersonage at the head of the class; Leander's bare feet were always\ncarefully adjusted to a crack between the puncheons of the floor,\nliterally \"toeing the mark\"; his broad trousers, frayed out liberally at\nthe hem, revealed his skinny and scarred little ankles, for his out-door\nadventures were not without a record upon the more impressionable\nportions of his anatomy; his waistband was drawn high up under his\nshoulder-blades and his ribs, and girt over the shoulders of his\nunbleached cotton shirt by braces, which all his learning did not\nprevent him from calling \"galluses\"; his cut, scratched, calloused hands\nwere held stiffly down at the side seams in his nether garments in\nstrict accordance with the regulations. But rules could not control the\ntwinkle in his big blue eyes, the mingled effrontery and affection on\nhis freckled face as he perceived the on-looking visitor, nor hinder the\nwink, the swiftly thrust-out tongue, as swiftly withdrawn, the egregious\ndisplay of two rows of dishevelled jagged squirrel teeth, when once\nmore, with an offhand toss of his tangled brown hair, he nimbly spelled\na long twisted-tailed word, and leered capably at the grave intent face\nframed in the window.\n\n\"Why, Abner!\" Tyler Sudley would break out, addressing the teacher, all\nunmindful of scholastic etiquette, a flush of pleasure rising to his\nswarthy cheek as he thrust back his wide black hat on his long dark\nhair and turned his candid gray eyes, all aglow, upon the cadaverous,\nascetic preceptor, \"ain't Lee-yander a-gittin' on powerful, _powerful_\nfas' with his book?\"\n\n\"Not in enny ways so special,\" Sage would reply in cavalier\ndiscouragement, his disaffected gaze resting upon the champion scholar,\nwho stood elated, confident, needing no commendation to assure him of\nhis pre-eminence; \"but he air disobejient, an' turr'ble, turr'ble bad.\"\n\nThe nonchalance with which Leander Yerby hearkened to this criticism\nintimated a persuasion that there were many obedient people in this\nworld, but few who could so disport themselves in the intricacies of the\nEnglish language; and Sudley, as he plodded homeward with his rifle on\nhis shoulder, his dog running on in advance, and Leander pattering along\nbehind, was often moved to add the weight of his admonition to the\nteacher's reproof.\n\n\"Lee-yander,\" he would gently drawl, \"ye mustn't be so bad, honey; ye\n_mustn't_ be so turr'ble bad.\"\n\n\"Naw, ma'am, I won't,\" Leander would cheerily pipe out, and so the\nprocession would wend its way along.\n\nFor he still confused the gender in titles of respect, and from force of\nhabit he continued to do so in addressing Tyler Sudley for many a year\nafter he had learned better.\n\nThese lapses were pathetic rather than ridiculous in the hunter's ears.\nIt was he who had taught Leander every observance of verbal humility\ntoward his wife, in the forlorn hope of propitiating her in the\ninterest of the child, who, however, with his quick understanding that\nthe words sought to do honor and express respect, had of his own accord\ntransferred them to his one true friend in the household. The only\nfriend he had in the world, Sudley often felt, with a sigh over the\nhappy child's forlorn estate. And, with the morbid sensitiveness\npeculiar to a tender conscience, he winced under the knowledge that it\nwas he who, through wrongheadedness or wrongheartedness, had contrived\nto make all the world besides the boy's enemy. Both wrongheaded and\nwronghearted he was, he sometimes told himself. For even now it still\nseemed to him that he had not judged amiss, that only the perversity of\nfate had thwarted him. Was it so fantastically improbable, so hopeless a\nsolace that he had planned, that he should have thought his wife might\ntake comfort for the death of their own child in making for its sake a\nhome for another, orphaned, forlorn, a burden, and a glad riddance to\nthose into whose grudging charge it had been thrown? This bounty of hope\nand affection and comfort had seemed to him a free gift from the dead\nbaby's hands, who had no need of it since coming into its infinite\nheritage of immortality, to the living waif, to whom it was like life\nitself, since it held all the essential values of existence. The idea\nsmote him like an inspiration. He had ridden twenty miles in a snowy\nnight to beg the unwelcome mite from the custody of its father's\nhalf-brothers, who were on the eve of moving to a neighboring county\nwith all their kin and belongings.\n\nTyler Sudley was a slow man, and tenacious of impressions. He could\nremember every detail of the events as they had happened--the palpable\nsurprise, the moment of hesitation, the feint of denial which\nsuccessively ensued on his arrival. It mattered not what the season or\nthe hour--he could behold at will the wintry dawn, the deserted cabin,\nthe glow of embers dying on the hearth within; the white-covered wagon\nslowly a-creak along the frozen road beneath the gaunt, bare,\noverhanging trees, the pots and pans as they swung at the rear, the\nbucket for water swaying beneath, the mounted men beside it, the few\nhead of swine and cattle driven before them. Years had passed, but he\ncould feel anew the vague stir of the living bundle which he held on the\npommel of his saddle, the sudden twist it gave to bring its inquiring,\napprehensive eyes, so large in its thin, lank-jawed, piteous little\ncountenance, to bear on his face, as if it understood its transfer of\ncustody, and trembled lest a worse thing befall it. One of the women\nstopped the wagon and ran back to pin about its neck an additional\nwrapping, an old red-flannel petticoat, lest it should suffer in its\nlong, cold ride. His heart glowed with vicarious gratitude for her\nforethought, and he shook her hand warmly and wished her well, and hoped\nthat she might prosper in her new home, and stood still to watch the\nwhite wagon out of sight in the avenue of the snow-laden trees, above\nwhich the moon was visible, a-journeying too, swinging down the western\nsky.\n\nLaurelia Sudley sat in stunned amazement when, half-frozen, but\ntriumphant and flushed and full of his story, he burst into the warm\nhome atmosphere, and put the animated bundle down upon the hearth-stone\nin front of the glowing fire. For one moment she met its forlorn gaze\nout of its peaked and pinched little face with a vague hesitation in her\nown worn, tremulous, sorrow-stricken eyes. Then she burst into a tumult\nof tears, upbraiding her husband that he could think that another child\ncould take the place of her dead child--all the dearer because it was\ndead; that she could play the traitor to its memory and forget her\nsacred grief; that she could do aught as long as she should live but sit\nher down to bewail her loss, every tear a tribute, every pang its\ninalienable right, her whole smitten existence a testimony to her love.\nIt was in vain that he expostulated. The idea of substitution had never\nentered his mind. But he was ignorant, and clumsy of speech, and\nunaccustomed to analyze his motives. He could not put into words his\nfeeling that to do for the welfare of this orphaned and unwelcome little\ncreature all that they would have done for their own was in some sort a\nmemorial to him, and brought them nearer to him--that she might find in\nit a satisfaction, an occupation--that it might serve to fill her empty\nlife, her empty arms.\n\nBut no! She thought, and the neighbors thought, and after a time Tyler\nSudley came to think also, that he had failed in the essential duty to\nthe dead--that of affectionate remembrance; that he was recreant,\nstrangely callous. They all said that he had seemed to esteem one baby\nas good as another, and that he was surprised that his wife was not\nconsoled for the loss of her own child because he took it into his head\nto go and toll off the Yerby baby from his father's half-brothers \"ez\nwar movin' away an' war glad enough ter get rid o' one head o' human\nstock ter kerry, though, _bein' human_, they oughter been ashamed ter\ngin him away like a puppy-dog, or an extry cat, all hands consarned.\"\n\nFrom the standpoint she had taken Laurelia had never wavered. It was an\nadded and a continual reproach to her husband that all the labor and\ncare of the ill-advised acquisition fell to her share. She it was who\nmust feed and clothe and tend the gaunt little usurper; he needs must be\naccorded all the infantile prerogatives, and he exacted much time and\nattention. Despite the grudging spirit in which her care was given she\nfailed in no essential, and presently the interloper was no longer gaunt\nor pallid or apprehensive, but grew pink and cherubic of build, and\narrogant of mind. He had no sensitive sub-current of suspicion as to his\nwelcome; he filled the house with his gay babbling, and if no maternal\nchirpings encouraged the development of his ideas and his powers of\nspeech, his cheerful spirits seemed strong enough to thrive on their own\nstalwart endowments. His hair began to curl, and a neighbor, remarking\non it to Laurelia, and forgetting for the moment his parentage, said, in\nadmiring glee, twining the soft tendrils over her finger, that Mrs.\nSudley had never before had a child so well-favored as this one. From\nthis time forth was infused a certain rancor into his foster-mother's\nspirit toward him. Her sense of martyrdom was complete when another\ninfant was born and died, leaving her bereaved once more to watch this\nstranger grow up in her house, strong and hearty, and handsomer than any\nchild of hers had been.\n\nThe mountain gossips had their own estimate of her attitude.\n\n\"I ain't denyin' but what she hed nat'ral feelin' fur her own chil'ren,\nbein' dead,\" said the dame who had made the unfortunate remark about the\ncurling hair, \"but Laurelia Sudley war always a contrary-minded,\nlackadaisical kind o' gal afore she war married, sorter set in\nopposition, an' now ez she ain't purty like she useter was, through\ncryin' her eyes out, an' gittin' sallow-complected an' bony, I kin\nnotice her contrariousness more. Ef Tyler hedn't brung that chile home,\nlike ez not she'd hev sot her heart on borryin' one herself from\nsomebody. Lee-yander ain't in nowise abused, ez I kin see--ain't\nacquainted with the rod, like the Bible say he oughter be, an' ennybody\nkin see ez Laurelia don't like the name he gin her, yit she puts up with\nit. She larnt him ter call Ty 'Cap'n,' bein' she's sorter proud of it,\n'kase Ty war a cap'n of a critter company in the war: 'twarn't sech a\nmighty matter nohow; he jes got ter be cap'n through the other off'cers\nbein' killed off. An' the leetle boy got it twisted somehows, an' calls\n_her_ 'Cap'n' an' Ty 'Neighbor,' from hearin' old man Jeemes, ez comes\nin constant, givin' him that old-fashioned name. 'Cap'n' 'bout fits\nLaurelia, though, an' that's a fac'.\"\n\nLaurelia's melancholy ascendency in the household was very complete. It\nwas characterized by no turbulence, no rages, no long-drawn argument or\nobjurgation; it expressed itself only in a settled spirit of\ndisaffection, a pervasive suggestion of martyrdom, silence or sighs, or\nsometimes a depressing singing of hymn tunes. For her husband had long\nago ceased to remonstrate, or to seek to justify himself. It was with a\nspirit of making amends that he hastened to concede every point of\nquestion, to defer to her preference in all matters, and Laurelia's sway\ngrew more and more absolute as the years wore on. Leander Yerby could\nremember no other surroundings than the ascetic atmosphere of his home.\nIt had done naught apparently to quell the innate cheerfulness of his\nspirit. He evidently took note, however, of the different standpoint of\nthe \"Captain\" and his \"Neighbor,\" for although he was instant in the\nlittle manifestations of respect toward her which he had been taught,\nhis childish craft could not conceal their spuriousness.\n\n\"That thar boy treats me ez ef I war a plumb idjit,\" Laurelia said one\nday, moved to her infrequent anger. \"Tells me, 'Yes, ma'am, cap'n,' an'\n'Naw, ma'am, cap'n,' jes ter quiet me--like folks useter do ter old\nEd'ard Green, ez war in his dotage--an' then goes along an' does the\nvery thing I tell him not ter do.\"\n\nSudley looked up as he sat smoking his pipe by the fire, a shade of\nconstraint in his manner, and a contraction of anxiety in his slow, dark\neyes, never quite absent when she spoke to him aside of Leander.\n\nShe paused, setting her gaunt arms akimbo, and wearing the manner of one\nwhose kindly patience is beyond limit abused. \"Kems in hyar, he do,\na-totin' a fiddle. An' I says, 'Lee-yander Yerby, don't ye know that\nthar thing's the devil's snare?' 'Naw, ma'am, cap'n,' he says, grinnin'\nlike a imp; 'it's _my_ snare, fur I hev bought it from Peter Teazely fur\ntwo rabbits what I cotch in my trap, an' my big red rooster, an' a bag\no' seed pop-corn, an' the only hat I hev got in the worl'.' An' with\nthat the consarn gin sech a yawp, it plumb went through my haid. An'\nthen the critter jes tuk ter a-bowin' it back an' forth, a-playin' 'The\nChicken in the Bread-trough' like demented, a-dancin' off on fust one\nfoot an' then on t'other till the puncheons shuck. An' I druv him out\nthe house. I won't stan' none o' Satan's devices hyar! I tole him he\ncouldn't fetch that fiddle hyar whenst he kems home ter-night, an' I be\na-goin' ter make him a sun-bonnet or a nightcap ter wear stiddier his\nhat that he traded off.\"\n\nShe paused.\n\nHer husband had risen, the glow of his pipe fading in his unheeding\nhand, his excited eyes fixed upon her. \"Laurely,\" he exclaimed, \"ye\nain't meanin' ez that thar leetle critter could play a chune fust off on\na fiddle 'thout no larnin'!\"\n\nShe nodded her head in reluctant admission.\n\nHe opened his mouth once or twice, emitting no sound. She saw how his\nelation, his spirit of commendation, his pride, set at naught her\ndispleasure, albeit in self-defence, perchance, he dared not say a word.\nWith an eye alight and an absorbed face, he laid his pipe on the\nmantel-piece, and silently took his way out of the house in search of\nthe youthful musician.\n\nEasily found! The racked and tortured echoes were all aquake within half\na mile of the spot where, bareheaded, heedless of the threatened\nignominy alike of sun-bonnet or nightcap, Leander sat in the flickering\nsunshine and shadow upon a rock beside the spring, and blissfully\nexperimented with all the capacities of catgut to produce sound.\n\n\"Listen, Neighbor!\" he cried out, descrying Tyler Sudley, who, indeed,\ncould do naught else--\"_listen_! Ye won't hear much better fiddlin' this\nside o' kingdom come!\" And with glad assurance he capered up and down,\nthe bow elongating the sound to a cadence of frenzied glee, as his arms\nsought to accommodate the nimbler motions of his legs.\n\nThus it was the mountaineers later said that Leander fell into bad\ncompany. For, the fiddle being forbidden in the sober Laurelia's house,\nhe must needs go elsewhere to show his gift and his growing skill, and\nhe found a welcome fast enough. Before he had advanced beyond his\nstripling youth, his untutored facility had gained a rude mastery over\nthe instrument; he played with a sort of fascination and spontaneity\nthat endeared his art to his uncritical audiences, and his endowment was\nheld as something wonderful. And now it was that Laurelia, hearing him,\nfar away in the open air, play once a plaintive, melodic strain,\nfugue-like with the elfin echoes, felt a strange soothing in the sound,\nfound tears in her eyes, not all of pain but of sad pleasure, and\nassumed thenceforth something of the port of a connoisseur. She said she\n\"couldn't abide a fiddle jes sawed helter-skelter by them ez hedn't\nlarned, but ter play saaft an' slow an' solemn, and no dancin' chune,\nno frolic song--she warn't set agin that at all.\" And she desired of\nLeander a repetition of this sunset motive that evening when he had come\nhome late, and she discovered him hiding the obnoxious instrument under\nthe porch. But in vain. He did not remember it. It was some vague\nimpulse, as unconsciously voiced as the dreaming bird's song in the\nsudden half-awake intervals of the night. Over and again, as he stood by\nthe porch, the violin in his arms, he touched the strings tentatively,\nas if, perchance, being so alive, they might of their own motion recall\nthe strain that had so lately thrilled along them.\n\nHe had grown tall and slender. He wore boots to his knees now, and\npridefully carried a \"shootin'-iron\" in one of the long legs--to his\ngreat discomfort. The freckles of his early days were merged into the\nwarm uniform tint of his tanned complexion. His brown hair still curled;\nhis shirt-collar fell away from his throat, round and full and\nwhite--the singer's throat--as he threw his head backward and cast his\nlarge roving eyes searchingly along the sky, as if the missing strain\nhad wings.\n\nThe inspiration returned no more, and Laurelia experienced a sense of\nloss. \"Some time, Lee-yander, ef ye war ter kem acrost that chune agin,\ntry ter set it in yer remembrance, an' play it whenst ye kem home,\" she\nsaid, wistfully, at last, as if this errant melody were afloat somewhere\nin the vague realms of sound, where one native to those haunts might\nhope to encounter it anew.\n\n\"Yes, ma'am, cap'n, I will,\" he said, with his facile assent. But his\ntone expressed slight intention, and his indifference bespoke a too\ngreat wealth of \"chunes\"; he could feel no lack in some unremembered\ncombination, sport of the moment, when another strain would come at\nwill, as sweet perchance, and new.\n\nShe winced as from undeserved reproach when presently Leander's\nproclivities for the society of the gay young blades about the\ncountryside, sometimes reputed \"evil men,\" were attributed to this exile\nof the violin from the hearth-stone. She roused herself to disputation,\nto indignant repudiation.\n\n\"They talk ez ef it war _me_ ez led the drinkin', an' the gamin', an'\nthe dancin', and sech, ez goes on in the Cove, 'kase whenst Lee-yander\nwar about fryin' size I wouldn't abide ter hev him a-sawin' away on the\nfiddle in the house enough ter make me deef fur life. At fust the racket\nof it even skeered Towse so he wouldn't come out from under the house\nfur two days an' better; he jes sot under thar an' growled, an'\nshivered, an' showed his teeth ef ennybody spoke ter him. Nobody don't\nlike Lee-yander's performin' better'n I do whenst he plays them saaft,\nslippin'-away, slow medjures, ez sound plumb religious--ef 'twarn't a\nsin ter say so. Naw, sir, ef ennybody hev sot Lee-yander on ter evil\nways 'twarn't me. My conscience be clear.\"\n\nNevertheless she was grievously ill at ease when one day there rode up\nto the fence a tall, gaunt, ill-favored man, whose long, lean, sallow\ncountenance, of a Pharisaic cast, was vaguely familiar to her, as one\nrecognizes real lineaments in the contortions of a caricature or the\nbewilderments of a dream. She felt as if in some long-previous existence\nshe had seen this man as he dismounted at the gate and came up the path\nwith his saddle-bags over his arm. But it was not until he mustered an\nunready, unwilling smile, that had of good-will and geniality so slight\nan intimation that it was like a spasmodic grimace, did she perceive how\ntime had deepened tendencies to traits, how the inmost thought and the\nsecret sentiment had been chiselled into the face in the betrayals of\nthe sculpture of fifteen years.\n\n\"Nehemiah Yerby!\" she exclaimed. \"I would hev knowed ye in the happy\nland o' Canaan.\"\n\n\"Let's pray we may all meet thar, Sister Sudley,\" he responded. \"Let's\npray that the good time may find none of us unprofitable servants.\"\n\nMrs. Sudley experienced a sudden recoil. Not that she did not echo his\nwish, but somehow his manner savored of an exclusive arrogation of piety\nand a suggestion of reproach.\n\n\"That's my prayer,\" she retorted, aggressively. \"Day an' night, that's\nmy prayer.\"\n\n\"Yes'm, fur us an' our households, Sister Sudley--we mus' think o' them\nc'mitted ter our charge.\"\n\nShe strove to fling off the sense of guilt that oppressed her, the\nmental attitude of arraignment. He was a young man when he journeyed\naway in that snowy dawn. She did not know what changes had come in his\nexperience. Perchance his effervescent piety was only a habit of speech,\nand had no significance as far as she was concerned. The suspicion,\nhowever, tamed her in some sort. She attempted no retort. With a\nmechanical, reluctant smile, ill adjusted to her sorrow-lined face, she\nmade an effort to assume that the greeting had been but the conventional\nphrasings of the day.\n\n\"Kem in, kem in, Nehemiah; Tyler will be glad ter see ye, an' I reckon\nye will be powerful interested ter view how Lee-yander hev growed an'\nprospered.\"\n\nShe felt as if she were in some terrible dream as she beheld him slowly\nwag his head from side to side. He had followed her into the large main\nroom of the cabin, and had laid his saddle-bags down by the side of the\nchair in which he had seated himself, his elbows on his knees, his hands\nheld out to the flickering blaze in the deep chimney-place, his eyes\nsignificantly narrowing as he gazed upon it.\n\n\"Naw, Sister Sudley,\" he wagged his head more mournfully still. \"I kin\nbut grieve ter hear how my nevy Lee-yander hev 'prospered,' ez ye call\nit, an' I be s'prised ye should gin it such a name. Oh-h-h, Sister\nSudley!\" in prolonged and dreary vocative, \"I 'lowed ye war a godly\nwoman. I knowed yer name 'mongst the church-goers an' the\nchurch-members.\" A faint flush sprang into her delicate faded cheek; a\nhalo encircled this repute of sanctity, she felt with quivering\npremonition that it was about to be urged as a testimony against her.\n\"Elsewise I wouldn't hev gin my cornsent ter hev lef' the leetle lam',\nLee-yander, in yer fold. Precious, precious leetle lam'!\"\n\nPoor Laurelia! Were it not that she had a sense of fault under the\nscathing arraignment of her motives, her work, and its result, although\nshe scarcely saw how she was to blame, that she had equally with him\nesteemed Leander's standpoint iniquitous, she might have made a better\nfight in her own interest. Why she did not renounce the true culprit as\none on whom all godly teachings were wasted, and, adopting the\nindisputable vantage-ground of heredity, carry the war into the enemy's\ncountry, ascribing Leander's shortcomings to his Yerby blood, and with\nstern and superior joy proclaiming that he was neither kith nor kin of\nhers, she wondered afterward, for this valid ground of defence did not\noccur to her then. In these long mourning years she had grown dull; her\nmental processes were either a sad introspection or reminiscence. Now\nshe could only take into account her sacrifices of feeling, of time, of\ncare; the illnesses she had nursed, the garments that she had made and\nmended--ah, how many! laid votive on the altar of Leander's vigor and\nhis agility, for as he scrambled about the crags he seemed, she was wont\nto say, to climb straight out of them. The recollection of all this--the\nlesser and unspiritual maternal values, perchance, but essential--surged\nover her with bitterness; she lost her poise, and fell a-bickering.\n\n\"'Precious leetle lam','\" she repeated, scornfully. \"Precious he mus'\nhev been! Fur when ye lef' him he hedn't a whole gyarmint ter his back,\nan' none but them that kivered him.\"\n\nNehemiah Yerby changed color slightly as the taunt struck home, but he\nwas skilled in the more aesthetic methods of argument.\n\n\"We war pore--mighty pore indeed, Sister Sudley.\"\n\nNow, consciously in the wrong, Sister Sudley, with true feminine\ninconsistency, felt better. She retorted with bravado.\n\n\"Needle an' thread ain't 'spensive nowhar ez I knows on, an' the\ngov'mint hev sot no tax on saaft home-made soap, so far ez hearn from.\"\n\nShe briskly placed her chair, a rude rocker, the seat formed of a\ntaut-stretched piece of ox-hide, beside the fire, and took up her\nknitting. A sock for Leander it was--one of many of all sizes. She\nremembered the first that she had measured for the bare pink toes which\nhe had brought there, forlorn candidates for the comfortable integuments\nin which they were presently encased, and how she had morbidly felt that\nevery stitch she took was a renunciation of her own children, since a\nstranger was honored in their place. The tears came into her eyes. It\nwas only this afternoon that she had experienced a pang of self-reproach\nto realize how near happiness she was--as near as her temperament could\napproach. But somehow the air was so soft; she could see from where she\nsat how the white velvet buds of the aspen-trees in the dooryard had\nlengthened into long, cream-tinted, furry tassels; the maples on the\nmountain-side lifted their red flowering boughs against the delicate\nblue sky; the grass was so green; the golden candlesticks bunched along\nthe margin of the path to the rickety gate were all a-blossoming. The\nsweet appeal of spring had never been more insistent, more coercive.\nSomehow peace, and a placid content, seemed as essential incidents in\nthe inner life as the growth of the grass anew, the bursting of the bud,\nor the soft awakening of the zephyr. Even within the house, the languors\nof the fire drowsing on the hearth, the broad bar of sunshine across the\npuncheon floor, so slowly creeping away, the sense of the vernal\nlengthening of the pensive afternoon, the ever-flitting shadow of the\nwren building under the eaves, and its iterative gladsome song breaking\nthe fireside stillness, partook of the serene beatitude of the season\nand the hour. The visitor's drawling voice rose again, and she was not\nnow constrained to reproach herself that she was too happy.\n\n\"Yes'm, pore though we war then--an' we couldn't look forward ter the\nLord's prosperin' us some sence--we never would hev lef' the precious\nleetle lam'\"--his voice dwelt with unvanquished emphasis upon the\nobnoxious words--\"'mongst enny but them persumed ter be godly folks.\nTyler war a toler'ble good soldier in the war, an' hed a good name in\nthe church, but _ye_ war persumed to be a plumb special Christian with\nno pledjure in this worl'.\"\n\nLaurelia winced anew. This repute of special sanctity was the pride of\nher ascetic soul. Few of the graces of life or of the spirit had she\ncoveted, but her pre-eminence as a religionist she had fostered and\ncherished, and now through her own deeds of charity it seemed about to\nbe wrested from her.\n\n\"Lee-yander Yerby hev larnt nuthin' but good in this house, an' all my\nneighbors will tell you the same word. The Cove 'lows I hev been _too_\nstrict.\"\n\nNehemiah was glancing composedly about the room. \"That thar 'pears ter\nbe a fiddle on the wall, ain't it, Mis' Sudley?\" he said, with an\nincidental air and the manner of changing the subject.\n\nAlack, for the aesthetic perversion! Since the playing of those\nmelancholy minor strains in that red sunset so long ago, which had\ntouched so responsive a chord in Laurelia's grief-worn heart, the crazy\nold fiddle had been naturalized, as it were, and had exchanged its\ndomicile under the porch for a position on the wall. It was boldly\nvisible, and apparently no more ashamed of itself than was the big\nearthen jar half full of cream, which was placed close to the fireplace\non the hearth in the hope that its contents might become sour enough by\nto-morrow to be churned.\n\nLaurelia looked up with a start at the instrument, red and lustrous\nagainst the brown log wall, its bow poised jauntily above it, and some\nglistening yellow reflection from the sun on the floor playing among the\nstrings, elusive, soundless fantasies.\n\nHer lower jaw dropped. She was driven to her last defences, and sore\nbeset. \"It air a fiddle,\" she said, slowly, at last, and with an air of\nconscientious admission, as if she had had half a mind to deny it. \"A\nfiddle the thing air.\" Then, as she collected her thoughts, \"Brother\nPete Vickers 'lows ez he sees no special sin in playin' the fiddle. He\n'lows ez in some kentries--I disremember whar--they plays on 'em in\nchurch, quirin' an' hymn chunes an' sech.\"\n\nHer voice faltered a little; she had never thought to quote this\nfantasy in her own defence, for she secretly believed that old man\nVickers must have been humbugged by some worldly brother skilled in\ndrawing the long bow himself.\n\nNehemiah Yerby seemed specially endowed with a conscience for the\nguidance of other people, so quick was he to descry and pounce upon\ntheir shortcomings. If one's sins are sure to find one out, there is\nlittle doubt but that Brother Nehemiah would be on the ground first.\n\n\"Air you-uns a-settin' under the preachin' o' Brother Peter Vickers?\" he\ndemanded in a sepulchral voice.\n\n\"Naw, naw,\" she was glad to reply. \"'Twar onderstood ez Brother Vickers\nwanted a call ter the church in the Cove, bein' ez his relations live\nhyar-abouts, an' he kem up an' preached a time or two. But he didn't git\nno call. The brethren 'lowed Brother Vickers war too slack in his idees\no' religion. Some said his hell warn't half hot enough. Thar air some\npowerful sinners in the Cove, an' nuthin' but good live coals an' a\nliquid blazin' fire air a-goin' ter deter them from the evil o' thar\nways. So Brother Vickers went back the road he kem.\"\n\nShe knit off her needle while, with his head still bent forward,\nNehemiah Yerby sourly eyed her, feeling himself a loser with Brother\nVickers, in that he did not have the reverend man's incumbency as a\ngrievance.\n\n\"He 'pears ter me ter see mo' pleasure in religion 'n penance, ennyhow,\"\nhe observed, bitterly. \"An' the Lord knows the bes' of us air sinners.\"\n\n\"An' he laughs loud an' frequent--mightily like a sinner,\" she agreed.\n\"An' whenst he prays, he prays loud an' hearty, like he jes expected ter\ngit what he axed fur sure's shootin'. Some o' the bretherin' sorter\ntaxed him with his sperits, an' he 'lowed he couldn't holp but be\ncheerful whenst he hed the Lord's word fur it ez all things work\ntergether fur good. An' he laffed same ez ef they hedn't spoke ter him\nserious.\"\n\n\"Look at that, now!\" exclaimed Nehemiah. \"An' that thar man ez good ez\ndead with the heart-disease.\"\n\nLaurelia's eyes were suddenly arrested by his keen, pinched, lined face.\nWhat there was in it to admonish her she could hardly have said, nor how\nit served to tutor her innocent craft.\n\n\"I ain't so sure 'bout Brother Vickers bein' so wrong,\" she said,\nslowly. \"He 'lowed ter me ez I hed spent too much o' my life\na-sorrowin', 'stiddier a-praisin' the Lord for his mercies.\" Her face\ntwitched suddenly; she could not yet look upon her bereavements as\nmercies. \"He 'lowed I would hev been a happier an' a better 'oman ef I\nhed took the evil ez good from the Lord's hand, fur in his sendin' it's\nthe same. An' I know that air a true word. An' that's what makes me 'low\nwhat he said war true 'bout'n that fiddle; that I ought never ter hev\npervented the boy from playin' 'round home an' sech, an' 'twarn't no sin\nbut powerful comfortable an' pleasurable ter set roun' of a cold winter\nnight an' hear him play them slow, sweet, dyin'-away chunes--\" She\ndropped her hands, and gazed with the rapt eyes of remembrance through\nthe window at the sunset clouds which, gathering red and purple and\ngold on the mountain's brow, were reflected roseate and amethyst and\namber at the mountain's base on the steely surface of the river.\n\"Brother Vickers 'lowed he never hearn sech in all his life. It brung\nthe tears ter his eyes--it surely did.\"\n\n\"He'd a heap better be weepin' fur them black sheep o' his congregation\nan' fur Lee-yander's shortcomin's, fur ez fur ez I kin hear he air about\nez black a sheep ez most pastors want ter wrestle with fur the turnin'\naway from thar sins. Yes'm, Sister Sudley, that's jes what p'inted out\nmy jewty plain afore my eyes, an' I riz up an' kem ter be instant in\na-doin' of it. 'I'll not leave my own nevy in the tents o' sin,' I sez.\n'I hev chil'n o' my own, hearty feeders an' hard on shoe-leather, ter\nsupport, but I'll not grudge my brother's son a home.' Yes, Laurely\nSudley, I hev kem ter kerry him back with me. Yer jewty ain't been done\nby him, an' I'll leave him a dweller in the tents o' sin no longer.\"\n\nHis enthusiasm had carried him too far. Laurelia's face, which at first\nseemed turning to stone as she gradually apprehended his meaning and his\nmission, changed from motionless white to a tremulous scarlet while he\nspoke, and when he ceased she retorted herself as one of the ungodly.\n\n\"Ye mus' be mighty ambitious ter kerry away a skin full o' broken bones!\nJes let Tyler Sudley hear ez ye called his house the tents o' the\nungodly, an' that ye kem hyar a-faultin' me, an' tellin' me ez I 'ain't\ndone my jewty ennywhar or ennyhow!\" she exclaimed, with a pride which,\nas a pious saint, she had never expected to feel in her husband's\nreputation as a high-tempered man and a \"mighty handy fighter,\" and\nwith implicit reliance upon both endowments in her quarrel.\n\n\"Only in a speritchual sense, Sister Sudley,\" Nehemiah gasped, as he\nmade haste to qualify his asseveration. \"I only charge you with havin'\nsp'iled the boy; ye hev sp'iled him through kindness ter him, an' not\n_ye_ so much ez Ty. Ty never hed so much ez a dog that would mind him!\nHis dog wouldn't answer call nor whistle 'thout he war so disposed. _I_\nnever faulted ye, Sister Sudley; 'twar jes Ty I faulted. I know Ty.\"\n\nHe knew, too, that it was safer to call Ty and his doings in question,\nbig and formidable and belligerent though he was, than his\nmeek-mannered, melancholy, forlorn, and diminutive wife. Nehemiah rose\nup and walked back and forth for a moment with an excited face and a\nbent back, and a sort of rabbit-like action. \"Now, I put it to you,\nSister Sudley, air Ty a-makin' that thar boy plough ter-day--jes\n_be-you-ti-ful_ field weather!\"\n\nSister Sudley, victorious, having regained her normal position by one\nsingle natural impulse of self-assertion, not as a religionist, but as\nTyler Sudley's wife, and hence entitled to all the show of respect which\nthat fact unaided could command, sat looking at him with a changed\nface--a face that seemed twenty years younger; it had the expression it\nwore before it had grown pinched and ascetic and insistently sorrowful;\none might guess how she had looked when Tyler Sudley first went up the\nmountain \"a-courtin'.\" She sought to assume no other stand-point. Here\nshe was intrenched. She shook her head in negation. The affair was none\nof hers. Ty Sudley could take ample care of it.\n\nNehemiah gave a little skip that might suggest a degree of triumph.\n\"Aha, not ploughin'! But _Ty_ is ploughin'. I seen him in the field. An'\nLee-yander ain't ploughin'! An' how did I know? Ez I war a-ridin' along\nthrough the woods this mornin' I kem acrost a striplin' lad a-walkin'\nthrough the undergrowth ez onconsarned ez a killdee an' ez nimble. An'\nunder his chin war a fiddle, an' his head war craned down ter it.\" He\nmimicked the attitude as he stood on the hearth. \"He never looked up\nwunst. Away he walked, light ez a plover, an' _a-ping_, _pang_, _ping_,\n_pang_,\" in a high falsetto, \"went that fiddle! I war plumb 'shamed fur\nthe critters in the woods ter view sech idle sinfulness, a ole ow_el_,\na-blinkin' down out'n a hollow tree, kem ter see what _ping_, _pang_,\n_ping_, _pang_ meant, an' thar war a rabbit settin' up on two legs in\nthe bresh, an' a few stray razor-back hawgs; I tell ye I war mortified\n'fore even sech citizens ez them, an' a lazy, impident-lookin' dog ez\nfollowed him.\"\n\n\"How did ye know 'twar Lee-yander?\" demanded Mrs. Sudley, recognizing\nthe description perfectly, but after judicial methods requiring strict\nproof.\n\n\"Oh-h! by the fambly favor,\" protested the gaunt and hard-featured\nNehemiah, capably. \"I knowed the Yerby eye.\"\n\n\"He hev got his mother's eyes.\" Mrs. Sudley had certainly changed her\nstand-point with a vengeance. \"He hev got his mother's _be-you-ti-ful_\n_blue_ eyes and her curling, silken brown hair--sorter red; little Yerby\nin _that_, mebbe; but sech eyes, an' sech lashes, an' sech fine curling\nhair ez none o' yer fambly ever hed, or ever will.\"\n\n\"Mebbe so. I never seen him more'n a minit. But he might ez well hev a\n_be-you-ti-ful_ curlin' nose, like the elephint in the show, for all the\nuse he air, or I be afeard air ever likely ter be.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTyler Sudley's face turned gray, despite his belligerent efficiencies,\nwhen his wife, hearing the clank of the ox-yoke as it was flung down in\nthe shed outside, divined the home-coming of the ploughman and his team,\nand slipped out to the barn with her news. She realized, with a strange\nenlightenment as to her own mental processes, what angry jealousy the\nlook on his face would have roused in her only so short a time\nago--jealousy for the sake of her own children, that any loss, any\ngrief, should be poignant and pierce his heart save for them. Now she\nwas sorry for him; she felt with him.\n\nBut as he continued silent, and only stared at her dumfounded and\npiteous, she grew frightened--she knew not of what.\n\n\"Shucks, Ty!\" she exclaimed, catching him by the sleeve with the impulse\nto rouse him, to awaken him, as it were, to his own old familiar\nidentity; \"ye ain't 'feared o' that thar snaggle-toothed skeer-crow in\nyander; he would be plumb comical ef he didn't look so mean-natured an'\nsech a hypercrite.\"\n\nHe gazed at her, his eyes eloquent with pain.\n\n\"Laurely!\" he gasped, \"this hyar thing plumb knocks me down; it jes\ntakes the breath o' life out'n me!\"\n\nShe hesitated for a moment. Any anxiety, any trouble, seemed so\nincongruous with the sweet spring-tide peace in the air, that one did\nnot readily take it home to heart. Hope was in the atmosphere like an\nessential element; one might call it oxygen or caloric or vitality,\naccording to the tendency of mind and the habit of speech. But the heart\nknew it, and the pulses beat strongly responsive to it. Faith ruled the\nworld. Some tiny bulbous thing at her feet that had impeded her step\ncaught her attention. It was coming up from the black earth, and the\nburied darkness, and the chill winter's torpor, with all the impulses of\nconfidence in the light without, and the warmth of the sun, and the\nfresh showers that were aggregating in the clouds somewhere for its\nnurture--a blind inanimate thing like that! But Tyler Sudley felt none\nof it; the blow had fallen upon him, stunning him. He stood silent,\nlooking gropingly into the purple dusk, veined with silver glintings of\nthe moon, as if he sought to view in the future some event which he\ndreaded, and yet shrank to see.\n\nShe had rarely played the consoler, so heavily had she and all her\ngriefs leaned on his supporting arm. It was powerless now. She perceived\nthis, all dismayed at the responsibility that had fallen upon her. She\nmade an effort to rally his courage. She had more faith in it than in\nher own.\n\n\"'Feard o' _him_!\" she exclaimed, with a sharp tonic note of satire.\n\"Kem in an' view him.\"\n\n\"Laurely,\" he quavered, \"I oughter hev got it down in writin' from him;\nI oughter made him sign papers agreein' fur me ter keep the boy till he\ngrowed ter be his own man.\"\n\nShe, too, grew pale. \"Ye ain't meanin' ter let him take the boy sure\nenough!\" she gasped.\n\n\"I moughtn't be able ter holp it; I dun'no' how the law stands. He air\nkin ter Lee-yander, an' mebbe hev got the bes' right ter him.\"\n\nShe shivered slightly; the dew was falling, and all the budding herbage\nwas glossed with a silver glister. The shadows were sparse. The white\nbranches of the aspens cast only the symmetrical outline of the tree\nform on the illumined grass, and seemed scarcely less bare than in\nwinter, but on one swaying bough the mocking-bird sang all the joyous\nprophecies of the spring to the great silver moon that made his gladsome\nday so long.\n\nShe was quick to notice the sudden cessation of his song, the alert,\ndownward poise of his beautiful head, his tense critical attitude. A\nmimicking whistle rose on the air, now soft, now keen, with swift\nchanges and intricate successions of tones, ending in a brilliant\nborrowed roulade, delivered with a wonderful velocity and _elan_. The\nlong tail feathers, all standing stiffly upward, once more drooped; the\nmocking-bird turned his head from side to side, then lifting his full\nthroat he poured forth again his incomparable, superb, infinitely\nversatile melody, fixing his glittering eye on the moon, and heeding the\nfutilely ambitious worldling no more.\n\nThe mimicking sound heralded the approach of Leander. Laurelia's heart,\nfull of bitterness for his sake, throbbed tenderly for him. Ah, what\nwas to be his fate! What unkind lot did the future hold for him in the\nclutches of a man like this! Suddenly she was pitying his mother--her\nown children, how safe!\n\nShe winced to tell him what had happened, but she it was who, bracing\nher nerves, made the disclosure, for Sudley remained silent, the end of\nthe ox-yoke in his trembling hands, his head bare to the moon and the\ndew, his face grown lined and old.\n\nLeander stood staring at her out of his moonlit blue eyes, his hat far\nback on the brown curls she had so vaunted, damp and crisp and clinging,\nthe low limp collar of his unbleached shirt showing his round full\nthroat, one hand resting on the high curb of the well, the other holding\na great brown gourd full of the clear water which he had busied himself\nin securing while she sought to prepare him to hear the worst. His lips,\nlike a bent bow as she thought, were red and still moist as he now and\nthen took the gourd from them, and held it motionless in the interest of\nher narration, that indeed touched him so nearly. Then, as she made\npoint after point clear to his comprehension, he would once more lift\nthe gourd and drink deeply, for he had had an active day, inducing a\nkeen thirst.\n\nShe had been preparing herself for the piteous spectacle of his frantic\nfright, his futile reliance on them who had always befriended him, his\ncallow forlorn helplessness, his tears, his reproaches; she dreaded\nthem.\n\nHe was silent for a reflective moment when she had paused. \"But what's\nhe want with me, Cap'n?\" he suddenly demanded. \"Mought know I warn't\nindustrious in the field, ez he seen me off a-fiddlin' in the woods\nwhilst Neighbor war a-ploughin'.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"HE HAD HAD AN ACTIVE DAY, INDUCING A KEEN THIRST\"]\n\n\"Mebbe he 'lows he mought _make_ ye industrious an' git cornsider'ble\nwork out'n ye,\" she faltered, flinching for him.\n\nAfter another refreshing gulp from the gourd he canvassed this\ndispassionately. \"Say his own chil'n air 'hearty feeders an' hard on\nshoe-leather?' Takes a good deal o' goadin' ter git ploughin' enough fur\nthe wuth o' feed out'n a toler'ble beastis like old Blaze-face thar,\ndon't it, Neighbor?--an' how is it a-goin' ter be with a human ez mebbe\nwill hold back an' air sot agin ploughin' ennyhow, an' air sorter idle\nby profession? 'Twould gin him a heap o' trouble--more'n the ploughin'\nan' sech would be wuth--a heap o' trouble.\" Once more he bowed his head\nto the gourd.\n\n\"He 'lowed ye shouldn't dwell no mo' in the tents o' sin. He seen the\nfiddle, Lee; it's all complicated with the fiddle,\" she quavered, very\nnear tears of vexation.\n\nHe lifted a smiling moonlit face; his half-suppressed laugh echoed\ngurglingly in the gourd. \"Cap'n,\" he said, reassuringly, \"jes let's hear\nUncle Nehemiah talk some mo', an' ef I can't see no mo' likely work fur\nme 'n ploughin', I'll think myself mighty safe.\"\n\nThey felt like three conspirators as after supper they drew their chairs\naround the fire with the unsuspicious Uncle Nehemiah. However, Nehemiah\nYerby could hardly be esteemed unsuspicious in any point of view, so\nfull of vigilant craft was his intention in every anticipation, so\nslyly sanctimonious was his long countenance.\n\nThere could hardly have been a greater contrast than Tyler Sudley's\naspect presented. His candid face seemed a mirror for his thought; he\nhad had scant experience in deception, and he proved a most unlikely\nnovice in the art. His features were heavy and set; his manner was\nbrooding and depressed; he did not alertly follow the conversation; on\nthe contrary, he seemed oblivious of it as his full dark eyes rested\nabsently on the fire. More than once he passed his hand across them with\na troubled, harassed manner, and he sighed heavily. For which his\nco-conspirators could have fallen upon him. How could he be so dull, so\nforgetful of all save the fear of separation from the boy whom he had\nreared, whom he loved as his own son; how could he fail to know that a\njaunty, assured mien might best serve his interests until at any rate\nthe blow had fallen; why should he wear the insignia of defeat before\nthe strength of his claim was tested? Assuredly his manner was\ncalculated to greatly reinforce Nehemiah Yerby's confidence, and to\nassist in eliminating difficulties in the urging of his superior rights\nand the carrying out of his scheme. Mrs. Sudley's heart sank as she\ncaught a significant gleam from the boy's eyes; he too appreciated this\ndisastrous policy, this virtual surrender before a blow was struck.\n\n\"An' Ty ain't afeard o' bars,\" she silently commented, \"nor wolves, nor\nwind, nor lightning, nor man in enny kind o' a free fight; but bekase he\ndun'no' how the _law_ stands, an' air afeard the law _mought_ be able\nter take Lee-yander, he jes sets thar ez pitiful ez a lost kid, fairly\nready ter blate aloud.\"\n\nShe descried the covert triumph twinkling among the sparse light lashes\nand \"crow-feet\" about Nehemiah's eyes as he droned on an\never-lengthening account of his experiences since leaving the county.\n\n\"It's a mighty satisfyin' thing ter be well off in yearthly goods an'\nchattels,\" said Laurelia, with sudden inspiration. \"Ty, thar, is in\ndebt.\"\n\nFor Uncle Nehemiah had been dwelling unctuously upon the extent to which\nit had pleased the Lord to prosper him. His countenance fell suddenly.\nHis discomfiture in her unexpected disclosure was twofold, in that it\nfurnished a reason for Tyler's evident depression of spirits,\ndemolishing the augury that his manner had afforded as to the success of\nthe guest's mission, and furthermore, to Nehemiah's trafficking soul, it\nsuggested that a money consideration might be exacted to mollify the\nrigors of parting.\n\nFor Nehemiah Yerby had risen to the dignities, solvencies, and\nresponsibilities of opening a store at the cross-roads in Kildeer\nCounty. It was a new and darling enterprise with him, and his mind and\nspeech could not long be wiled away from the subject. This abrupt\ninterjection of a new element into his cogitations gave him pause, and\nhe did not observe the sudden rousing of Tyler Sudley from his revery,\nand the glance of indignant reproach which he cast on his wife. No man,\nhowever meek, or however bowed down with sorrow, will bear unmoved a\ngratuitous mention of his debts; it seems to wound him with all the\nrancor of insult, and to enrage him with the hopelessness of adequate\nretort or reprisal. It is an indignity, like taunting a ghost with\ncock-crow, or exhorting a clergyman to repentance. He flung himself all\nat once into the conversation, to bar and baffle any renewed allusion to\nthat subject, and it was accident rather than intention which made him\ngrasp Nehemiah in the vise of a quandary also.\n\n\"Ye say ye got a store an' a stock o' truck, Nehemiah. Air ye ekal ter\nkeepin' store an' sech?\" he demanded, speculatively, with an inquiring\nand doubtful corrugation of his brows, from which a restive lock of hair\nwas flung backward like the toss of a horse's mane.\n\n\"I reckon so,\" Nehemiah sparely responded, blinking at him across the\nfireplace.\n\n\"An' ye say ye hev applied fur the place o' postmaster?\" Tyler prosed\non. \"All that takes a power o' knowledge--readin' an' writin' an'\ncipherin' an' sech. How air ye expectin' to hold out, 'kase I know ye\nnever hed no mo' larnin' than me, an' I war acquainted with ye till ye\nwar thirty years old an' better?\"\n\nThe tenor of this discourse did not comport with his customary suavity\nand tactful courtesy toward a guest, but he was much harassed and had\nlost his balance. He had a vague idea that Mrs. Sudley hung upon the\nflank of the conversation with a complete summary of amounts, dates, and\nnames of creditors, and he sought to balk this in its inception.\nMoreover, his forbearance with Nehemiah, with his presence, his\npersonality, his mission, had begun to wane. Bitter reflections might\nsuffice to fill the time were he suffered to be silent; but since a part\nin the conversation had been made necessary, he had for it no honeyed\nwords.\n\n\"I'd make about ez fit a postmaster, I know, ez that thar old ow_el_\na-hootin' out yander. I could look smart an' sober like him, but that's\n'bout all the fur my school-larnin' kerried me, an' yourn didn't reach\nter the nex' mile-post--an' that I know.\"\n\nNehemiah's thin lips seemed dry. More than once his tongue appeared\nalong their verges as he nervously moistened them. His small eyes had\nbrightened with an excited look, but he spoke very slowly, and to\nLaurelia it seemed guardedly.\n\n\"I tuk ter my book arterward, Brother Sudley. I applied myself ter\nlarnin' vigorous. Bein' ez I seen the Lord's hand war liberal with the\ngifts o' this worl', I wanted ter stir myself ter desarve the good\nthings.\"\n\nSudley brought down the fore-legs of his chair to the floor with a\nthump. Despite his anxiety a slow light of ridicule began to kindle on\nhis face; his curling lip showed his strong white teeth.\n\n\"Waal, by gum! ye mus' hev been a sight ter be seen! Ye, forty or fifty\nyears old, a-settin' on the same seat with the chil'n at the deestric'\nschool, an' a-competin' with the leetle tadpoles fur 'Baker an' Shady'\nan sech!\"\n\nHe was about to break forth with a guffaw of great relish when Nehemiah\nspoke hastily, forestalling the laughter.\n\n\"Naw; Abner Sage war thar fur a good while las' winter a-visitin' his\nsister, an' he kem an' gin me lessons an' set me copies thar at my\nhouse, an' I larnt a heap.\"\n\nLeander lifted his head suddenly. The amount of progress possible to\nthis desultory and limited application he understood only too well. He\nhad not learned so much himself to be unaware how much in time and labor\nlearning costs. The others perceived no incongruity. Sudley's face was\nflorid with pride and pleasure, and his wife's reflected the glow.\n\n\"Ab Sage at the cross-roads! Then he mus' hev tole ye 'bout Lee-yander\nhyar, an' his larnin'. Ab tole, I know.\"\n\nNehemiah drew his breath in quickly. His twinkling eyes sent out the\nkeenest glance of suspicion, but the gay, affectionate, vaunting laugh,\nas Tyler Sudley turned around and clapped the boy a ringing blow on his\nslender shoulder, expressed only the plenitude of his simple vainglory.\n\n\"Lee-yander hyar _knows it all_!\" he boasted. \"Old Ab himself don't know\nno mo'! I'll be bound old Ab went a-braggin'--hey, Lee-yander?\"\n\nBut the boy shrank away a trifle, and his smile was mechanical as he\nsilently eyed his relative.\n\n\"Ab 'lowed he war tur'ble disobejient,\" said Nehemiah, after a pause,\nand cautiously allowing himself to follow in the talk, \"an' gi'n over\nter playin' the fiddle.\" He hesitated for a moment, longing to\nstigmatize its ungodliness; but the recollection of Tyler Sudley's\nuncertain temper decided him, and he left it unmolested. \"But Ab 'lowed\nye war middlin' quick at figgers, Lee-yander--middlin' quick at\nfiggers!\"\n\nLeander, still silent and listening, flushed slightly. This measured\npraise was an offence to him; but he looked up brightly and obediently\nwhen his uncle wagged an uncouthly sportive head (Nehemiah's anatomy\nlent itself to the gay and graceful with much reluctance), thrust his\nhands into his pockets, and, tilting himself back in his chair,\ncontinued:\n\n\"I'll try ye, sonny--I'll try ye. How much air nine times seven?--nine\ntimes seven?\"\n\n\"Forty-two!\" replied the boy, with a bright, docile countenance fixed\nupon his relative.\n\nThere was a pause. \"Right!\" exclaimed Nehemiah, to the relief of Sudley\nand his wife, who had trembled during the pause, for it seemed so\nthreatening. They smiled at each other, unconscious that the examination\nmeant aught more serious than a display of their prodigy's learning.\n\n\"An', now, how much air twelve times eight?\" demanded Nehemiah.\n\n\"Sixty-six!\" came the answer, quick as lightning.\n\n\"Right, sir, every time!\" cried Nehemiah with a glow of genuine\nexultation, as he brought down the fore-legs of the chair to the floor,\nand the two Sudleys laughed aloud with pleasure.\n\nLeander saw them all distorted and grimacing while the room swam round.\nThe scheme was clear enough to him now. The illiterate Nehemiah, whose\nworldly prosperity had outstripped his mental qualifications, had\nbethought himself of filling the breach with his nephew, given away as\nsurplusage in his burdensome infancy, but transformed into a unique\nutility under the tutelage of Abner Sage. It was his boasting of his\nfroward pupil, doubtless, that had suggested the idea, and Leander\nunderstood now that he was to do the work of the store and the\npost-office under the nominal incumbency of this unlettered lout. Had\nthe whole transaction been open and acknowledged, Leander would have had\nscant appetite for the work under this master; but he revolted at the\nflimsy, contemptible sham; he bitterly resented the innuendoes against\nthe piety of the Sudleys, not that he cared for piety, save in the\nabstract; he was daunted by the brutal ignorance, the doltish\ninefficiency of the imposture that had so readily accepted his patently\nfalse answers to the simple questions. He had a sort of crude reverence\nfor education, and it had seemed to him a very serious matter to take\nsuch liberties with the multiplication table. He valued, too, with a\nboy's stalwart vanity, his reputation for great learning, and he would\nnot have lightly jeopardized it did he not esteem the crisis momentous.\nHe knew not what he feared. The fraud of the intention, the groundless\nclaim to knowledge, made Nehemiah's scheme seem multifariously guilty in\nsome sort; while Tyler Sudley and his wife, albeit no wiser\nmathematically, had all the sanctions of probity in their calm,\nunpretending ignorance.\n\n\"Ef Cap'n or Neighbor wanted ter run a post-office on my larnin', or ter\nkeep store, they'd be welcome; but I won't play stalkin'-horse fur that\nthar man's still-hunt, sure ez shootin',\" he said to himself.\n\nThe attention which he bent upon the conversation thenceforth was an\nobservation of its effect rather than its matter. He saw that he was\nalone in his discovery. Neither Sudley nor his wife had perceived any\nconnection between the store, the prospective post-office, and the\ndesire of the illiterate would-be postmaster to have his erudite nephew\nrestored to his care.\n\nIt may be that the methods of his \"Neighbor\" and the \"Captain\" in the\nrearing of Leander, the one with unbridled leniency, the other with\nspurious severity and affected indifference, had combined to foster\nself-reliance and decision of character, or it may be that these\nqualities were inherent traits. At all events, he encountered the\nemergency without an instant's hesitation. He felt no need of counsel.\nHe had no doubts. He carried to his pallet in the roof-room no\nvacillations and no problems. His resolve was taken. For a time, as he\nlistened to the movements below-stairs, the sound of voices still rose,\ndrowsy as the hour waxed late; the light that flickered through the\ncracks in the puncheon flooring gradually dulled, and presently a harsh\ngrating noise acquainted him with the fact that Sudley was shovelling\nthe ashes over the embers; then the tent-like attic was illumined only\nby the moonlight admitted through the little square window at the gable\nend--so silent, so still, it seemed that it too slept like the silent\nhouse. The winds slumbered amidst the mute woods; a bank of cloud that\nhe could see from his lowly couch lay in the south becalmed. The bird's\nsong had ceased. It seemed to him as he lifted himself on his elbow that\nhe had never known the world so hushed. The rustle of the quilt of gay\nglazed calico was of note in the quietude; the impact of his bare foot\non the floor was hardly a sound, rather an annotation of his weight and\nhis movement; yet in default of all else the sense of hearing marked it.\nHis scheme seemed impracticable as for an instant he wavered at the head\nof the ladder that served as a stairway; the next moment his foot was\nupon the rungs, his light, lithe figure slipping down it like a shadow.\nThe room below, all eclipsed in a brown and dusky-red medium, the\ncompromise between light and darkness that the presence of the embers\nfostered, was vaguely revealed to him. He was hardly sure whether he saw\nthe furniture all in place, or whether he knew its arrangement so well\nthat he seemed to see. Suddenly, as he laid his hand on the violin on\nthe wall, it became visible, its dark red wood richly glowing against\nthe brown logs and the tawny clay daubing. A tiny white flame had shot\nup in the midst of the gray ashes, as he stood with the cherished object\nin his cautious hand, his excited eyes, dilated and expectant, searching\nthe room apprehensively, while a vague thrill of a murmur issued from\nthe instrument, as if the spirit of music within it had been wakened by\nhis touch--too vague, too faintly elusive for the dormant and somewhat\ndull perceptions of Nehemiah Yerby, calmly slumbering in state in the\nbest room.\n\nThe faint jet of flame was withdrawn in the ashes as suddenly as it had\nshot forth, and in the ensuing darkness, deeper for the contrast with\nthat momentary illumination, it was not even a shadow that deftly\nmounted the ladder again and emerged into the sheeny twilight of the\nmoonlit roof-room. Leander was somehow withheld for a moment motionless\nat the window; it may have been by compunction; it may have been by\nregret, if it be possible to the very young to definitely feel either.\nThere was an intimation of pensive farewell in his large illumined eyes\nas they rested on the circle of familiar things about him--the budding\ntrees, the well, with its great angular sweep against the sky, the still\nsward, the rail-fences glistening with the dew, the river with the\nmoonlight in a silver blazonry on its lustrous dark surface, the\nencompassing shadows of the gloomy mountains. There was no sound, not\neven among the rippling shallows; he could hear naught but the pain of\nparting throbbing in his heart, and from the violin a faint continuous\nsusurrus, as if it murmured half-asleep memories of the melodies that\nhad thrilled its waking moments. It necessitated careful handling as he\ndeftly let himself out of the window, the bow held in his mouth, the\ninstrument in one arm, while the other hand clutched the boughs of a\ngreat holly-tree close beside the house. It was only the moonlight on\nthose smooth, lustrous leaves, but it seemed as if smiling white faces\nlooked suddenly down from among the shadows: at this lonely hour, with\nnone awake to see, what strange things may there not be astir in the\nworld, what unmeasured, unknown forces, sometimes felt through the\ndulling sleep of mortals, and then called dreams! As he stood breathless\nupon the ground the wind awoke. He heard it race around the corner of\nthe house, bending the lilac bushes, and then it softly buffeted him\nfull in the face and twirled his hat on the ground. As he stooped to\npick it up he heard whispers and laughter in the lustrous boughs of the\nholly, and the gleaming faces shifted with the shadows. He looked\nfearfully over his shoulder; the rising wind might waken some one of the\nhousehold. His \"Neighbor\" was, he knew, solicitous about the weather,\nand suspicious of its intentions lest it not hold fine till all the oats\nbe sown. A pang wrung his heart; he remembered the long line of seasons\nwhen, planting corn in the pleasant spring days, his \"Neighbor\" had\nopened the furrow with the plough, and the \"Captain\" had followed,\ndropping the grains, and he had brought up the rear with his hoe,\ncovering them over, while the clouds floated high in the air, and the\nmild sun shone, and the wind kept the shadows a-flicker, and the\nblackbird and the crow, complacently and craftily watching them from\nafar, seemed the only possible threatening of evil in all the world. He\nhastened to stiffen his resolve. He had need of it. Tyler Sudley had\nsaid that he did not know how the law stood, and for himself, he was not\nwilling to risk his liberty on it. He gazed apprehensively upon the\nlittle batten shutter of the window of the room where Nehemiah Yerby\nslept, expecting to see it slowly swing open and disclose him there. It\ndid not stir, and gathering resolution from the terrors that had beset\nhim when he fancied his opportunity threatened, he ran like a frightened\ndeer fleetly down the road, and plunged into the dense forest. The wind\nkept him company, rollicking, quickening, coming and going in fitful\ngusts. He heard it die away, but now and again it was rustling among a\ndouble file of beech-trees all up the mountain-side. He saw the\ncommotion in their midst, the effect of swift movement as the scant\nfoliage fluttered, then the white branches of the trees all a-swaying\nlike glistening arms flung upward, as if some bevy of dryads sped up the\nhill in elusive rout through the fastnesses.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe next day ushered in a tumult and excitement unparalleled in the\nhistory of the little log-cabin. When Leander's absence was discovered,\nand inquiry of the few neighbors and search of the vicinity proved\nfruitless, the fact of his flight and its motive were persistently\nforced upon Nehemiah Yerby's reluctant perceptions, with the destruction\nof his cherished scheme as a necessary sequence. With some wild craving\nfor vengeance he sought to implicate Sudley as accessory to the\nmysterious disappearance. He found some small measure of solace in\nstumping up and down the floor before the hearth, furiously railing at\nthe absent host, for Sudley had not yet relinquished the bootless quest,\nand indignantly upbraiding the forlorn, white-faced, grief-stricken\nLaurelia, who sat silent and stony, her faded eyes on the fire, heedless\nof his words. She held in her lap sundry closely-rolled knitted\nballs--the boy's socks that she had so carefully made and darned. A\npile of his clothing lay at her feet. He had carried nothing but his\nfiddle and the clothes he stood in, and if she had had more tears she\ncould have wept for his improvidence, for the prospective tatters and\nrents that must needs befall him in that unknown patchless life to which\nhe had betaken himself.\n\nNehemiah Yerby argued that it was Sudley who had prompted the whole\nthing; he had put the boy up to it, for Leander was not so lacking in\nfeeling as to flee from his own blood-relation. But he would set the law\nto spy them out. He would be back again, and soon.\n\nHe may have thought better of this presently, for he was in great haste\nto be gone when Tyler Sudley returned, and to his amazement in a\ncounterpart frame of mind, charging Nehemiah with the responsibility of\nthe disaster. It was strange to Laurelia that she, who habitually strove\nto fix her mind on religious things, should so relish the aspect of Ty\nSudley in his secular rage on this occasion.\n\n\"Ye let we-uns hev him whilst so leetle an' helpless, but now that he\nair so fine growed an' robustious ye want ter git some work out'n him,\nan' he hev runned away an' tuk ter the woods tarrified by the very sight\nof ye,\" he averred. \"He'll never kem back; no, he'll never kem back; fur\nhe'll 'low ez ye would kem an' take him home with you; an' now the Lord\nonly knows whar he is, an' what will become of him.\"\n\nHis anger and his tumultuous grief, his wild, irrepressible anxiety for\nLeander's safety, convinced the crafty Nehemiah that he was no party to\nthe boy's scheme. Sudley's sorrow was not of the kind that renders the\ntemper pliable, and when Nehemiah sought to point a moral in the absence\nof the violin, and for the first time in Sudley's presence protested\nthat he desired to save Leander from that device of the devil, the\nmaster of the house shook his inhospitable fist very close indeed to his\nguest's nose, and Yerby was glad enough to follow that feature\nunimpaired out to his horse at the bars, saying little more.\n\nHe aired his views, however, at each house where he made it convenient\nto stop on his way home, and took what comfort there might be in the\nrole of martyr. Leander was unpopular in several localities, and was\nesteemed a poor specimen of the skill of the Sudleys in rearing\nchildren. He had been pampered and spoiled, according to general report,\nand more than one of his successive interlocutors were polite enough to\nopine that the change to Nehemiah's charge would have been a beneficent\nopportunity for much-needed discipline. Nehemiah was not devoid of some\nskill in interrogatory. He contrived to elicit speculations without\ngiving an intimation of unduly valuing the answer.\n\n\"He's 'mongst the moonshiners, I reckon,\" was the universal surmise.\n\"He'll be hid mighty safe 'mongst them.\"\n\nFor where the still might be, or who was engaged in the illicit\nbusiness, was even a greater mystery than Leander's refuge. Nothing more\ndefinite could be elicited than a vague rumor that some such work was\nin progress somewhere along the many windings of Hide-and-Seek Creek.\n\nNehemiah Yerby had never been attached to temperance principles, and,\ncommercially speaking, he had thought it possible that whiskey on which\nno tax had been paid might be more profitably dispensed at his store\nthan that sold under the sanctions of the government. These\nconsiderations, however, were as naught in view of the paralysis which\nhis interests and schemes had suffered in Leander's flight. He dwelt\nwith dismay upon the possibility that he might secure the postmastership\nwithout the capable assistant whose services were essential. In this\nperverse sequence of events disaster to his application was more to be\ndesired than success. He foresaw himself browbeaten, humiliated,\ndetected, a butt for the ridicule of the community, his pretensions in\nthe dust, his pitiful imposture unmasked. And beyond these aesthetic\nmisfortunes, the substantial emoluments of \"keepin' store,\" with a\ngallant sufficiency of arithmetic to regulate prices and profits, were\nvanishing like the elusive matutinal haze before the noontide sun.\nNehemiah Yerby groaned aloud, for the financial stress upon his spirit\nwas very like physical pain. And in this inauspicious moment he\nbethought himself of the penalties of violating the Internal Revenue\nLaws of the United States.\n\nNow it has been held by those initiated into such mysteries that there\nis scant affinity between whiskey and water. Nevertheless, in this\nconnection, Nehemiah Yerby developed an absorbing interest in the\nwatercourses of the coves and adjacent mountains, especially their more\nremote and sequestered tributaries. He shortly made occasion to meet the\ncounty surveyor and ply him with questions touching the topography of\nthe vicinity, cloaking the real motive under the pretence of an interest\nin water-power sufficient and permanent enough for the sawing of lumber,\nand professing to contemplate the erection of a saw-mill at the most\neligible point. The surveyor had his especial vanity, and it was\nexpressed in his frequent boast that he carried a complete map of the\ncounty graven upon his brain; he was wont to esteem it a gracious\nopportunity when a casual question in a group of loungers enabled him to\ndisplay his familiarity with every portion of his rugged and mountainous\nregion, which was indeed astonishing, even taking into consideration his\nincumbency for a number of terms, aided by a strong head for locality.\nNehemiah Yerby's scheme was incalculably favored by this circumstance,\nbut he found it unexpectedly difficult to support the figment which he\nhad propounded as to his intentions. Fiction is one of the fine arts,\nand a mere amateur like Nehemiah is apt to fail in point of consistency.\nHe was inattentive while the surveyor dilated on the probable value, the\naccessibility, and the relative height of the \"fall\" of the various\nsites, and their available water-power, and he put irrelevant queries\nconcerning ineligible streams in other localities. No man comfortably\nmounted upon his hobby relishes an interruption. The surveyor would stop\nwith a sort of bovine surprise, and break out in irritable parenthesis.\n\n\"That branch on the t'other side o' Panther Ridge? Why, man alive, that\nthread o' water wouldn't turn a spider web.\"\n\nNehemiah, quaking under the glance of his keen questioning eye, would\nonce more lapse into silence, while the surveyor, loving to do what he\ncould do well, was lured on in his favorite subject by the renewed\nappearance of receptivity in his listener.\n\n\"Waal, ez I war a-sayin', I know every furlong o' the creeks once down\nin the Cove, an' all their meanderings, an' the best part o' them in the\nhills amongst the laurel and the wildernesses. But now the ways of sech\na stream ez Hide-an'-Seek Creek are past finding out. It's a 'sinking\ncreek,' you know; goes along with a good volume and a swift current for\na while to the west, then disappears into the earth, an' ain't seen fur\nfive mile, then comes out agin running due north, makes a tremenjious\njump--the Hoho-hebee Falls--then pops into the ground agin, an' ain't\nseen no more forever,\" he concluded, dramatically.\n\n\"How d'ye know it's the same creek?\" demanded Nehemiah, sceptically, and\nwith a wrinkling brow.\n\n\"By settin' somethin' afloat on it before it sinks into the ground--a\npiece of marked bark or a shingle or the like--an' finding it agin after\nthe stream comes out of the caves,\" promptly replied the man of the\ncompass, with a triumphant snap of the eye, as if he entertained a\ncertain pride in the vagaries of his untamed mountain friend. \"Nobody\nknows how often it disappears, nor where it rises, nor where it goes at\nlast. It's got dozens of fust-rate millin' sites, but then it's too fur\noff fur you ter think about.\"\n\n\"Oh no 'tain't!\" exclaimed Nehemiah, suddenly.\n\nThe surveyor stared. \"Why, you ain't thinkin' 'bout movin' up inter the\nwilderness ter live, an' ye jes applied fur the post-office down at the\ncross-roads? Ye can't run the post-office thar an' a saw-mill thirty\nmile away at the same time.\"\n\nNehemiah was visibly disconcerted. His wrinkled face showed the flush of\ndiscomfiture, but his craft rallied to the emergency.\n\n\"Moughtn't git the post-office, arter all's come an' gone. Nothin' is\nsartin in this vale o' tears.\"\n\n\"An' ye air goin' ter take ter the woods ef ye don't?\" demanded the\nsurveyor, incredulously. \"Thought ye war goin' ter keep store?\"\n\n\"Waal, I dun'no'; jes talkin' round,\" said Nehemiah, posed beyond\nrecuperation. \"I mus' be a-joggin', ennyhow. Time's a-wastin'.\"\n\nAs he made off hastily in the direction of his house, for this\nconversation had taken place at the blacksmith's shop at the\ncross-roads, the surveyor gazed after him much mystified.\n\n\"What is that old fox slyin' round after? He ain't studyin' 'bout no\nsaw-mill, inquirin' round about all the out-o'-the-way water-power in\nthe kentry fifty mile from where he b'longs. He's a heap likelier to be\ngoin' ter start a wild cat still in them wild places--git his whiskey\ncheap ter sell in his store.\"\n\nHe shook his head sagely once for all, for the surveyor's mind was of\nthe type prompt in reaching conclusions, and he was difficult to divert\nfrom his convictions.\n\nA feature of the development of craft to a certain degree is the\npersuasion that this endowment is not shared. A fine world it would be\nif the Nehemiah Yerbys were as clever as they think themselves, and\ntheir neighbors as dull. He readily convinced himself that he had given\nno intimation that his objects and motives were other than he professed,\nand with unimpaired energy he went to work upon the lines which he had\nmarked out for himself. A fine chase Hide-and-Seek Creek led him, to be\nsure, and it tried his enthusiasms to the uttermost. What affinity this\nbrawling vagrant had for the briers and the rocks and the tangled\nfastnesses! Seldom, indeed, could he press in to its banks and look down\nupon its dimpled, laughing, heedless face without the sacrifice of\nfragments of flesh and garments left impaled upon the sharp spikes of\nthe budding shrubs. Often it so intrenched itself amidst the dense\nwoods, and the rocks and chasms of its craggy banks, that approach was\nimpossible, and he followed it for miles only by the sound of its wild,\nsweet, woodland voice. And this, too, was of a wayward fancy; now, in\nturbulent glee among the rocks, riotously chanting aloud, challenging\nthe echoes, and waking far and near the forest quiet; and again it was\nmerely a low, restful murmur, intimating deep, serene pools and a\ndallying of the currents, lapsed in the fulness of content. Then\nNehemiah Yerby would be beset with fears that he would lose this\nwhisper, and his progress was slight; he would pause to listen, hearing\nnothing; would turn to right, to left; would take his way back through\nthe labyrinth of the laurel to catch a thread of sound, a mere\ncrystalline tremor, and once more follow this transient lure. As the\nstream came down a gorge at a swifter pace and in a succession of\nleaps--a glassy cataract visible here and there, airily sporting with\nrainbows, affiliating with ferns and moss and marshy growths, the\nbounding spray glittering in the sunshine--it flung forth continuously\ntinkling harmonies in clear crystal tones, so penetrating, so definitely\nmelodic, that more than once, as he paced along on his jaded horse, he\nheard in their midst, without disassociating the sounds, the _ping,\npang, ping, pang_, of the violin he so condemned. He drew up at last,\nand strained his ear to listen. It did not become more distinct, always\nintermingled with the recurrent rhythm of the falling water, but always\nvibrating in subdued throbbings, now more acute, now less, as the\nundiscriminated melody ascended or descended the scale. It came from the\nearth, of this he was sure, and thus he was reminded anew of the caves\nwhich Hide-and-Seek Creek threaded in its long course. There was some\nopening near by, doubtless, that led to subterranean passages, dry\nenough here, since it was the stream's whim to flow in the open sunshine\ninstead of underground. He would have given much to search for it had he\ndared. His leathery, lean, loose cheek had a glow of excitement upon it;\nhis small eyes glistened; for the first time in his life, possibly, he\nlooked young. But he did not doubt that this was the stronghold of the\nillicit distillers, of whom one heard so much in the Cove and saw so\nlittle. A lapse of caution, an inconsiderate movement, and he might be\ncaptured and dealt with as a spy and informer.\n\nNevertheless his discovery was of scant value unless he utilized it\nfurther. He had always believed that his nephew had fled to the secret\nhaunts of the moonshiners. Now he only knew it the more surely; and what\ndid this avail him, and how aid in the capture of the recusant clerk and\nassistant postmaster? He hesitated a moment; then fixing the spot in his\nmind by the falling of a broad crystal sheet of water from a ledge some\nforty feet high, by a rotting log at its base that seemed to rise\ncontinually, although the moving cataract appeared motionless, by\ncertain trees and their relative position, and the blue peaks on a\ndistant skyey background of a faint cameo yellow, he slowly turned his\nhorse's rein and took his way out of danger. It was chiefly some\ndemonstration on the animal's part that he had feared. A snort, a\nhoof-beat, a whinny would betray him, and very liable was the animal to\nany of these expressions. One realizes how unnecessary is speech for the\nexposition of opinion when brought into contradictory relations with the\nhorse which one rides or drives. All day had this animal snorted his\ndoubts of his master's sanity; all day had he protested against these\naimless, fruitless rambles; all day had he held back with a high head\nand a hard mouth, while whip and spur pressed him through laurel almost\nimpenetrable, and through crevices of crags almost impassable. For were\nthere not all the fair roads of the county to pace and gallop upon if\none must needs be out and jogging! Unseen objects, vaguely discerned to\nbe moving in the undergrowth affrighted the old plough-horse of the\nlevels--infinitely reassured and whinnying with joyful relief when the\nhead of horned cattle showed presently as the cause of the commotion. He\nwould have given much a hundred times that day, and he almost said so a\nhundred times, too, to be at home, with the old bull-tongue plough\nbehind him, running the straight rational furrow in the good bare open\nfield, so mellow for corn, lying in the sunshine, inviting planting.\n\n\"Ef I git ye home wunst more, I'll be bound I'll leave ye thar,\"\nNehemiah said, ungratefully, as they wended their way along; for without\nthe horse he could not have traversed the long distances of his search,\nhowever unwillingly the aid was given.\n\nHe annotated his displeasure by a kick in the ribs; and when the old\nequine farmer perceived that they were absolutely bound binward, and\nthat their aberrations were over for the present, he struck a sharp gait\nthat would have done honor to his youthful days, for he had worn out\nseveral pairs of legs in Nehemiah's fields, and was often spoken of as\nbeing upon the last of those useful extremities. He stolidly shook his\nhead, which he thought so much better than his master's, and bedtime\nfound them twenty miles away and at home.\n\nNehemiah felt scant fatigue. He was elated with his project. He scented\nsuccess in the air. It smelled like the season. It too was suffused with\nthe urgent pungency of the rising sap, with the fragrance of the\nwild-cherry, with the vinous promise of the orchard, with the richness\nof the mould, with the vagrant perfume of the early flowers.\n\nHe lighted a tallow dip, and he sat him down with writing materials at\nthe bare table to indite a letter while all his household slept. The\nwindows stood open to the dark night, and Spring hovered about outside,\nand lounged with her elbows on the sill, and looked in. He constantly\nsaw something pale and elusive against the blackness, for there was no\nmoon, but he thought it only the timid irradiation with which his tallow\ndip suffused the blossoming wands of an azalea, growing lithe and tall\nhard by. With this witness only he wrote the letter--an anonymous\nletter, and therefore he was indifferent to the inadequacies of his\npenmanship and his spelling. He labored heavily in its composition, now\nand then perpetrating portentous blots. He grew warm, although the fire\nthat had served to cook supper had long languished under the bank of\nashes. The tallow dip seemed full of caloric, and melted rapidly in\npendulous drippings. He now and again mopped his red face, usually so\nbloodless, with his big bandanna handkerchief, while all the zephyrs\nwere fanning the flying tresses of Spring at the window, and the soft,\nsweet, delicately attuned vernal chorus of the marshes were tentatively\nrunning over _sotto voce_ their allotted melodies for the season. Oh, it\nwas a fine night outside, and why should a moth, soft-winged and\ncream-tinted and silken-textured, come whisking in from the dark, as\nsilently as a spirit, to supervise Nehemiah Yerby's letter, and travel\nup and down the page all befouled with the ink? And as he sought to\nsave the sense of those significant sentences from its trailing silken\ndraperies, why should it rise suddenly, circling again and again about\nthe candle, pass through the flame, and fall in quivering agonies once\nmore upon the page? He looked at it, dead now, with satisfaction. It had\ncome so very near ruining his letter--an important letter, describing\nthe lair of the illicit distillers to a deputy marshal of the revenue\nforce, who was known to be in a neighboring town. He had good reason to\nwithhold his signature, for the name of the informer in the ruthless\nvengeance of the region would be as much as his life was worth. The moth\nhad not spoiled the letter--the laborious letter; he was so glad of\nthat! He saw no analogies, he received not even a subtle warning, as he\nsealed and addressed the envelope and affixed the postage-stamp. Then he\nsnuffed out the candle with great satisfaction.\n\nThe next morning the missive was posted, and all Nehemiah Yerby's plans\ntook a new lease of life. The information he had given would result in\nan immediate raid upon the place. Leander would be captured among the\nmoonshiners, but his youth and his uncle's representations--for he would\ngive the officers an inkling of the true state of the case--would\ndoubtless insure the boy's release, and his restoration to those\nattractive commercial prospects which had been devised for him.\n\n\nII\n\nThe ordering of events is an intricate process, and to its successful\nexploitation a certain degree of sagacious prescience is a prerequisite,\nas well as a thorough mastery of the lessons of experience. For a day or\nso all went well in the inner consciousness of Nehemiah Yerby. The\nletter had satisfied his restless craving for some action toward the\nconsummation of his ambition, and he had not the foresight to realize\nhow soon the necessity of following it up would supervene. He first grew\nuneasy lest his letter had not reached its destination; then, when the\nillimitable field of speculation was thus opened out, he developed an\ningenuity of imagination in projecting possible disaster. Day after day\npassed, and he heard naught of his cherished scheme. The\nrevenuers--craven wretches he deemed them, and he ground his teeth with\nrage because of their seeming cowardice in their duty, since their duty\ncould serve his interests--might not have felt exactly disposed to risk\ntheir lives in these sweet spring days, when perhaps even a man whose\nlife belongs to the government might be presumed to take some pleasure\nin it, by attempting to raid the den of a gang of moonshiners on the\nscanty faith of an informer's word, tenuous guaranty at best, and now\ncouched in an anonymous letter, itself synonym for a lie. Oh, what fine\neulogies rose in his mind upon the manly virtue of courage! How\nenthusing it is at all times to contemplate the courage of others!--and\nhow safe!\n\nThen a revulsion of belief ensued, and he began to fear that they might\nalready have descended upon their quarry, and with all their captives\nhave returned to the county town by the road by which they came--nearer\nthan the route through the cross-roads, though far more rugged. Why had\nnot this possibility before occurred to him! He had so often prefigured\ntheir triumphant advent into the hamlet with all their guarded and\nshackled prisoners, the callow Leander in the midst, and his own\ngracefully enacted role of virtuous, grief-stricken, pleading relative,\nthat it seemed a recollection--something that had really\nhappened--rather than the figment of anticipation. But no word, no\nbreath of intimation, had ruffled the serenity of the cross-roads. The\ncalm, still, yellow sunshine day by day suffused the land like the\nbenignities of a dream--almost too good to be true. Every man with the\nheart of a farmer within him was at the plough-handles, and making the\nmost of the fair weather. The cloudless sky and the auspicious forecast\nof fine days still to come did more to prove to the farmer the existence\nof an all-wise, overruling Providence than all the polemics of the world\nmight accomplish. The furrows multiplied everywhere save in Nehemiah's\nown fields, where he often stood so long in the turn-row that the old\nhorse would desist from twisting his head backward in surprise, and\nstart at last of his own motion, dragging the plough, the share still\nunanchored in the ground, half across the field before he could be\nstopped. The vagaries of these \"lands\" that the absent-minded Nehemiah\nlaid off attracted some attention.\n\n\"What ails yer furrows ter run so crooked, Nehemiah?\" observed a\npasser-by, a neighbor who had been to the blacksmith-shop to get his\nplough-point sharpened; he looked over the fence critically. \"Yer\neyesight mus' be failin' some.\"\n\n\"I dun'no',\" rejoined Nehemiah, hastily. Then reverting to his own\nabsorption. \"War it you-uns ez I hearn say thar war word kem ter the\ncross-roads 'bout some revenuers raidin' 'round somewhar in the woods?\"\n\nThe look of surprise cast upon him seemed to his alert anxiety to\nbetoken suspicion. \"Laws-a-massy, naw!\" exclaimed his interlocutor. \"Ye\nair the fust one that hev named sech ez that in these diggin's, fur I'd\nhev hearn tell on it, sure, ef thar hed been enny sech word goin' the\nrounds.\"\n\nNehemiah recoiled into silence, and presently his neighbor went\nwhistling on his way. He stood motionless for a time, until the man was\nwell out of sight, then he began to hastily unhitch the plough-gear. His\nresolution was taken. He could wait no longer. For aught he knew the\nraiders might have come and gone, and be now a hundred miles away with\ntheir prisoners to stand their trial in the Federal court. His schemes\nmight have all gone amiss, leaving him in naught the gainer. He could\nrest in uncertainty no more. He feared to venture further questions when\nno rumor stirred the air. They rendered him doubly liable to\nsuspicion--to the law-abiding as a possible moonshiner, to any\nsympathizer with the distillers as a probable informer. He determined to\nvisit the spot, and there judge how the enterprise had fared.\n\nWhen next he heard that fine sylvan symphony of the sound of the falling\nwater--the tinkling bell-like tremors of its lighter tones mingling with\nthe sonorous, continuous, deeper theme rising from its weight and volume\nand movement; with the surging of the wind in the pines; with the\noccasional cry of a wild bird deep in the new verdure of the forests\nstriking through the whole with a brilliant, incidental, detached\neffect--no faint vibration was in its midst of the violin's string,\nlisten as he might. More than once he sought to assure himself that he\nheard it, but his fancy failed to respond to his bidding, although again\nand again he took up his position where it had before struck his ear.\nThe wild minstrelsy of the woods felt no lack, and stream and wind and\nharping pine and vagrant bird lifted their voices in their wonted\nstrains. He could hardly accept the fact; he would verify anew the\nlandmarks he had made and again return to the spot, his hat in his hand,\nhis head bent low, his face lined with anxiety and suspense. No sound,\nno word, no intimation of human presence. The moonshiners were doubtless\nall gone long ago, betrayed into captivity, and Leander with them. He\nhad so hardened his heart toward his recalcitrant young kinsman and his\nSudley friends, he felt so entirely that in being among the moonshiners\nLeander had met only his deserts in coming to the bar of Federal\njustice, that he would have experienced scant sorrow if the nephew had\nnot carried off with his own personality his uncle's book-keeper and\npostmaster's clerk. And so--alas, for Leander! As he meditated on the\nuntoward manner in which he had overshot his target, this marksman of\nfate forgot the caution which had distinguished his approach, for\nhitherto it had been as heedful as if he fully believed the lion still\nin his den. He slowly patrolled the bank below the broad, thin, crystal\nsheet, seeing naught but its rainbow hovering elusively in the sun, and\nits green and white skein-like draperies pendulous before the great dark\narch over which the cataract fell. The log caught among the rocks in the\nspray at the base was still there, seeming always to rise while the\nrestless water seemed motionless.\n\nNo trace that human beings had ever invaded these solitudes could he\ndiscover. No vague, faint suggestion of the well-hidden lair of the\nmoonshiners did the wild covert show forth. \"The revenuers war smarter'n\nme; I'll say that fur 'em,\" he muttered at last as he came to a\nstand-still, his chin in his hand, his perplexed eyes on the ground. And\nsuddenly--a footprint on a marshy spot; only the heel of a boot, for the\ncraggy ledges hid all the ground but this, a mere sediment of sand in a\ntiny hollow in the rock from which the water had evaporated. It was a\nkey to the mystery. Instantly the rugged edges of the cliff took on the\nsimilitude of a path. Once furnished with this idea, he could perceive\nadequate footing all adown the precipitous way. He was not young; his\nhabits had been inactive, and were older even than his age. He could\nnot account for it afterward, but he followed for a few paces this\nsuggestion of a path down the precipitous sides of the stream. He had a\nsort of triumph in finding it so practicable, and he essayed it still\nfarther, although the sound of the water had grown tumultuous at closer\napproach, and seemed to foster a sort of responsive turmoil of the\nsenses; he felt his head whirl as he looked at the bounding, frothing\nspray, then at the long swirls of the current at the base of the fall as\nthey swept on their way down the gorge. As he sought to lift his\nfascinated eyes, the smooth glitter of the crystal sheet of falling\nwater so close before him dazzled his sight. He wondered afterward how\nhis confused senses and trembling limbs sustained him along the narrow,\nrugged path, here and there covered with oozing green moss, and slippery\nwith the continual moisture. It evidently was wending to a ledge. All at\nonce the contour of the place was plain to him; the ledge led behind the\ncataract that fell from the beetling heights above. And within were\ndoubtless further recesses, where perchance the moonshiners had worked\ntheir still. As he reached the ledge he could see behind the falling\nwater and into the great concave space which it screened beneath the\nbeetling cliff. It was as he had expected--an arched portal of jagged\nbrown rocks, all dripping with moisture and oozing moss, behind the\nsemi-translucent green-and-white drapery of the cascade.\n\nBut he had not expected to see, standing quietly in the great vaulted\nentrance, a man with his left hand on a pistol in his belt, the mate of\nwhich his more formidable right hand held up with a steady finger on\nthe trigger.\n\nThis much Nehemiah beheld, and naught else, for the glittering profile\nof the falls, visible now only aslant, the dark, cool recess beyond,\nthat menacing motionless figure at the vanishing-point of the\nperspective, all blended together in an indistinguishable whirl as his\nsenses reeled. He barely retained consciousness enough to throw up both\nhis hands in token of complete submission. And then for a moment he knew\nno more. He was still leaning motionless against the wall of rock when\nhe became aware that the man was sternly beckoning to him to continue\nhis approach. His dumb lips moved mechanically in response, but any\nsound must needs have been futile indeed in the pervasive roar of the\nwaters. He felt that he had hardly strength for another step along the\nprecipitous way, but there is much tonic influence in a beckoning\nrevolver, and few men are so weak as to be unable to obey its behests.\nPoor Nehemiah tottered along as behooved him, leaving all the world,\nliberty, volition, behind him as the descending sheet of water fell\nbetween him and the rest of life and shut him off.\n\n\"That's it, my leetle man! I thought you could make it!\" were the first\nwords he could distinguish as he joined the mountaineer beneath the\ncrag.\n\nNehemiah Yerby had never before seen this man. That in itself was\nalarming, since in the scanty population of the region few of its\ndenizens are unknown to each other, at least by sight. The tone of\nsatire, the gleam of enjoyment in his keen blue eye, were not\nreassuring to the object of his ridicule. He was tall and somewhat\nportly, and he had a bluff and offhand manner, which, however, served\nnot so much to intimate his good-will toward you as his abounding\ngood-humor with himself. He was a man of most arbitrary temper, one\ncould readily judge, not only from his own aspect and manner, but from\nthe docile, reliant, approving cast of countenance of his reserve\nforce--a half-dozen men, who were somewhat in the background, lounging\non the rocks about a huge copper still. They wore an attentive aspect,\nbut offered to take no active part in the scene enacted before them. One\nof them--even at this crucial moment Yerby noticed it with a pang of\nregretful despair--held noiseless on his knee a violin, and more than\nonce addressed himself seriously to rubbing rosin over the bow. There\nwas scant music in his face--a square physiognomy, with thick features,\nand a shock of hay-colored hair striped somewhat with an effect of\ndarker shades like a weathering stack. He handled the bow with a blunt,\nclumsy hand that augured little of delicate skill, and he seemed from\nhis diligence to think that rosin is what makes a fiddle play. He was\nevidently one of those unhappy creatures furnished with some vague inner\nattraction to the charms of music, with no gift, no sentiment, no\ndiscrimination. Something faintly sonorous there was in his soul, and it\nvibrated to the twanging of the strings. He was far less alert to the\nconversation than the others, whose listening attitudes attested their\nappreciation of the importance of the moment.\n\n\"Waal,\" observed the moonshiner, impatiently, eying the tremulous and\ntongue-tied Yerby, \"hev ye fund what ye war a-huntin' fur?\"\n\nSo tenacious of impressions was Nehemiah that it was the violin in those\nalien hands which still focussed his attention as he stared gaspingly\nabout. Leander was not here; probably had never been here; and the\ntwanging of those strings had lured him to his fate. Well might he\ncontemn the festive malevolence of the violin's influence! His letter\nhad failed; no raider had intimidated these bluff, unafraid, burly\nlaw-breakers, and he had put his life in jeopardy in his persistent\nprosecution of his scheme. He gasped again at the thought.\n\n\"_Waal_,\" said the moonshiner, evidently a man of short patience, and\nwith a definite air of spurring on the visitor's account of himself, \"we\n'ain't been lookin' fur any spy lately, but I'm 'lowin' ez we hev fund\nhim.\"\n\nHis fear thus put into words so served to realize to Yerby his immediate\ndanger that it stood him in the stead of courage, of brains, of\ninvention; his flaccid muscles were suddenly again under control; he\nwreathed his features with his smug artificial smile, that was like a\ngrimace in its best estate, and now hardly seemed more than a\ncontortion. But beauty in any sense was not what the observer was\nprepared to expect in Nehemiah, and the moonshiner seemed to accept the\nsmile at its face value, and to respect its intention.\n\n\"Spies don't kem climbin' down that thar path o' yourn in full view\nthrough the water\"--for the landscape was as visible through the thin\nfalling sheet as if it had been the slightly corrugated glass of a\nwindow--\"do they?\" Yerby asked, with a jocose intonation. \"That thar\nshootin'-iron o' yourn liked ter hev skeered me ter death whenst I fust\nseen it.\"\n\nHis interlocutor pondered on this answer for a moment. He had an adviser\namong his corps whose opinion he evidently valued; he exchanged a quick\nglance with one of the men who was but dimly visible in the shadows\nbeyond the still, where there seemed to be a series of troughs leading a\nrill of running water down from some farther spring and through the tub\nin which the spiral worm was coiled. This man had a keen, white, lean\nface, with an ascetic, abstemious expression, and he looked less like a\ndistiller than some sort of divine--some rustic pietist, with strange\ntheories and unhappy speculations and unsettled mind. It was a face of\nsubtle influences, and the very sight of it roused in Nehemiah a more\nheedful fear than the \"shootin'-iron\" in the bluff moonshiner's hand had\ninduced. He was silent, while the other resumed the office of spokesman.\n\n\"Ye ain't 'quainted hyar\"--he waved his hand with the pistol in it\naround at the circle of uncowering men, although the mere movement made\nNehemiah cringe with the thought that an accidental discharge might as\neffectually settle his case as premeditated and deliberate murder. \"Ye\ndun'no' none o' us. What air ye a-doin' hyar?\"\n\n\"Why, that thar war the very trouble,\" Yerby hastily explained. \"_I\ndidn't know none o' ye!_ I hed hearn ez thar war a still somewhars on\nHide-an'-Seek Creek\"--once more there ensued a swift exchange of glances\namong the party--\"but nobody knew who run it nor whar 'twar. An' one\nday, consider'ble time ago, I war a-passin' nigh 'bouts an' I hearn\nthat fiddle, an' that revealed the spot ter me. An' I kem ter-day\n'lowin' ye an' me could strike a trade.\"\n\nOnce more the bluff man of force turned an anxious look of inquiry to\nthe pale, thoughtful face in the brown and dark green shadows beyond the\ncopper gleam of the still. If policy had required that Nehemiah should\nbe despatched, his was the hand to do the deed, and his the stomach to\nsupport his conscience afterward. But his brain revolted from the\ndiscriminating analysis of Nehemiah's discourse and a decision on its\nmerits.\n\n\"Trade fur what?\" he demanded at last, on his own responsibility, for no\naid had radiated from the face which his looks had interrogated.\n\n\"Fur whiskey, o' course.\" Nehemiah made the final plunge boldly. \"I be\ngoin' ter open a store at the cross-roads, an' I 'lowed I could git\ncheaper whiskey untaxed than taxed. I 'lowed ye wouldn't make it ef ye\ndidn't expec' ter sell it. I didn't know none o' you-uns, an' none o'\nyer customers. An' ez I expec' ter git mo' profit on sellin' whiskey 'n\nennything else in the store, I jes took foot in hand an' kem ter see\n'boutn it mysef. I never 'lowed, though, ez it mought look cur'ous ter\nyou-uns, or like a spy, ter kem ez bold ez brass down the path in full\nsight.\"\n\nThe logic of the seeming security of his approach, and the apparent\nvalue of his scheme, had their full weight. He saw credulity gradually\noverpowering doubt and distrust, and his heart grew light with relief.\nEven their cautious demur, intimating a reserve of opinion to the effect\nthat they would think about it, did not daunt him now. He believed, in\nthe simplicity of his faith in his own craft, now once more in the\nascendant, that if they should accept his proposition he would be free\nto go without further complication of his relations with wild-cat\nwhiskey. He could not sufficiently applaud his wits for the happy\ntermination of the adventure to which they had led him. He had gone no\nfurther in the matter than he had always intended. Brush whiskey was the\ncommodity that addressed itself most to his sense of speculation. For\nthis he had always expected to ferret out some way of safely\nnegotiating. He had gone no further than he should have done, at all\nevents, a little later. He even began mentally to \"figger on the price\"\ndown to which he should be able to bring the distillers, as he accepted\na proffered seat in the circle about the still. He could neither divide\nnor multiply by fractions, and it is not too much to say that he might\nhave been throttled on the spot if the moonshiners could have had a\nmental vision of the liberties the stalwart integers were taking with\ntheir price-current, so to speak, and the preternatural discount that\nwas making so free with their profits. So absorbed in this pleasing\nintellectual exercise was Nehemiah that he did not observe that any one\nhad left the coterie; but when a stir without on the rocks intimated an\napproach he was suddenly ill at ease, and this discomfort increased when\nthe new-comer proved to be a man who knew him.\n\n\"Waal, Nehemiah Yerby!\" he exclaimed, shaking his friend's hand, \"I\nnever knowed you-uns ter be consarned in sech ez moonshinin'. I hev\nbeen a-neighborin' Isham hyar,\" he laid his heavy hand on the tall\nmoonshiner's shoulder, \"fur ten year an' better, but I won't hev nuthin'\nter do with bresh whiskey or aidin' or abettin' in illicit 'stillin'. I\nlike Isham, an' Isham he likes me, an' we hev jes agreed ter disagree.\"\n\nNehemiah dared not protest nor seek to explain. He could invent no story\nthat would not give the lie direct to his representations to the\nmoonshiners. He felt that their eyes were upon him. He could only hope\nthat his silence did not seem to them like denial--and yet was not\ntantamount to confession in the esteem of his upbraider.\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" his interlocutor continued, \"it's a mighty bad government\nter run agin.\" Then he turned to the moonshiner, evidently taking up the\nbusiness that had brought him here. \"Lemme see what sorter brand ye hev\nregistered fur yer cattle, Isham.\"\n\nYerby's heart sank when the suspicion percolated through his brain that\nthis man had been induced to come here for the purpose of recognizing\nhim. More fixed in this opinion was he when no description of the brand\nof the cattle could be found, and the visitor finally went away, his\nerrand bootless.\n\nFrom time to time during the afternoon other men went out and returned\nwith recruits on various pretexts, all of which Nehemiah believed masked\nthe marshalling of witnesses to incriminate him as one of themselves, in\norder to better secure his constancy to the common interests, and in\ncase he was playing false to put others into possession of the facts as\nto the identity of the informer. His liability to the law for aiding and\nabetting in moonshining was very complete before the day darkened, and\nhis jeopardy as to the information he had given made him shake in his\nshoes.\n\nFor at any moment, he reflected, in despair, the laggard raiders might\nswoop down upon them, and the choice of roles offered to him was to seem\nto them a moonshiner, or to the moonshiners an informer. The first was\nfar the safer, for the clutches of the law were indeed feeble as\ncontrasted with the popular fury that would pursue him unwearied for\nyears until its vengeance was accomplished. From the one, escape was to\nthe last degree improbable; from the other, impossible.\n\nAny pretext to seek to quit the place before the definite arrangements\nof his negotiation were consummated seemed even to him, despite his\neagerness to be off, too tenuous, too transparent, to be essayed,\nalthough he devised several as he sat meditative and silent amongst the\ngroup about the still. The prospect grew less and less inviting as the\nlingering day waned, and the evening shadows, dank and chill,\nperceptibly approached. The brown and green recesses of the grotto were\nat once murkier, and yet more distinctly visible, for the glow of the\nfire, flickering through the crevices of the metal door of the furnace,\nhad begun to assert its luminous quality, which was hardly perceptible\nin the full light of day, and brought out the depth of the shadows. The\nfigures and faces of the moonshiners showed against the deepening gloom.\nThe sunset clouds were still red without; a vague roseate suffusion was\nvisible through the falling water. The sun itself had not yet sunk, for\nan oblique and almost level ray, piercing the cataract, painted a series\nof faint prismatic tints on one side of the rugged arch. But while the\nouter world was still in touch with the clear-eyed day, night was\npresently here, with mystery and doubt and dark presage. The voice of\nHoho-hebee Falls seemed to him louder, full of strange, uncomprehended\nmeanings, and insistent iteration. Vague echoes were elicited. Sometimes\nin a seeming pause he could catch their lisping sibilant tones\nrepeating, repeating--what? As the darkness encroached yet more heavily\nupon the cataract, the sense of its unseen motion so close at hand\noppressed his very soul; it gave an idea of the swift gathering of\nshifting invisible multitudes, coming and going--who could say whence or\nwhither? So did this impression master his nerves that he was glad\nindeed when the furnace door was opened for fuel, and he could see only\nthe inanimate, ever-descending sheet of water--the reverse interior\naspect of Hoho-hebee Falls--all suffused with the uncanny tawny light,\nbut showing white and green tints like its diurnal outer aspect, instead\nof the colorless outlines, resembling a drawing of a cataract, which the\ncave knew by day. He did not pause to wonder whether the sudden\ntransient illumination was visible without, or how it might mystify the\nuntutored denizens of the woods, bear, or deer, or wolf, perceiving it\naglow in the midst of the waters like a great topaz, and anon lost in\nthe gloom. He pined to see it; the momentary cessation of darkness, of\nthe effect of the sounds, so strange in the obscurity, and of the chill,\npervasive mystery of the invisible, was so grateful that its influence\nwas tonic to his nerves, and he came to watch for its occasion and to\nwelcome it. He did not grudge it even when it gave the opportunity for a\nclose, unfriendly, calculating scrutiny of his face by the latest comer\nto the still. This was the neighboring miller, also liable to the\nrevenue laws, the distillers being valued patrons of the mill, and since\nhe ground the corn for the mash he thereby aided and abetted in the\nillicit manufacture of the whiskey. His life was more out in the world\nthan that of his underground _confreres_, and perhaps, as he had a\nthriving legitimate business, and did not live by brush whiskey, he had\nmore to lose by detection than they, and deprecated even more any\nunnecessary risk. He evidently took great umbrage at the introduction of\nNehemiah amongst them.\n\n\"Oh yes,\" he observed, in response to the cordial greeting which he met;\n\"an' I'm glad ter see ye all too. I'm powerful glad ter kem ter the\nstill enny time. It's ekal ter goin' ter the settlemint, or plumb ter\ntown on a County Court day. Ye see _everybody_, an' hear _all_ the news,\nan' meet up with _interestin' strangers_. I tell ye, now, the mill's\nplumb lonesome compared ter the still, an' the mill's always hed the\nname of a place whar a heap o' cronies gathered ter swap lies, an'\nsech.\"\n\nThe irony of this description of the social delights and hospitable\naccessibilities of a place esteemed the very stronghold of secrecy\nitself--the liberty of every man in it jeopardized by the slightest\nlapse of vigilance or judgment--was very readily to be appreciated by\nthe group, who were invited by this fair show of words to look down the\nvista of the future to possible years of captivity in the jails of\nfar-away States as Federal prisoners. The men gazed heavily and\nanxiously from one to another as the visitor sank down on the rocks in a\nrelaxed attitude, his elbow on a higher ledge behind him, supporting his\nhead on his hand; his other hand was on his hip, his arm stiffly akimbo,\nwhile he looked with an expression of lowering exasperation at Yerby. It\nwas impossible to distinguish the color of his garb, so dusted with\nflour was he from head to foot; but his long boots drawn over his\ntrousers to the knee, and his great spurs, and a brace of pistols in his\nbelt, seemed incongruous accessories to the habiliments of a miller. His\nlarge, dark hat was thrust far back on his head; his hair, rising\nstraight in a sort of elastic wave from his brow, was powdered white;\nthe effect of his florid color and his dark eyes was accented by the\ncontrast; his pointed beard revealed its natural tints because of his\nhabit of frequently brushing his hand over it, and was distinctly red.\nHe was lithe and lean and nervous, and had the impatient temper\ncharacteristic of mercurial natures. It mattered not to him what was the\ncoercion of the circumstances which had led to the reception of the\nstranger here, nor what was the will of the majority; he disapproved of\nthe step; he feared it; he esteemed it a grievance done him in his\nabsence; and he could not conceal his feelings nor wait a more fitting\ntime to express them in private. His irritation and objection evidently\ncaused some solicitude amongst the others. He was important to them, and\nthey deprecated his displeasure. Isham Beaton listened to the\nhalf-covert sneers of his words with perturbation plainly depicted on\nhis face, and the man whom Nehemiah had at first noticed as one whose\ncharacter seemed that of adviser, and whose opinion was valued, now\nspoke for the first time. He handed over a broken-nosed pitcher with the\nremark, \"Try the flavor of this hyar whiskey, Alfred; 'pears like ter me\nthe bes' we-uns hev ever hed.\"\n\nHis voice was singularly smooth; it had all the qualities of culture;\nevery syllable, every lapse of his rude dialect, was as distinct as if\nhe had been taught to speak in this way; his tones were low and even,\nand modulated to suave cadences; the ear experienced a sense of relief\nafter the loud, strident voice of the miller, poignantly penetrating and\npitched high.\n\n\"Naw, Hilary, I don't want nuthin' ter drink. 'Bleeged ter ye, but I\nain't wantin' nuthin' ter drink,\" reiterated the miller, plaintively.\n\nIsham Beaton cast a glance of alarm at the dimly seen, monastic face of\nhis adviser in the gloom. It was unchanged. Its pallor and its keen\noutline enabled its expression to be discerned as he himself went\nthrough the motions of sampling the rejected liquor, shook his head\ndiscerningly, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and deposited the\npitcher near by on a shelf of the rock.\n\nA pause ensued. Nehemiah, with every desire to be agreeable, hardly\nknew how to commend himself to the irate miller, who would have none of\nhis very existence. No one could more eagerly desire him to be away than\nhe himself. But his absence would not satisfy the miller; nothing less\nthan that the intruder should never have been here. Every perceptible\nlapse of the moonshiners into anxiety, every recurrent intimation of\ntheir most pertinent reason for this anxiety, set Nehemiah a-shaking in\nhis shoes. Should it be esteemed the greatest good to the greatest\nnumber to make safely away with him, his fate would forever remain\nunknown, so cautious had he been to leave no trace by which he might be\nfollowed. He gazed with deprecating urbanity, and with his lips\ndistended into a propitiating smile, at the troubled face powdered so\nwhite and with its lowering eyes so dark and petulant. He noted that the\nsmall-talk amongst the others, mere unindividualized lumpish fellows\nwith scant voice in the government of their common enterprise, had\nceased, and that they no longer busied themselves with the necessary\nwork about the still, nor with the snickering interludes and horse-play\nwith which they were wont to beguile their labors. They had all seated\nthemselves, and were looking from one to the other of the more important\nmembers of the guild with an air which betokened the momentary\nexpectation of a crisis. The only exception was the man who had the\nviolin; with the persistent, untimely industry of incapacity, he twanged\nthe strings, and tuned and retuned the instrument, each time producing a\nresult more astonishingly off the key than before. He was evidently\nunaware of this till some one with senses ajar would suggest that all\nwas not as it should be in the drunken reeling catch he sought to play,\nwhen he would desist in surprise, and once more diligently rub the bow\nwith rosin, as if that mended the matter. The miller's lowering eyes\nrested on his shadowy outline as he sat thus engaged, for a moment, and\nthen he broke out suddenly:\n\n\"Yes, this hyar still is the place fur news, an' the place ter look out\nfur what ye don't expec' ter happen. It's powerful pleasant ter be\na-meetin' of folks hyar--this hyar stranger this evenin'\"--his gleaming\nteeth in the semi-obscurity notified Yerby that a smile of spurious\npoliteness was bent upon him, and he made haste to grin very widely in\nresponse--\"an' that thar fiddle 'minds me o' how onexpected 'twar whenst\nI met up with Lee-yander hyar--'pears ter me, Bob, ez ye air goin' ter\ndiddle the life out'n his fiddle--an' Hilary jes begged an' beseeched me\nter take the boy with me ter help 'round the mill, ez he war a-runnin'\naway. Ye want me ter 'commodate this stranger too, ez mebbe air runnin'\nfrom them ez wants him, hey Hilary?\"\n\nThe grin was petrified on Nehemiah's face. He felt his blood rush\nquickly to his head in the excitement of the moment. So here was the\nbird very close at hand! And here was his enterprise complete and\nsuccessful. He could go away after the cowardly caution of the\nmoonshiners should have expended itself in dallying and delay, with his\nnegotiation for the \"wild-cat\" ended, and his accomplished young\nrelative in charge. He drew himself erect with a sense of power. The\nmoonshiners, the miller, would not dare to make an objection. He knew\ntoo much! he knew far too much!\n\nThe door of the furnace was suddenly flung ajar, but he was too much\nabsorbed to perceive the change that came upon the keen face of Hilary\nTarbetts, who knelt beside it, as the guest's portentous triumphant\nsmile was fully revealed. Yerby did not lose, however, the glance of\nreproach which the moonshiner cast upon the miller, nor the miller's air\nat once triumphant, ashamed, and regretful. He had in petulant pique\ndisclosed the circumstance which he had pledged himself not to disclose.\n\n\"This man's name is Yerby too,\" Hilary said, significantly, gazing\nsteadily at the miller.\n\nThe miller looked dumfounded for a moment. He stared from one to the\nother in silence. His conscious expression changed to obvious\ndiscomfiture. He had expected no such result as this. He had merely\ngiven way to a momentary spite in the disclosure, thinking it entirely\ninsignificant, only calculated to slightly annoy Hilary, who had made\nthe affair his own. He would not in any essential have thwarted his\ncomrade's plans intentionally, nor in his habitual adherence to the\nprinciples of fair play would he have assisted in the boy's capture. He\ndrew himself up from his relaxed posture; his spurred feet shuffled\nheavily on the stone floor of the grotto. A bright red spot appeared on\neach cheek; his eyes had become anxious and subdued in the quick\nshiftings of temper common to the red-haired gentry; his face of\nhelpless appeal was bent on Hilary Tarbetts, as if relying on his\nresources to mend the matter; but ever and anon he turned his eyes,\nanimated with a suspicious dislike, on Yerby, who, however, could have\nsnapped his fingers in the faces of them all, so confident, so\nhilariously triumphant was he.\n\n\"Yerby, I b'lieve ye said yer name war, an' so did Peter Green,\" said\nTarbetts, still kneeling by the open furnace door, his pale cheek\nreddening in the glow of the fire.\n\nThus reminded of the testimony of his acquaintance, Yerby did not\nventure to repudiate his cognomen.\n\n\"An' what did ye kem hyar fur?\" blustered the miller. \"A-sarchin' fur\nthe boy?\"\n\nYerby's lips had parted to acknowledge this fact, but Tarbetts suddenly\nanticipated his response, and answered for him:\n\n\"Oh no, Alfred. Nobody ain't sech a fool ez ter kem hyar ter this hyar\nstill, a stranger an' mebbe suspected ez a spy, ter hunt up stray\nchildren, an' git thar heads shot off, or mebbe drownded in a mighty\nhandy water-fall, or sech. This hyar man air one o' we-uns. He air\na-tradin' fur our liquor, an' he'll kerry a barrel away whenst he goes.\"\n\nYerby winced at the suggestion conveyed so definitely in this crafty\nspeech; he was glad when the door of the furnace closed, so that his\nface might not tell too much of the shifting thoughts and fears that\npossessed him.\n\nThe miller's fickle mind wavered once more. If Yerby had not come for\nthe boy, he himself had done no damage in disclosing Leander's\nwhereabouts. Once more his quickly illumined anger was kindled against\nTarbetts, who had caused him a passing but poignant self-reproach.\n\"Waal, then, Hilary,\" he demanded, \"what air ye a-raisin' sech a row\nfur? Lee-yander ain't noways so special precious ez I knows on.\nToler'ble lazy an' triflin', an' mightily gi'n over ter moonin' over a\nreadin'-book he hev got. That thar mill war a-grindin' o' nuthin' at all\nmore'n haffen ter-day, through me bein' a-nappin', and Lee-yander plumb\ndemented by his book so ez he furgot ter pour enny grist inter the\nhopper. Shucks! his kin is welcome ter enny sech critter ez that, though\nI ain't denyin' ez he'd be toler'ble spry ef he could keep his nose\nout'n his book,\" he qualified, relenting, \"or his fiddle out'n his\nhands. I made him leave his fiddle hyar ter the still, an' I be goin'\nter hide his book.\"\n\n\"No need,\" thought Nehemiah, scornfully. Book and scholar and it might\nbe fiddle too, so indulgent had the prospect of success made him, would\nby to-morrow be on the return route to the cross-roads. He even ventured\nto differ with the overbearing miller.\n\n\"I dun'no' 'bout that; books an' edication in gin'ral air toler'ble\nuseful wunst in a while;\" he was thinking of the dark art of dividing\nand multiplying by fractions. \"The Yerbys hev always hed the name o'\nbein' quick at thar book.\"\n\nNow the democratic sentiment in this country is bred in the bone, and\nfew of its denizens have so diluted it with Christian grace as to\nwillingly acknowledge a superior. In such a coterie as this \"eating\nhumble-pie\" is done only at the muzzle of a \"shootin'-iron.\"\n\n\"Never hearn afore ez enny o' the Yerbys knowed B from bull-foot,\"\nremarked one of the unindividualized lumpish moonshiners, shadowy,\nindistinguishable in the circle about the rotund figure of the still. He\nyet retained acrid recollections of unavailing struggles with the\nalphabet, and was secretly of the opinion that education was a painful\nthing, and, like the yellow-fever or other deadly disease, not worth\nhaving. Nevertheless, since it was valued by others, the Yerbys should\nscathless make no unfounded claims. \"Ef the truth war knowed, nare one\nof 'em afore could tell a book from a bear-trap.\"\n\nNehemiah's flush the darkness concealed; he moistened his thin lips, and\nthen gave a little cackling laugh, as if he regarded this as pleasantry.\nBut the demolition of the literary pretensions of his family once begun\nwent bravely on.\n\n\"Abner Sage larnt this hyar boy all he knows,\" another voice took up the\ntestimony. \"Ab 'lows ez his mother war quick at school, but his\ndad--law! I knowed Ebenezer Yerby! He war a frien'ly sorter cuss,\ngood-nachured an' kind-spoken, but ye could put all the larnin' he hed\nin the corner o' yer eye.\"\n\n\"An' Lee-yander don't favor none o' ye,\" observed another of the\nundiscriminated, unimportant members of the group, who seemed to the\ngroping scrutiny of Nehemiah to be only endowed with sufficient identity\nto do the rough work of the still, and to become liable to the Federal\nlaw. \"Thar's Hil'ry--he seen it right off. Hil'ry he tuk a look at\nLee-yander whenst he wanted ter kem an' work along o' we-uns, 'kase his\nfolks wanted ter take him away from the Sudleys. Hil'ry opened the\nfurnace door--jes so; an' he cotch the boy by the arm\"--the great brawny\nfellow, unconsciously dramatic, suited the action to the word, his face\nand figure illumined by the sudden red glow--\"an' Hil'ry, he say, 'Naw,\nby God--ye hev got yer mother's eyes in yer head, an' I'll swear ye\nsha'n't larn ter be a sot!' An' that's how kem Hil'ry made Alf Bixby\ntake Lee-yander ter work in the mill. Ef ennybody tuk arter him he war\nconvenient ter disappear down hyar with we-uns. So he went ter the\nmill.\"\n\n\"An' I wisht I hed put him in the hopper an' ground him up,\" said the\nmiller, in a blood-curdling tone, but with a look of plaintive anxiety\nin his eyes. \"He hev made a heap o' trouble 'twixt Hil'ry an' me fust\nan' last. Whar's Hil'ry disappeared to, ennyways?\"\n\nFor the flare from the furnace showed that this leading spirit amongst\nthe moonshiners had gone softly out. Nehemiah, whose courage was\ndissipated by some subtle influence of his presence, now made bold to\nask, \"An' what made him ter set store on Lee-yander's mother's eyes?\"\nHis tone was as bluffly sarcastic as he dared.\n\n\"Shucks--ye mus' hev hearn that old tale,\" said the miller, cavalierly.\n\"This hyar Malviny Hixon--ez lived down in Tanglefoot Cove then--her an'\nHil'ry war promised ter marry, but the revenuers captured him--he war\na-runnin' a still in Tanglefoot then--an' they kep' him in jail somewhar\nin the North fur five year. Waal, she waited toler'ble constant fur two\nor three year, but Ebenezer Yerby he kem a-visitin' his kin down in\nTanglefoot Cove, an' she an' him met at a bran dance, an' the fust thing\nI hearn they war married, an' 'fore Hil'ry got back she war dead an'\nburied, an' so war Ebenezer.\"\n\nThere was a pause while the flames roared in the furnace, and the\nfalling water desperately dashed upon the rocks, and its tumultuous\nvoice continuously pervaded the silent void wildernesses without, and\nthe sibilant undertone, the lisping whisperings, smote the senses anew.\n\n\"He met up with cornsider'ble changes fur five year,\" remarked one of\nthe men, regarding the matter in its chronological aspect.\n\nNehemiah said nothing. He had heard the story before, but it had been\nforgotten. A worldly mind like his is not apt to burden itself with the\nsentimental details of an antenuptial romance of the woman whom his\nhalf-brother had married many years ago.\n\nA persuasion that it was somewhat unduly long-lived impressed others of\nthe party.\n\n\"It's plumb cur'us Hil'ry ain't never furgot her,\" observed one of them.\n\"He hev never married at all. My wife says it's jes contrariousness. Ef\nMalviny hed been his wife an' died, he'd hev married agin 'fore the year\nwar out. An' I tell my wife that he'd hev been better acquainted with\nher then, an' would hev fund out ez no woman war wuth mournin' 'bout fur\nnigh twenty year. My wife says she can't make out ez how Hil'ry 'ain't\ngot pride enough not ter furgive her fur givin' him the mitten like she\ndone. An' I tell my wife that holdin' a gredge agin a woman fur bein'\nfickle is like holdin' a gredge agin her fur bein' a woman.\"\n\nHe paused with an air, perceived somehow in the brown dusk, of having\nmade a very neat point. A stir of assent was vaguely suggested when some\nchivalric impulse roused a champion at the farther side of the worm,\nwhose voice rang out brusquely:\n\n\"Jes listen at Tom! A body ter hear them tales he tells 'bout argufyin'\nwith his wife would 'low he war a mighty smart, apt man, an' the pore\nfoolish 'oman skeercely hed a sensible word ter bless herself with. When\neverybody that knows Tom knows he sings mighty small round home. Ye\nstopped too soon, Tom. Tell what yer wife said to that.\"\n\nTom's embarrassed feet shuffled heavily on the rocks, apparently in\nsearch of subterfuge. The dazzling glintings from the crevices of the\nfurnace door showed here and there gleaming teeth broadly agrin.\n\n\"Jes called me a fool in gineral,\" admitted the man skilled in argument.\n\n\"An' didn't she 'low ez men folks war fickle too, an' remind ye o' yer\nyoung days whenst ye went a-courtin' hyar an' thar, an' tell over a\nstring o' gals' names till she sounded like an off'cer callin' the\nroll?\"\n\n\"Ye-es,\" admitted Tom, thrown off his balance by this preternatural\ninsight, \"but all them gals war a-tryin' ter marry me--not me tryin' ter\nmarry them.\"\n\nThere was a guffaw at this modest assertion, but the disaffected\nmiller's tones dominated the rude merriment.\n\n\"Whenst a feller takes ter drink folks kin spell out a heap o' reasons\nbut the true one--an' that's 'kase he likes it. Hil'ry 'ain't never\nnamed that 'oman's name ter me, an' I hev knowed him ez well ez ennybody\nhyar. Jes t'other day whenst that boy kem, bein' foolish an' maudlin, he\nseen suthin' oncommon in Lee-yander's eyes--they'll be mighty oncommon\nef he keeps on readin' his tomfool book, ez he knows by heart, by the\nfirelight when it's dim. Ef folks air so sot agin strong drink, let 'em\ndrink less tharsefs. Hear Brother Peter Vickers preach agin liquor, an'\nye'd know ez all wine-bibbers air bound fur hell.\"\n\n\"But the Bible don't name 'whiskey' once,\" said the man called Tom, in\nan argumentative tone. \"Low wines I'll gin ye up;\" he made the\ndiscrimination in accents betokening much reasonable admission; \"but\nnare time does the Bible name whiskey, nor yit peach brandy, nor\napple-jack.\"\n\n\"Nor cider nor beer,\" put in an unexpected recruit from the darkness.\n\nThe miller was silent for a moment, and gave token of succumbing to this\nunexpected polemic strength. Then, taking thought and courage together,\n\"Ye can't say the Bible ain't down on 'strong drink'?\" There was no\nanswer from the vanquished, and he went on in the overwhelming miller's\nvoice: \"Hil'ry hed better be purtectin' hisself from strong drink,\n'stiddier the boy--by makin' him stay up thar at the mill whar he knows\nthar's no drinkin' goin' on--ez will git chances at it other ways, ef\nnot through him, in the long life he hev got ter live. The las' time the\nrevenuers got Hil'ry 'twar through bein' ez drunk ez a fraish-biled owl.\nIt makes me powerful oneasy whenever I know ye air all drunk an'\na-gallopadin' down hyar, an' no mo' able to act reasonable in case o'\nneed an' purtect yersefs agin spies an' revenuers an' sech 'n nuthin' in\nthis worl'. The las' raid, ye 'member, we hed the still over yander;\" he\njerked his thumb in the direction present to his thoughts, but unseen by\nhis coadjutors; \"a man war wounded, an' we dun'no' but what killed in\nthe scuffle, an' it mought be a hangin' matter ter git caught now. Ye\noughter keep sober; an' ye know, Isham, ye oughter keep Hil'ry sober. I\ndun'no' why ye can't. I never could abide the nasty stuff--it's enough\nter turn a bullfrog's stomach. Whiskey is good ter sell--not ter drink.\nLet them consarned idjits in the flat woods buy it, an' drink it.\nWhiskey is good ter sell--not ter drink.\"\n\nThis peculiar temperance argument was received in thoughtful silence,\nthe reason of all the mountaineers commending it, while certain of them\nknew themselves and were known to be incapable of profiting by it.\n\nNehemiah had scant interest in this conversation. He was conscious of\nthe strain on his attention as he followed it, that every point of the\nsituation should be noted, and its utility canvassed at a leisure\nmoment. He marked the allusion to the man supposed to have been killed\nin the skirmish with the raiders, and he appraised its value as coercion\nin any altercation that he might have in seeking to take Leander from\nhis present guardians. But he felt in elation that this was likely to be\nof the slightest; the miller evidently found himself hampered rather\nthan helped by the employment of the boy; and as to the moonshiner's\nsentimental partisanship, for the sake of an old attachment to the\ndead-and-gone mountain girl, there was hardly anything in the universe\nso tenuous as to bear comparison with its fragility. \"A few drinks\nahead,\" he said to himself, with a sneer, \"an' he won't remember who\nMalviny Hixon was, ef thar is ennything in the old tale--which it's\nmore'n apt thar ain't.\"\n\nHe began, after the fashion of successful people, to cavil because his\nsuccess was not more complete. How the time was wasting here in this\nuncomfortable interlude! Why could he not have discovered Leander's\nwhereabouts earlier, and by now be jogging along the road home with the\nboy by his side? Why had he not bethought himself of the mill in the\nfirst instance--that focus of gossip where all the news of the\ncountryside is mysteriously garnered and thence dispensed bounteously to\nall comers? It was useless, as he fretted and chafed at these untoward\nomissions, to urge in his own behalf that he did not know of the\nexistence of the mill, and that the miller, being an ungenial and\ncholeric man, might have perversely lent himself to resisting his demand\nfor the custody of the young runaway. No, he told himself emphatically,\nand with good logic, too, the miller's acrimony rose from the fact of a\nstranger's discovery of the still and the danger of his introduction\ninto its charmed circle. And that reflection reminded him anew of his\nown danger here--not from the lawless denizens of the place, but from\nthe forces which he himself had evoked, and again he glanced out toward\nthe water-fall as fearful of the raiders as any moonshiner of them all.\n\nBut what sudden glory was on the waters, mystic, white, an opaque\nbrilliance upon the swirling foam and the bounding spray, a crystalline\nglitter upon the smooth expanse of the swift cataract! The moon was in\nthe sky, and its light, with noiseless tread, sought out strange, lonely\nplaces, and illusions were astir in the solitudes. Pensive peace,\nthoughts too subtle for speech to shape, spiritual yearnings, were\nfamiliars of the hour and of this melancholy splendor; but he knew none\nof them, and the sight gave him no joy. He only thought that this was a\nnight for the saddle, for the quiet invasion of the woods, when the few\ndwellers by the way-side were lost in slumber. He trembled anew at the\nthought of the raiders whom he himself had summoned; he forgot his\ncurses on their laggard service; he upbraided himself again that he had\nnot earlier made shift to depart by some means--by any means--before the\nnight came with this great emblazoning bold-faced moon that but\nprolonged the day; and he started to his feet with a galvanic jerk and a\nsharp exclamation when swift steps were heard on the rocks outside, and\na man with the lightness of a deer sprang down the ledges and into the\ngreat arched opening of the place.\n\n\"'Tain't nobody but Hil'ry,\" observed Isham Beaton, half in reproach,\nhalf in reassurance.\n\nThe pervasive light without dissipated in some degree the gloom within\nthe grotto; a sort of gray visibility was on the appurtenances and the\nfigures about the still, not strong enough to suggest color, but giving\ncontour. His fright had been marked, he knew; a sort of surprised\nreflectiveness was in the manner of several of the moonshiners, and\nNehemiah, with his ready fears, fancied that this inopportune show of\nterror had revived their suspicions of him. It required some effort to\nsteady his nerves after this, and when footfalls were again audible\noutside, and all the denizens of the place sat calmly smoking their\npipes without so much as a movement toward investigating the sound, he,\nknowing whose steps he had invited thither, had great ado with the\ncoward within to keep still, as if he had no more reason to fear an\napproach than they.\n\nA great jargon in the tone of ecstasy broke suddenly on the air upon\nthis new entrance, shattering what little composure Nehemiah had been\nable to muster; a wide-mouthed exaggeration of welcome in superlative\nphrases and ready chorus. Swiftly turning, he saw nothing for a moment,\nfor he looked at the height which a man's head might reach, and the\nnew-comer measured hardly two feet in stature, waddled with a very\nuncertain gait, and although he bore himself with manifest complacence,\nhe had evidently heard the like before, as he was jovially hailed by\nevery ingratiating epithet presumed to be acceptable to his infant mind.\nHe was attended by a tall, gaunt boy of fifteen, barefooted, with\nsnaggled teeth and a shock of tow hair, wearing a shirt of unbleached\ncotton, and a pair of trousers supported by a single suspender drawn\nacross a sharp, protuberant shoulder-blade behind and a very narrow\nchest in front. But his face was proud and happy and gleeful, as if he\noccupied some post of honor and worldly emolument in attending upon the\nwaddling wonder on the floor in front of him, instead of being assigned\nthe ungrateful task of seeing to it that a very ugly baby closely\nrelated to him did not, with the wiliness and ingenuity of infant\nnature, invent some method of making away with himself. For he _was_ an\nugly baby as he stood revealed in the flare of the furnace door, thrown\nopen that his admirers and friends might feast their eyes upon him. His\nshort wisps of red hair stood straight up in front; his cheeks were\npuffy and round, but very rosy; his eyes were small and dark, but\nblandly roguish; his mouth was wide and damp, and had in it a small\nselection of sample teeth, as it were; he wore a blue checked homespun\ndress garnished down the back with big horn buttons, sparsely set on; he\nclasped his chubby hands upon a somewhat pompous stomach; he sidled\nfirst to the right, then to the left, in doubt as to which of the\nvarious invitations he should accept.\n\n\"Kem hyar, Snooks!\" \"Right hyar, Toodles!\" \"Me hyar, Monkey Doodle!\"\n\"Hurrah fur the leetle-est moonshiner on record!\" resounded fulsomely\nabout him. Many were the compliments showered upon him, and if his\nflatterers told lies, they had told more wicked ones. The pipes all went\nout, and the broken-nosed pitcher languished in disuse as he trotted\nfrom one pair of outstretched arms to another to give an exhibition of\nhis progress in the noble art of locomotion; and if he now and again sat\ndown, unexpectedly to himself and to the spectator, he was promptly put\nupon his feet again with spurious applause and encouragement. He gave\nan exhibition of his dancing--a funny little shuffle of exceeding\ntemerity, considering the facilities at his command for that agile\namusement, but he was made reckless by praise--and they all lied\nvaliantly in chorus. He repeated all the words he knew, which were few,\nand for the most part unintelligible, crowed like a cock, barked like a\ndog, mewed like a cat, and finally went away, his red cheeks yet more\nruddily aglow, grave and excited and with quickly beating pulses, like\none who has achieved some great public success and led captive the\nhearts of thousands.\n\nThe turmoils of his visit and his departure were great indeed. It all\nirked Nehemiah Yerby, who had scant toleration of infancy and little\nperception of the jocosity of the aspect of callow human nature, and it\nseemed strange to him that these men, all with their liberty, even their\nexistence, jeopardized upon the chances that a moment might bring forth,\ncould so relax their sense of danger, so disregard the mandates of\nstolid common-sense, and give themselves over to the puerile\nbeguilements of the visitor. The little animal was the son of one of\nthem, he knew, but he hardly guessed whom until he marked the paternal\npride and content that had made unwontedly placid the brow of the irate\nmiller while the ovation was in progress. Nehemiah greatly preferred the\nadult specimen of the race, and looked upon youth as an infirmity which\nwould mend only with time. He was easily confused by a stir; the\ngurglings, the ticklings, the loud laughter both in the deep bass of the\nhosts and the keen treble of the guest had a befuddling effect upon him;\nhis powers of observation were numbed. As the great, burly forms\nshifted to and fro, resuming their former places, the red light from the\nopen door of the furnace illumining their laughing, bearded\ncountenances, casting a roseate suffusion upon the white turmoils of the\ncataract, and showing the rugged interior of the place with its damp and\ndripping ledges, he saw for the first time among them Leander's slight\nfigure and smiling face; the violin was in his hand, one end resting on\na rock as he tightened a string; his eyes were bent upon the instrument,\nwhile his every motion was earnestly watched by the would-be fiddler.\n\nNehemiah started hastily to his feet. He had not expected that the boy\nwould see him here. To share with one of his own household a secret like\nthis of aiding in illicit distilling was more than his hardihood could\nwell contemplate. As once more the contemned \"ping-pang\" of the process\nof tuning fell upon the air, Leander chanced to lift his eyes. They\nsmilingly swept the circle until they rested upon his uncle. They\nsuddenly dilated with astonishment, and the violin fell from his\nnerveless hand upon the floor. The surprise, the fear, the repulsion his\nface expressed suddenly emboldened Nehemiah. The boy evidently had not\nbeen prepared for the encounter with his relative here. Its only\nsignificance to his mind was the imminence of capture and of being\nconstrained to accompany his uncle home. He cast a glance of indignant\nreproach upon Hilary Tarbetts, who was not even looking at him. The\nmoonshiner stood filling his pipe with tobacco, and as he deftly\nextracted a coal from the furnace to set it alight, he shut the door\nwith a clash, and for a moment the whole place sunk into invisibility,\nthe vague radiance vouchsafed to the recesses of the grotto by the\nmoonbeams on the water without annihilated for the time by the contrast\nwith the red furnace glare. Nehemiah had a swift fear that in this\nsudden eclipse Leander might slip softly out and thus be again lost to\nhim, but as the dull gray light gradually reasserted itself, and the\nfigures and surroundings emerged from the gloom, resuming shape and\nconsistency, he saw Leander still standing where he had disappeared in\nthe darkness; he could even distinguish his pale face and lustrous eyes.\nLeander at least had no intention to shirk explanations.\n\n\"Why, Uncle Nehemiah!\" he said, his boyish voice ringing out tense and\nexcited above the tones of the men, once more absorbed in their wonted\ninterests. A sudden silence ensued amongst them. \"What air ye a-doin'\nhyar?\"\n\n\"Waal, ah, Lee-yander, boy--\" Nehemiah hesitated. A half-suppressed\nchuckle among the men, whom he had observed to be addicted to\nhorse-play, attested their relish of the situation. Ridicule is always\nof unfriendly intimations, and the sound served to put Nehemiah on his\nguard anew. He noticed that the glow in Hilary's pipe was still and\ndull: the smoker did not even draw his breath as he looked and listened.\nYerby did not dare avow the true purpose of his presence after his\nrepresentations to the moonshiners, and yet he could not, he would not\nin set phrase align himself with the illicit vocation. The boy was too\nyoung, too irresponsible, too inimical to his uncle, he reflected in a\nsudden panic, to be intrusted with this secret. If in his hap-hazard,\ncallow folly he should turn informer, he was almost too young to be\namenable to the popular sense of justice. He might, too, by some\naccident rather than intention, divulge the important knowledge so\nunsuitable to his years and his capacity for guarding it. He began to\nshare the miller's aversion to the introduction of outsiders to the\nstill. He felt a glow of indignation, as if he had always been a party\nin interest, that the common safety should not be more jealously\nguarded. The danger which Leander's youth and inexperience threatened\nhad not been so apparent to him when he first heard that the boy had\nbeen here, and the menace was merely for the others. As he felt the\nyoung fellow's eyes upon him he recalled the effusive piety of his\nconversation at Tyler Sudley's house, his animadversions on\nviolin-playing and liquor-drinking, and Brother Peter Vickers's mild and\nmerciful attitude toward sinners in those unspiced sermons of his, that\nheld out such affluence of hope to the repentant rather than to the\nself-righteous. The blood surged unseen into Nehemiah's face. For shame,\nfor very shame he could not confess himself one with these outcasts. He\nmade a feint of searching in the semi-obscurity for the rickety chair on\nwhich he had been seated, and resumed his former attitude as Leander's\nvoice once more rang out:\n\n\"What air ye a-doin' hyar, Uncle Nehemiah?\"\n\n\"Jes a-visitin', sonny; jes a-visitin'.\"\n\nThere was a momentary pause, and the felicity of the answer was\ndemonstrated by another chuckle from the group. His senses, alert to the\nemergency, discriminated a difference in the tone. This time the laugh\nwas with him rather than at him. He noted, too, Leander's dumfounded\npause, and the suggestion of discomfiture in the boy's lustrous eyes,\nstill widely fixed upon him. As Leander stooped to pick up the violin he\nremarked with an incidental accent, and evidently in default of retort,\n\"I be powerful s'prised ter view ye hyar.\"\n\nNehemiah smarted under the sense of unmerited reproach; so definitely\naware was he of being out of the character which he had assumed and worn\nuntil it seemed even to him his own, that he felt as if he were\nconstrained to some ghastly masquerade. Even the society of the\nmoonshiners as their guest was a reproach to one who had always piously,\nand in such involuted and redundant verbiage, spurned the ways and\nhaunts of the evil-doer. According to the dictates of policy he should\nhave rested content with his advantage over the silenced lad. But his\nsense of injury engendered a desire of reprisal, and he impulsively\ncarried the war into the enemy's country.\n\n\"I ain't in no ways s'prised ter view you-uns hyar, Lee-yander,\" he\nsaid. \"From the ways, Lee-yander, ez ye hev been brung up by them\nslack-twisted Sudleys--ungodly folks 'ceptin' what little regeneration\nthey kin git from the sermons of Brother Peter Vickers, who air\nonsartain in his mind whether folks ez ain't church-members air goin'\nter be damned or no--I ain't s'prised none ter view ye hyar.\" He\nsuddenly remembered poor Laurelia's arrogations of special piety, and\nit was with exceeding ill will that he added: \"An' Mis' Sudley in\npartic'lar. Ty ain't no great shakes ez a shoutin' Christian. I dun'no'\nez I ever hearn him shout once, but his wife air one o' the reg'lar,\nmournful, unrejicing members, always questioning the decrees of\nProvidence, an' what ain't no nigher salvation, ef the truth war knowed,\n'n a sinner with the throne o' grace yit ter find.\"\n\nLeander had not picked up the violin; this disquisition had arrested his\nhand until his intention was forgotten. He came slowly to the\nperpendicular, and his eyes gleamed in the dusk. A vibration of anger\nwas in his voice as he retorted:\n\n\"Mebbe so--mebbe they air sinners; but they'd look powerful comical\n'visitin' hyar!\"\n\n\"Ty Sudley ain't one o' the drinkin' kind,\" interpolated the miller, who\nevidently had the makings of a temperance man. \"He never sot foot hyar\nin his life.\"\n\n\"Them ez kem a-visitin' hyar,\" blustered the boy, full of the\nsignificance of his observations and experience, \"air either wantin' a\ndrink or two 'thout payin' fur it, or else air tradin' fur liquor ter\nsell, an' that's the same ez moonshinin' in the law.\"\n\nThere was a roar of delight from the circle of lumpish figures about the\nstill which told the boy that he had hit very near to the mark. Nehemiah\nhardly waited for it to subside before he made an effort to divert\nLeander's attention.\n\n\"An' what air _you-uns_ doin' hyar?\" he demanded. \"Tit for tat.\"\n\n\"Why,\" bluffly declared Leander, \"I be a-runnin' away from you-uns. An'\nI 'lowed the still war one place whar I'd be sure o' not meetin' ye.\nNot ez I hev got ennything agin moonshinin' nuther,\" he added, hastily,\nmindful of a seeming reflection on his refuge. \"Moonshinin' _is\nbusiness_, though the United States don't seem ter know it. But I hev\nhearn ye carry on so pious 'bout not lookin' on the wine whenst it be\nred, that I 'lowed ye wouldn't like ter look on the still whenst--whenst\nit's yaller.\" He pointed with a burst of callow merriment at the big\ncopper vessel, and once more the easily excited mirth of the circle\nburst forth irrepressibly.\n\nEncouraged by this applause, Leander resumed: \"Why, _I_ even turns my\nback on the still myself out'n respec' ter the family--Cap'n an'\nNeighbor bein' so set agin liquor. Cap'n's ekal ter preachin' on it ef\nennything onexpected war ter happen ter Brother Vickers. An' when I\n_hev_ ter view it, I look at it sorter cross-eyed.\" The flickering line\nof light from the crevice of the furnace door showed that he was\nsquinting frightfully, with the much-admired eyes his mother had\nbequeathed to him, at the rotund shadow, with the yellow gleams of the\nmetal barely suggested in the brown dusk. \"So I tuk ter workin' at the\nmill. An' _I_ hev got nuthin' ter do with the still.\" There was a pause.\nThen, with a strained tone of appeal in his voice, for a future with\nUncle Nehemiah had seemed very terrible to him, \"So ye warn't a-sarchin'\nhyar fur me, war ye, Uncle Nehemiah?\"\n\nNehemiah was at a loss. There is a peculiar glutinous quality in the\nresolve of a certain type of character which is not allied to\nsteadfastness of purpose, nor has it the enlightened persistence of\nobstinacy. In view of his earlier account of his purpose he could not\navow his errand; it bereft him of naught to disavow it, for Uncle\nNehemiah was one of those gifted people who, in common parlance, do not\nmind what they say. Yet his reluctance to assure Leander that he was not\nthe quarry that had led him into these wilds so mastered him, the\nspurious relinquishment had so the aspect of renunciation, that he\nhesitated, started to speak, again hesitated, so palpably that Hilary\nTarbetts felt impelled to take a hand in the game.\n\n\"Why don't ye sati'fy the boy, Yerby?\" he said, brusquely. He took his\npipe out of his mouth and turned to Leander. \"Naw, bub. He's jes tradin'\nfur bresh whiskey, that's all; he's sorter skeery 'bout bein' a\nwild-catter, an' he didn't want ye ter know it.\"\n\nThe point of red light, the glow of his pipe, the only exponent of his\npresence in the dusky recess where he sat, shifted with a quick,\ndecisive motion as he restored it to his lips.\n\nThe blood rushed to Nehemiah's head; he was dizzy for a moment; he heard\nhis heart thump heavily; he saw, or he fancied he saw, the luminous\ndistention of Leander's eyes as this Goliath of his battles was thus\ndelivered into his hands. To meet him here proved nothing; the law was\nnot violated by Nehemiah in the mere knowledge that illicit whiskey was\nin process of manufacture; a dozen different errands might have brought\nhim. But this statement put a sword, as it were, into the boy's hands,\nand he dared not deny it.\n\n\"'Pears ter me,\" he blurted out at last, \"ez ye air powerful slack with\nyer jaw.\"\n\n\"Lee-yander ain't,\" coolly returned Tarbetts. \"He knows all thar is ter\nknow 'bout we-uns--an' why air ye not ter share our per'ls?\"\n\n\"I ain't likely ter tell,\" Leander jocosely reassured him. \"But I can't\nhelp thinkin' how it would rejice that good Christian 'oman, Cap'n\nSudley, ez war made ter set on sech a low stool 'bout my pore old\nfiddle.\"\n\nAnd thus reminded of the instrument, he picked it up, and once more,\nwith the bow held aloft in his hand, he dexterously twanged the strings,\nand with his deft fingers rapidly and discriminatingly turned the\nscrews, this one up and that one down. The earnest would-be musician,\nwho had languished while the discussion was in progress, now plucked up\na freshened interest, and begged that the furnace door might be set ajar\nto enable him to watch the process of tuning and perchance to detect its\nsubtle secret. No objection was made, for the still was nearly empty,\nand arrangements tending to replenishment were beginning to be\ninaugurated by several of the men, who were examining the mash in tubs\nin the further recesses of the place. They were lighted by a lantern\nwhich, swinging to and fro as they moved, sometimes so swiftly as to\ninduce a temporary fluctuation threatening eclipse, suggested in the\ndusk the erratic orbit of an abnormally magnified fire-fly. It barely\nglimmered, the dullest point of white light, when the rich flare from\nthe opening door of the furnace gushed forth and the whole rugged\ninterior was illumined with its color. The inadequate moonlight fell\naway; the chastened white splendor on the foam of the cataract, the\ncrystalline glitter, timorously and elusively shifting, were\nannihilated; the swiftly descending water showed from within only a\ncontinuously moving glow of yellow light, all the brighter from the\ndark-seeming background of the world glimpsed without. A wind had risen,\nunfelt in these recesses and on the weighty volume of the main sheet of\nfalling water, but at its verge the fitful gusts diverted its downward\ncourse, tossing slender jets aslant, and sending now and again a shower\nof spray into the cavern. Nehemiah remembered his rheumatism with a\nshiver. The shadows of the men, instead of an unintelligible\ncomminglement with the dusk, were now sharp and distinct, and the light\ngrotesquely duplicated them till the cave seemed full of beings who were\nnot there a moment before--strange gnomes, clumsy and burly, slow of\nmovement, but swift and mysterious of appearance and disappearance. The\nbeetling ledges here and there imprinted strong black similitudes of\ntheir jagged contours on the floor; with the glowing, weird illumination\nthe place seemed far more uncanny than before, and Leander, with his\nface pensive once more in response to the gentle strains slowly elicited\nby the bow trembling with responsive ecstasy, his large eyes full of\ndreamy lights, his curling hair falling about his cheek as it rested\nupon the violin, his figure, tall and slender and of an adolescent\ngrace, might have suggested to the imagination a reminiscence of Orpheus\nin Hades. They all listened in languid pleasure, without the effort to\nappraise the music or to compare it with other performances--the bane of\nmore cultured audiences; only the ardent amateur, seated close at hand\non a bowlder, watched the bowing with a scrutiny which betokened\nearnest anxiety that no mechanical trick might elude him. The miller's\nhalf-grown son, whose ear for any fine distinctions in sound might be\npresumed to have been destroyed by the clamors of the mill, sat a trifle\nin the background, and sawed away on an imaginary violin with many\nflourishes and all the exaggerations of mimicry; he thus furnished the\nzest of burlesque relished by the devotees of horse-play and simple\njests, and was altogether unaware that he had a caricature in his shadow\njust behind him, and was doing double duty in making both Leander and\nhimself ridiculous. Sometimes he paused in excess of interest when the\nmusic elicited an amusement more to his mind than the long-drawn,\npathetic cadences which the violinist so much affected. For in sudden\nchanges of mood and in effective contrast the tones came showering forth\nin keen, quick staccato, every one as round and distinct as a globule,\nbut as unindividualized in the swift exuberance of the whole as a drop\nin a summer's rain; the bow was but a glancing line of light in its\nrapidity, and the bounding movement of the theme set many a foot astir\nmarking time. At last one young fellow, an artist too in his way, laid\naside his pipe and came out to dance. A queer _pas seul_ it might have\nbeen esteemed, but he was light and agile and not ungraceful, and he\ndanced with an air of elation--albeit with a grave face--which added to\nthe enjoyment of the spectator, for it seemed so slight an effort. He\nwas long-winded, and was still bounding about in the double-shuffle and\nthe pigeon-wing, his shadow on the wall nimbly following every motion,\nwhen the violin's cadence quavered off in a discordant wail, and\nLeander, the bow pointed at the water-fall, exclaimed: \"Look out!\nSomebody's thar! Out thar on the rocks!\"\n\nIt was upon the instant, with the evident intention of a surprise, that\na dozen armed men rushed precipitately into the place. Nehemiah, his\nhead awhirl, hardly distinguished the events as they were confusedly\nenacted before him. There were loud, excited calls, unintelligible,\nmouthing back in the turbulent echoes of the place, the repeated word\n\"Surrender!\" alone conveying meaning to his mind. The sharp, succinct\nnote of a pistol-shot was a short answer. Some quick hand closed the\ndoor of the furnace and threw the place into protective gloom. He was\nvaguely aware that a prolonged struggle that took place amongst a group\nof men near him was the effort of the intruders to reopen it. All\nunavailing. He presently saw figures drawing back to the doorway out of\nthe _melee_, for moonshiner and raider were alike indistinguishable, and\nhe became aware that both parties were equally desirous to gain the\nouter air. Once more pistol-shots--outside this time--then a tumult of\nfrenzied voices. Struck by a pistol-ball, Tarbetts had fallen from the\nledge under the weight of the cataract and into the deep abysses below.\nThe raiders were swiftly getting to saddle again. Now and then a crack\nmountain shot drew a bead upon them from the bushes; but mists were\ngathering, the moon was uncertain, and the flickering beams deflected\nthe aim. Two or three of the horses lay dead on the river-bank, and\nothers carried double, ridden by men with riddled hats. They were in\nfull retreat, for the catastrophe on the ledge of the cliff struck\ndismay to their hearts. Had the man been shot, according to the\nexpectation of those who resist arrest, this would be merely the logical\nsequence of events. But to be hurled from a crag into a cataract savored\nof atrocity, and they dreaded the reprisals of capture.\n\n[Illustration: \"'LOOK OUT! SOMEBODY'S THAR!'\"]\n\nIt was soon over. The whole occurrence, charged with all the\ndefinitiveness of fate, was scant ten minutes in transition. A laggard\nhoof-beat, a faint echo amidst the silent gathering of the moonlit\nmists, and the loud plaint of Hoho-hebee Falls were the only sounds that\ncaught Nehemiah's anxious ear when he crept out from behind the empty\nbarrels and tremulously took his way along the solitary ledges, ever and\nanon looking askance at his shadow, that more than once startled him\nwith a sense of unwelcome companionship. The mists, ever thickening,\nreceived him into their midst. However threatening to the retreat of the\nraiders, they were friendly to him. Once, indeed, they parted, showing\nthrough the gauzy involutions of their illumined folds the pale moon\nhigh in the sky, and close at hand a horse's head just above his own,\nwith wild, dilated eyes and quivering nostrils. Its effect was as\ndetached as if it were only drawn upon a canvas; the mists rolled over\nanew, and but that he heard the subdued voice of the rider urging the\nanimal on, and the thud of the hoofs farther away, he might have thought\nthis straggler from the revenue party some wild illusion born of his\nterrors.\n\nThe fate of Hilary Tarbetts remained a mystery. When the stream was\ndragged for his body it was deemed strange that it should not be found,\nsince the bowlders that lay all adown the rocky gorge so interrupted the\nsweep of the current that so heavy a weight seemed likely to be caught\namongst them. Others commented on the strength and great momentum of the\nflow, and for this reason it was thought that in some dark underground\nchannel of Hide-and-Seek Creek the moonshiner had found his sepulchre. A\nstory of his capture was circulated after a time; it was supposed that\nhe dived and swam ashore after his fall, and that the raiders overtook\nhim on their retreat, and that he was now immured, a Federal prisoner.\nThe still and all the effects of the brush-whiskey trade disappeared as\nmysteriously, and doubtless this silent flitting gave rise to the\nhopeful rumor that Tarbetts had been seen alive and well since that\nfateful night, and that in some farther recesses of the wilderness,\nundiscovered by the law, he and like comrades continue their chosen\nvocation. However that may be, the vicinity of Hoho-hebee Falls, always\na lonely place, is now even a deeper solitude. The beavers, unmolested,\nhaunt the ledges; along their precipitous ways the deer come down to\ndrink; on bright days the rainbow hovers about the falls; on bright\nnights they glimmer in the moon; but never again have they glowed with\nthe shoaling orange light of the furnace, intensifying to the deep tawny\ntints of its hot heart, like the rich glamours of some great topaz.\n\nThis alien glow it was thought had betrayed the place to the raiders,\nand Nehemiah's instrumentality was never discovered. The post-office\nappointment was bestowed upon his rival for the position, and it was\nthought somewhat strange that he should endure the defeat with such\nexemplary resignation. No one seemed to connect his candidacy with his\nbootless search for his nephew. When Leander chanced to be mentioned,\nhowever, he observed with some rancor that he reckoned it was just as\nwell he didn't come up with Lee-yander; there was generally mighty\nlittle good in a runaway boy, and Lee-yander had the name of being\ndisobejent an' turr'ble bad.\n\nLeander found a warm welcome at home. His violin had been broken in the\n_melee_, and the miller, though ardently urged, never could remember the\nspot where he had hidden the book--such havoc had the confusion of that\nmomentous night wrought in his mental processes. Therefore, unhampered\nby music or literature, Leander addressed himself to the plough-handles,\nand together that season he and \"Neighbor\" made the best crop of their\nlives.\n\nLaurelia sighed for the violin and Leander's music, though, as she\nalways made haste to say, some pious people misdoubted whether it were\nnot a sinful pastime. On such occasions it went hard with Leander not to\ndivulge his late experiences and the connection of the pious Uncle\nNehemiah therewith. But he always remembered in time Laurelia's\ndisability to receive confidences, being a woman, and consequently\nunable to keep a secret, and he desisted.\n\nOne day, however, when he and Ty Sudley, ploughing the corn, now\nknee-high, were pausing to rest in the turn-row, a few furrows apart, in\nan ebullition of filial feeling he told all that had befallen him in\nhis absence. Ty Sudley, divided between wrath toward Nehemiah and\nquaking anxiety for the dangers that Leander had been constrained to\nrun--_ex post facto_ tremors, but none the less acute--felt moved now\nand then to complacence in his prodigy.\n\n\"So 'twar _you-uns_ ez war smart enough ter slam the furnace door an'\nthrow the whole place inter darkness! That saved them moonshiners and\nraiders from killin' each other. It saved a deal o' bloodshed--ez sure\nez shootin'. 'Twar mighty smart in ye. But\"--suddenly bethinking himself\nof sundry unfilial gibes at Uncle Nehemiah and the facetious account of\nhis plight--\"Lee-yander, ye mustn't be so turr'ble bad, sonny; ye\n_mustn't_ be so _turr'ble_ bad.\"\n\n\"Naw, ma'am, Neighbor, I won't,\" Leander protested.\n\nAnd he went on following the plough down the furrow and singing loud and\nclear.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RIDDLE OF THE ROCKS\n\n\nUpon the steep slope of a certain \"bald\" among the Great Smoky Mountains\nthere lie, just at the verge of the strange stunted woods from which the\ntreeless dome emerges to touch the clouds, two great tilted blocks of\nsandstone. They are of marked regularity of shape, as square as if hewn\nwith a chisel. Both are splintered and fissured; one is broken in twain.\nNo other rock is near. The earth in which they are embedded is the rich\nblack soil not unfrequently found upon the summits. Nevertheless no\ngreat significance might seem to attach to their isolation--an\noutcropping of ledges, perhaps; a fracture of the freeze; a trace of\nancient denudation by the waters of the spring in the gap, flowing now\ndown the trough of the gorge in a silvery braid of currents, and with a\nmurmur that is earnest of a song.\n\nIt may have been some distortion of the story heard only from the lips\nof the circuit rider, some fantasy of tradition invested with the\nurgency of fact, but Roger Purdee could not remember the time when he\ndid not believe that these were the stone tables of the Law that Moses\nflung down from the mountain-top in his wrath. In the dense ignorance of\nthe mountaineer, and his secluded life, he knew of no foreign\ncountries, no land holier than the land of his home. There was no\nincongruity to his mind that it should have been in the solemn silence\nand austere solitude of the \"bald,\" in the magnificent ascendency of the\nGreat Smoky, that the law-giver had met the Lord and spoken with Him.\nOften as he lay at length on the strange barren place, veiled with the\nclouds that frequented it, a sudden sunburst in their midst would\nsuggest anew what supernal splendors had once been here vouchsafed to\nthe faltering eye of man. The illusion had come to be very dear to him;\nin this insistent localization of his faith it was all very near. And so\nhe would go down to the slope below, among the weird, stunted trees, and\nlook once more upon the broken tables, and ponder upon the strange signs\nwritten by time thereon. The insistent fall of the rain, the incisive\nblasts of the wind, coming again and again, though the centuries went,\nwere registered here in mystic runes. The surface had weathered to a\nwhitish-gray, but still in tiny depressions its pristine dark color\nshowed in rugose characters. A splintered fissure held delicate fucoid\nimpressions in fine script full of meaning. A series of worm-holes\ntraced erratic hieroglyphics across a scaling corner; all the varied\ntexts were illuminated by quartzose particles glittering in the sun, and\nhere and there fine green grains of glauconite. He knew no names like\nthese, and naught of meteorological potency. He had studied no other\nrock. His casual notice had been arrested nowhere by similar signs.\nUnder the influence of his ignorant superstition, his cherished\nillusion, the lonely wilderness, what wonder that, as he pondered upon\nthe rocks, strange mysteries seemed revealed to him? He found\nsignificance in these cabalistic scriptures--nay, he read inspired\nwords! With the ramrod of his gun he sought to follow the fine tracings\nof the letters writ by the finger of the Lord on the stone tables that\nMoses flung down from the mountain-top in his wrath.\n\nWith a devout thankfulness Purdee realized that he owned the land where\nthey lay. It was worth, perhaps, a few cents an acre; it was utterly\nuntillable, almost inaccessible, and his gratulation owed its fervor\nonly to its spiritual values. He was an idle and shiftless fellow, and\nhad known no glow of acquisition, no other pride of possession. He\nherded cattle much of the time in the summer, and he hunted in the\nwinter--wolves chiefly, their hair being long and finer at this season,\nand the smaller furry gentry; for he dealt in peltry. And so, despite\nthe vastness of the mountain wilds, he often came and knelt beside the\nrocks with his rifle in his hand, and sought anew to decipher the mystic\nlegends. His face, bending over the tables of the Law with the earnest\nresearch of a student, with the chastened subduement of devotion, with\nall the calm sentiments of reverie, lacked something of its normal\naspect. When a sudden stir of the leaves or the breaking of a twig\nrecalled him to the world, and he would lift his head, it might hardly\nseem the same face, so heavy was the lower jaw, so insistent and\ncoercive his eye. But if he took off his hat to place therein his cotton\nbandana handkerchief or (if he were in luck and burdened with game) the\nscalp of a wild-cat--valuable for the bounty offered by the State--he\nshowed a broad, massive forehead that added the complement of\nexpression, and suggested a doubt if it were ferocity his countenance\nbespoke or force. His long black hair hung to his shoulders, and he wore\na tangled black beard; his deep-set dark blue eyes were kindled with the\nfires of imagination. He was tall, and of a commanding presence but for\nhis stoop and his slouch. His garments seemed a trifle less well ordered\nthan those of his class, and bore here and there the traces of the blood\nof beasts; on his trousers were grass stains deeply grounded, for he\nknelt often to get a shot, and in meditation beside the rocks. He spent\nlittle time otherwise upon his knees, and perhaps it was some intuition\nof this fact that roused the wrath of certain brethren of the\ncamp-meeting when he suddenly appeared among them, arrogating to himself\npeculiar spiritual experiences, proclaiming that his mind had been\nopened to strange lore, repeating thrilling, quickening words that he\ndeclared he had read on the dead rocks whereon were graven the\ncommandments of the Lord. The tumultuous tide of his rude eloquence, his\nwild imagery, his ecstasy of faith, rolled over the assembly and awoke\nit anew to enthusiasms. Much that he said was accepted by the more\nintelligent ministers who led the meeting as figurative, as the finer\nfervors of truth, and they felt the responsive glow of emotion and\nquiver of sympathy. He intended it in its simple, literal significance.\nAnd to the more local members of the congregation the fact was patent.\n\n\"Sech a pack o' lies hev seldom been tole in the hearin' o' Almighty\nGawd,\" said Job Grinnell, a few days after the breaking up of camp. He\nwas rehearsing the proceedings at the meeting partly for the joy of\nhearing himself talk, and partly at the instance of his wife, who had\nbeen prevented from attending by the inopportune illness of one of the\nchildren. \"Ez I loant my ear ter the words o' that thar brazen buzzard I\neyed him constant. Fur I looked ter see the jedgmint o' the Lord descend\nupon him like S'phira an' An'ias.\"\n\n\"_Who?_\" asked his wife, pausing in her task of picking up chips. He had\nspoken of them so familiarly that one might imagine they lived close by\nin the cove.\n\n\"An'ias an' S'phira--them in the Bible ez war streck by lightnin' fur\nlyin',\" he explained.\n\n\"I 'member _her_,\" she said. \"S'phia, I calls her.\"\n\n\"Waal, A'gusta, _S'phira_ do me jes ez well,\" he said, with the\nmomentary sulkiness of one corrected. \"Thar war a man along, though. An'\n'pears ter me thar war powerful leetle jestice in thar takin' off, ef\nRoger Purdee be 'lowed ter stan' up thar in the face o' the meetin' an'\nlie so ez no yearthly critter in the worl' could b'lieve him--'ceptin'\nBrother Jacob Page, ez 'peared plumb out'n his head with religion, an'\ngot ter shoutin' when this Purdee tuk ter tellin' the law he read on\nthem rocks--Moses' tables, folks calls 'em--up yander in the mounting.\"\n\nHe nodded upward toward the great looming range above them. His house\nwas on a spur of the mountain, overshadowed by it; shielded. It was to\nhim the Almoner of Fate. One by one it doled out the days, dawning from\nits summit; and thence, too, came the darkness and the glooms of night.\nOne by one it liberated from the enmeshments of its tangled wooded\nheights the constellations to gladden the eye and lure the fancy. Its\nlargess of silver torrents flung down its slopes made fertile the little\nfields, and bestowed a lilting song on the silence, and took a turn at\nthe mill-wheel, and did not disdain the thirst of the humble cattle. It\ngave pasturage in summer, and shelter from the winds of the winter. It\nwas the assertive feature of his life; he could hardly have imagined\nexistence without \"the mounting.\"\n\n\"Tole what he read on them rocks--yes, sir, ez glib ez swallerin' a\npersimmon. 'Twarn't the reg'lar ten comman'ments--some cur'ous new\ntexts--jes a-rollin' 'em out ez sanctified ez ef he hed been called ter\npreach the gospel! An' thar war Brother Eden Bates a-answerin' 'Amen'\nter every one. An' Brother Jacob Page: 'Glory, brother! Ye hev received\nthe outpourin' of the Sperit! Shake hands, brother!' An' sech ez that.\nTer hev hearn the commotion they raised about that thar derned lyin'\nsinner ye'd hev 'lowed the meetin' war held ter glorify him stiddier the\nLord.\"\n\nJob Grinnell himself was a most notorious Christian. Renown, however,\nwith him could never be a superfluity, or even a sufficiency, and he\ngrudged the fame that these strange spiritual utterances were acquiring.\nHe had long enjoyed the distinction of being considered a miraculous\nconvert; his rescue from the wily enticements of Satan had been\ncelebrated with much shaking and clapping of hands, and cries of\n\"Glory,\" and muscular ecstasy. His religious experiences thenceforth,\nhis vacillations of hope and despair, had been often elaborated amongst\nthe brethren. But his was a conventional soul; its expression was in the\nformulas and platitudes of the camp-meeting. They sank into oblivion in\nthe excitement attendant upon Purdee's wild utterances from the mystic\nscript of the rocks.\n\nAs Grinnell talked, he often paused in his work to imitate the\ngesticulatory enthusiasms of the saints at the camp-meeting. He was a\nthickset fellow of only medium height, and was called, somewhat\ninvidiously, \"a chunky man.\" His face was broad, prosaic, good-natured,\nincapable of any fine gradations of expression. It indicated an\nelementary rage or a sluggish placidity. He had a ragged beard of a\nreddish hue, and hair a shade lighter. He wore blue jeans trousers and\nan unbleached cotton shirt, and the whole system depended on one\nsuspender. He was engaged in skimming a great kettle of boiling sorghum\nwith a perforated gourd, which caught the scum and strained the liquor.\nThe process was primitive, instead of the usual sorghum boiler and\nfurnace, the kettle was propped upon stones laid together so as to\nconcentrate the heat of the fire. His wife was continually feeding the\nflames with chips which she brought in her apron from the wood-pile. Her\ncountenance was half hidden in her faded pink sun-bonnet, which,\nhowever, did not obscure an expression responsive to that on the man's\nface. She did not grudge Purdee the salvation he had found; she only\ngrudged him the prestige he had derived from its unique method.\n\n\"Why can't the critter elude Satan with less n'ise?\" she asked,\nacrimoniously.\n\n\"Edzackly,\" her husband chimed in.\n\nNow and then both turned a supervisory glance at the sorghum mill down\nthe slope at some little distance, and close to the river. It had been a\nlong day for the old white mare, still trudging round and round the\nmill; perhaps a long day as well for the two half-grown boys, one of\nwhom fed the machine, thrusting into it a stalk at a time, while the\nother brought in his arms fresh supplies from the great pile of sorghum\ncane hard by.\n\nAll the door-yard of the little log cabin was bedaubed with the scum of\nthe sorghum which Job Grinnell flung from his perforated gourd upon the\nground. The idle dogs--and there were many--would find, when at last\ndisposed to move, a clog upon their nimble feet. They often sat down\nwith a wrinkling of brows and a puzzled expression of muzzle to\ninvestigate their gelatinous paws with their tongues, not without\ncertain indications of pleasure, for the sorghum was very sweet; some of\nthem, that had acquired the taste for it from imitating the children,\nopenly begged.\n\nOne, a gaunt hound, hardly seemed so idle; he had a purpose in life, if\nit might not be called a profession. He lay at length, his paws\nstretched out before him, his head upon them; his big brown eyes were\nclosed only at intervals; ever and again they opened watchfully at the\nmovement of a small child, ten months old, perhaps, dressed in pink\ncalico, who sat in the shadow formed by the protruding clay and stick\nchimney, and played by bouncing up and down and waving her fat hands,\nwhich seemed a perpetual joy and delight of possession to her. Take her\naltogether, she was a person of prepossessing appearance, despite her\nfrank display of toothless gums, and around her wide mouth the unseemly\ntraces of sorghum. She had the plumpest graces of dimples in every\ndirection, big blue eyes with long lashes, the whitest possible skin,\nand an extraordinary pair of pink feet, which she rubbed together in\nmoments of joy as if she had mistaken them for her hands. Although she\nsputtered a good deal, she had a charming, unaffected laugh, with the\ngiggle attachment natural to the young of her sex.\n\nSuddenly there sounded an echo of it, as it were--a shrill, nervous\nlittle whinny; the boys whirled round to see whence it came. The\npersistent rasping noise of the sorghum mill and the bubbling of the\ncaldron had prevented them from hearing an approach. There, quite close\nat hand, peering through the rails of the fence, was a little girl of\nseven or eight years of age.\n\n\"I wanter kem in an' see you-uns's baby!\" she exclaimed, in a high,\nshrill voice. \"I want to pat it on the head.\"\n\nShe was a forlorn little specimen, very thin and sharp-featured. Her\nhomespun dress was short enough to show how fragile were the long lean\nlegs that supported her. The curtain of her sun-bonnet, which was\nevidently made for a much larger person, hung down nearly to the hem of\nher skirt; as she turned and glanced anxiously down the road, evidently\nsuspecting a pursuer, she looked like an erratic sun-bonnet out for a\nstroll on a pair of borrowed legs.\n\nShe turned again suddenly and applied her thin, freckled little face to\nthe crack between the rails. She smiled upon the baby, who smiled in\nresponse, and gave a little bounce that might be accounted a courtesy.\nThe younger of the boys left the cane pile and ran up to his brother at\nthe mill, which was close to the fence. \"Don't ye let her do it,\" he\nsaid, venomously. \"That thar gal is one of the Purdee fambly. I know\nher. Don't let her in.\" And he ran back to the cane.\n\nGrinnell had seemed pleased by this homage at the shrine of the family\nidol; but at the very mention of the \"Purdee fambly\" his face hardened,\nan angry light sprang into his eyes, and his gesture in skimming with\nthe perforated gourd the scum from the boiling sorghum was as energetic\nas if with the action he were dashing the \"Purdee fambly\" from off the\nface of the earth. It was an ancient feud; his grandfather and some\ncontemporary Purdee had fallen out about the ownership of certain\nvagrant cattle; there had been blows and bloodshed, other members of the\nconnection had been dragged into the controversy; summary reprisals were\nfollowed by counter-reprisals. Barns were mysteriously fired, hen-roosts\nrobbed, horses unaccountably lamed, sheep feloniously sheared by unknown\nparties; the feeling widened and deepened, and had been handed down to\nthe present generation with now and then a fresh provocation, on the\npart of one or the other, to renew and continue the rankling old\ngrudges.\n\n[Illustration: \"SHE SMILED UPON THE BABY\"]\n\nAnd here stood the hereditary enemy, wanting to pat their baby on the\nhead.\n\n\"Naw, sir, ye won't!\" exclaimed the boy at the mill, greatly incensed at\nthe boldness of this proposition, glaring at the lean, tender, wistful\nlittle face between the rails of the fence.\n\nBut the baby, who had not sense enough to know anything about hereditary\nenemies, bounced and laughed and gurgled and sputtered with glee, and\nwaved her hands, and had never looked fatter or more beguiling.\n\n\"I jes wanter pat it wunst,\" sighed the hereditary enemy, with a lithe\nwrithing of her thin little anatomy in the anguish of denial--\"_jes\nwunst!_\"\n\n\"Naw, sir!\" exclaimed the youthful Grinnell, more insistently than\nbefore. He did not continue, for suddenly there came running down the\nroad a boy of his own size, out of breath, and red and angry--the\npursuer, evidently, that the hereditary enemy had feared, for she\ncrouched up against the fence with a whimper.\n\n\"Kem along away from thar, ye miser'ble little stack o' bones!\" he\ncried, seizing his sister by one hand and giving her a jerk--\"a-foolin'\nround them Grinnells' fence an' a-hankerin' arter thar old baby!\"\n\nHe felt that the pride of the Purdee family was involved in this\nadmission of envy.\n\n\"I jes wanter pat it on the head _wunst_,\" she sighed.\n\n\"Waal, ye won't now,\" said the Grinnell boys in chorus.\n\nThe Purdee grasp was gentler on the little girl's arm. This was due not\nto fraternal feeling so much as to loyalty to the clan; \"stack o'\nbones\" though she was, they were Purdee bones.\n\n\"Kem along,\" Ab Purdee exhorted her. \"A baby ain't nuthin' extry,\nnohow\"--he glanced scoffingly at the infantile Grinnell. \"The mountings\nair fairly a-roamin' with 'em.\"\n\n\"We-uns 'ain't got none at our house,\" whined the sun-bonnet,\ndroopingly, moving off slowly on its legs, which, indeed, seemed\nborrowed, so unsteady and loath to go they were.\n\nThe Grinnell boys laughed aloud, jeeringly and ostentatiously, and the\nPurdee blood was moved to retort: \"We-uns don't want none sech ez that.\nNary tooth in her head!\"\n\nAnd indeed the widely stretched babbling lips displayed a vast vacuity\nof gum.\n\nJob Grinnell, who had listened with an attentive ear to the talk of the\nchildren, had nevertheless continued his constant skimming of the scum.\nNow he rose from his bent posture, tossed the scum upon the ground, and\nwith the perforated gourd in his hand turned and looked at his wife.\nAugusta had dropped her apron and chips, and stood with folded arms\nacross her breast, her face wearing an expression of exasperated\nexpectancy.\n\nThe Grinnell boys were humbled and abashed. The wicked scion of the\nPurdee house, joying to note how true his shaft had sped, was again\nfitting his bow.\n\n\"An' ez bald-headed ez the mounting.\"\n\nThe baby had a big precedent, but although no peculiar shame attaches to\nthe bare pinnacle of the summit, she--despite the difference in size\nand age--was expected to show up more fully furnished, and in keeping\nwith the rule of humanity and the gentilities of life.\n\nNo teeth, no hair, no sign of any: the fact that she was so backward was\na sore point with all the family. Job Grinnell suddenly dropped the\nperforated gourd, and started down toward the fence. The acrimony of the\nold feud was as a trait bred in the bone. Such hatred as was inherent in\nhim was evoked by his religious jealousies, and the pious sense that he\nwas following the traditions of his elders and upholding the family\nhonor blended in gentlest satisfaction with his personal animosity\ntoward Roger Purdee as he noticed the boy edging off from the fence to a\nsafe distance. He eyed him derisively for a moment.\n\n\"Kin ye kerry a message straight?\" The boy looked up with an expression\nof sullen acquiescence, but said nothing. \"Ax yer dad--an' ye kin tell\nhim the word kems from me--whether he hev read sech ez this on the\nlawgiver's stone tables yander in the mounting: 'An' ye shall claim sech\nez be yourn, an' yer neighbor's belongings shall ye in no wise\nboastfully medjure fur yourn, nor look upon it fur covetiousness, nor\nyit git up a big name in the kentry fur ownin' sech ez be another's.'\"\n\nHe laughed silently--a twinkling, wrinkling demonstration over all his\nbroad face--a laugh that was younger than the man, and would have\nbefitted a square-faced boy.\n\nThe youthful Purdee, expectant of a cuffing, stood his ground more\ndoubtfully still under the insidious thrusts of this strange weapon,\nsarcasm. He knew that they were intended to hurt; he was wounded\nprimarily in the intention, but the exact lesion he could not locate. He\ncould meet a threat with a bold face, and return a blow with the best.\nBut he was mortified in this failure of understanding, and perplexity\ncowed him as contention could not. He hung his head with its sullen\nquestioning eyes, and he found great solace in a jagged bit of cloth on\nthe torn bosom of his shirt, which he could turn in his embarrassed\nfingers.\n\n\"Whar be yer dad?\" Grinnell asked.\n\n\"Up yander in the mounting,\" replied the subdued Purdee.\n\n\"A-readin' of mighty s'prisin' matter writ on the rocks o' the yearth!\"\nexclaimed Grinnell, with a laugh. \"Waal, jes keep that sayin' o' mine in\nyer head, an' tell him when he kems home. An' look a-hyar, ef enny mo'\no' his stray shoats kem about hyar, I'll snip thar ears an' gin 'em my\nmark.\"\n\nThe youth of the Purdee clan meditated on this for a moment. He could\nnot remember that they had missed any shoats. Then the full meaning of\nthe phrase dawned upon him--it was he and the wiry little sister thus\ndemeaned with a porcine appellation, and whose ears were threatened. He\nlooked up at the fence, the little low house, the barn close by, the\nsorghum mill, the drying leaves of tobacco on the scaffold, the\nsaltatory baby; his eyes filled with helpless tears, that could not\nconceal the burning hatred he was born to bear them all. He was hot and\ncold by turns; he stood staring, silent and defiant, motionless, sullen.\nHe heard the melodic measure of the river, with its crystalline, keen\nvibrations against the rocks; the munching teeth of the old\nmare--allowed to come to a stand-still that the noise of the sorghum\nmill might not impinge upon the privileges of the quarrel; and the high,\necstatic whinny of the little sister waiting on the opposite bank of the\nriver, having crossed the foot-bridge. There the Grinnell baby had\nchanced to spy her, and had bounced and grinned and sputtered affably.\nIt was she who had made all the trouble yearning after the Grinnell\nbaby.\n\nHe would not stay, however, to be ignominiously beaten, for Grinnell had\nturned away, and was looking about the ground as if in search of a thick\nstick. He accounted himself no craven, thus numerically at a\ndisadvantage, to turn shortly about, take his way down the rocky slope,\ncross the foot-bridge, jerk the little girl by one hand and lead her\nwhimpering off, while the round-eyed Grinnell baby stared gravely after\nher with inconceivable emotions. These presently resulted in rendering\nher cross; she whined a little and rubbed her eyes, and, smarting from\nher own ill-treatment of them, gave a sharp yelp of dismay. The old dog\narose and went and sat close by her, eying her solemnly and wagging his\ntail, as if begging her to observe how content he was. His dignity was\nsomewhat impaired by sudden abrupt snaps at flies, which caused her to\nwink, stare, and be silent in astonishment.\n\n\"Waal, Job Grinnell,\" exclaimed Augusta, as her husband came back and\ntook the perforated gourd from her hand--for she had been skimming the\nsorghum in his absence--\"ye air the longest-tongued man, ter be so\nshort-legged, I ever see!\"\n\nHe looked a trifle discomfited. He had deported himself with unwonted\ndecision, conscious that Augusta was looking on, and in truth somewhat\nsupported by the expectation of her approval.\n\n\"What ails ye ter say words ye can't abide by--ye 'low ye 'pear so\ngraceful on the back track?\" she asked.\n\nHe bent over the sorghum, silently skimming. His composure was somewhat\nruffled, and in throwing away the scum his gesture was of negligent and\ndiscursive aim; the boiling fluid bespattered the foot of one of the\nomnipresent dogs, whose shrieks rent the sky and whose activity on three\nlegs amazed the earth. He ran yelping to Mrs. Grinnell, nearly\noverturning her in his turbulent demand for sympathy; then scampered\nacross to the boys, who readily enough stopped their work to examine the\nwounded member and condole with its wheezing proprietor.\n\n\"What ye mean, A'gusta?\" Grinnell said at length. \"Kase I 'lowed I'd cut\nthar ears? I ain't foolin'. Kem meddlin' about remarkin' on our chill'n\nagin, I'll show 'em.\"\n\nAugusta looked at him in exasperation. \"I ain't keerin' ef all the\nPurdees war deef,\" she remarked, inhumanly, \"but what war them words ye\nsent fur a message ter Purdee?--'bout pridin' on what ain't theirn.\"\n\nGrinnell in his turn looked at her--but dubiously. However much a man is\nunder the domination of his wife, he is seldom wholly frank. It is in\nthis wise that his individuality is preserved to him. \"I war jes\nwantin' ter know ef them words war on the rocks,\" he said with a\ndisingenuousness worthy of a higher culture.\n\nShe received this with distrust. \"I kin tell ye now--they ain't,\" she\nsaid, discriminatingly; \"Purdee's words don't sound like _them_.\"\n\n\"Waal, now, what's the differ?\" he demanded, with an indignation natural\nenough to aspiring humanity detecting a slur upon one's literary style.\n\n\"Waal--\" she paused as she knelt down to feed the fire, holding the\nfragrant chips in her hand; the flame flickered out and lighted up her\nreflective eyes while she endeavored to express the distinction she\nfelt: \"Purdee's words don't sound ter me like the words of a man sech ez\nmen be.\"\n\nGrinnell wrinkled his brows, trying to follow her here.\n\n\"They sound ter me like the words spoke in a dream--the pernouncings of\na vision.\" Mrs. Grinnell fancied that she too had a gift of Biblical\nphraseology. \"They sound ter me like things I hearn whenst I war\na-hungered arter righteousness an' seekin' religion, an' bided alone in\nthe wilderness a-waitin' o' the Sperit.\"\n\n\"'Gusta!\" suddenly exclaimed her husband, with the cadence of amazed\nconviction, \"ye b'lieve the lie o' that critter, an' that he reads the\nwords o' the Lord on the rock!\"\n\nShe looked up a little startled. She had been unconscious of the\ncircuitous approaches of credence, and shared his astonishment in the\nconclusion.\n\n\"Waal, sir!\" he said, more hurt and cast down than one would have\ndeemed possible. \"I'm willin' ter hev it so. I'm jes nuthin' but a\nsinner an' a fool, ripenin' fur damnation, an' he air a saint o' the\nyearth!\"\n\nNow such sayings as this were frequent upon Job Grinnell's tongue. He\ndid not believe them; their utility was in their challenge to\ncontradiction. Thus they often promoted an increased cordiality of the\ndomestic relations and an accession of self-esteem.\n\nAugusta, however, was tired; the boiling sorghum and the September sun\nwere debilitating in their effects. There was something in the scene\nwith the youthful Purdee that grated upon her half-developed\nsensibilities. The baby was whimpering outright, and the cow was lowing\nat the bars. She gave her irritation the luxury of withholding the salve\nto Grinnell's wounded vanity. She said nothing. The tribute to Purdee\nwent for what it was worth, and he was forced to swallow the humble-pie\nhe had taken into his mouth, albeit it stuck in his throat.\n\nA shadow seemed to have fallen into the moral atmosphere as the gentle\ndusk came early on. One had a sense as if bereft, remembering that so\nshort a time ago at this hour the sun was still high, and that the\nfull-pulsed summer day throbbed to a climax of color and bloom and\nredundant life. Now, the scent of harvests was on the air; in the\nstubble of the sorghum patch she saw a quail's brood more than\nhalf-grown, now afoot, and again taking to wing with a loud whirring\nsound. The perfume of ripening muscadines came from the bank of the\nriver. The papaws hung globular among the leaves of the bushes, and the\npersimmons were reddening. The vermilion sun was low in the sky above\nthe purpling mountains; the stream had changed from a crystalline brown\nto red, to gold, and now it was beginning to be purple and silver. And\nthis reminded her that the full-moon was up, and she turned to look at\nit--so pearly and luminous above the jagged ridge-pole of the dark\nlittle house on the rise. The sky about it was blue, refining into an\nexquisitely delicate and ethereal neutrality near the horizon. The baby\nhad fallen asleep, with its bald head on the old dog's shoulder.\n\nAfter the supper was over, the sorghum fire still burned beneath the\ngreat kettle, for the syrup was not yet made, and sorghum-boiling is an\nindustry that cannot be intermitted. The fire in the midst of the gentle\nshadow and sheen of the night had a certain profane, discordant effect.\nPete's ill-defined figure slouching over it while he skimmed the syrup\nwas grimly suggestive of the distillations of strange elixirs and\nunhallowed liquors, and his simple face, lighted by a sudden darting red\nflame, had unrecognizable significance and was of sinister intent. For\nPete was detailed to attend to the boiling; the grinding was done, and\nthe old white mare stood still in the midst of the sorghum stubble and\nthe moonlight, as motionless and white as if she were carved in marble.\nJob Grinnell sat and smoked on the porch.\n\nPresently he got up suddenly, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and\nlooked at it carefully before he stuck it into his pocket. He went,\nwithout a word, down the rocky slope, past the old drowsing mare, and\nacross the foot-bridge. Two or three of the dogs, watching him as he\nreappeared on the opposite bank, affected a mistake in identity. They\ngrowled, then barked outright, and at last ran down and climbed the\nfence and bounded about it, baying the vista where he had vanished,\nuntil the sleepy old mare turned her head and gazed in mild surprise at\nthem.\n\nAugusta sat alone on the step of the porch.\n\nShe had various regrets in her mind, incipient even before he had quite\ngone, and now defining themselves momently with added poignancy. A woman\nwho, in her retirement at home, charges herself with the control of a\nman's conduct abroad, is never likely to be devoid of speculation upon\nprobable disasters to ensue upon any abatement of the activities of her\ndiscretion. She was sorry that she had allowed so trifling a matter to\nmar the serenity of the family; her conscience upbraided her that she\nhad not besought him to avoid the blacksmith's shop, where certain men\nof the neighborhood were wont to congregate and drink deep into the\nnight. Above all, her mind went back to the enigmatical message, and she\nwondered that she could have been so forgetful as to fail to urge him to\nforbear angering Purdee, for this would have a cumulative effect upon\nall the rancors of the old quarrels, and inaugurate perhaps a new series\nof reprisals.\n\n\"I ain't afeard o' no Purdee ez ever stepped,\" she said to herself,\ndefining her position. \"But I'm fur peace. An' ef the Purdees will leave\nwe-uns be, I ain't a-goin' ter meddle along o' them.\"\n\nShe remembered an old barn-burning, in the days when she and her husband\nwere newly married, at his father's house. She looked up at the barn\nhard by, on a line with the dwelling, with that tenderness which one\nfeels for a thing, not because of its value, but for the sake of\npossession, for the kinship with the objects that belong to the home. A\ncat was sitting high in a crevice in the logs where the daubing had\nfallen out; the moon glittered in its great yellow eyes. A frog was\nleaping along the open space about the rude step at Augusta's feet. A\nclump of mullein leaves, silvered by the light, spangled by the dew, hid\nhim presently. What an elusive glistening gauze hung over the valley far\nbelow, where the sense of distance was limited by the sense of\nsight!--for it was here only that the night, though so brilliant, must\nattest the incomparable lucidity of daylight. She could not even\ndistinguish, amidst those soft sheens of the moon and the dew, the\nLombardy poplar that grew above the door of old Squire Grove's house\ndown in the cove; in the daytime it was visible like a tiny finger\npointing upward. How drowsy was the sound of the katydid, now loudening,\nnow falling, now fainting away! And the tree-toad shrilled in the\ndog-wood tree. The frogs, too, by the river in iterative fugue sent\nforth a song as suggestive of the margins as the scent of the fern, and\nthe mint, and the fragrant weeds.\n\nA convulsive start! She did not know that she slept until she was again\nawake. The moon had travelled many a mile along the highways of the\nskies. It hung over the purple mountains, over the farthest valley. The\ncicada had grown dumb. The stars were few and faint. The air was chill.\nShe started to her feet; her garments were heavy with dew. The fire\nbeneath the sorghum kettle had died to a coal, flaring or fading as the\nfaint fluctuations of the wind might will. Near it Pete slumbered where\nhe too had sat down to rest. And Job--Job had never returned.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHe had found it a lightsome enough scene at the blacksmith's shop, where\nit was understood that the neighboring politicians collogued at times,\nor brethren in the church discussed matters of discipline or more\nspiritual affairs. In which of these interests a certain corpulent jug\nwas most active it would be difficult perhaps to accurately judge. The\ngreat barn-like doors were flung wide open, and there was a group of men\nhalf within the shelter and half without; the shoeing-stool, a broken\nplough, an empty keg, a log, and a rickety chair sufficed to seat the\ncompany. The moonlight falling into the door showed the great slouching,\ndarkling figures, the anvil, the fire of the forge (a dim ashy coal),\nand the shadowy hood merging indistinguishably into the deep duskiness\nof the interior. In contrast, the scene glimpsed through the low window\nat the back of the shop had a certain vivid illuminated effect. A spider\nweb, revealing its geometric perfection, hung half across one corner of\nthe rude casement; the moonbeams without were individualized in fine\nfilar delicacy, like the ravellings of a silver skein. The boughs of a\ntree which grew on a slope close below almost touched the lintel; the\nleaves seemed a translucent green; a bird slept on a twig, its head\nbeneath its wing.\n\n[Illustration: THE BLACKSMITH'S SHOP]\n\nBack of the cabin, which was situated on a limited terrace, the great\naltitudes of the mountain rose into the infinity of the night.\n\nThe drawling conversation was beset, as it were, by faint fleckings of\nsound, lightly drawn from a crazy old fiddle under the chin of a gaunt,\nyellow-haired young giant, one Ephraim Blinks, who lolled on a log, and\nwho by these vague harmonies unconsciously gave to the talk of his\ncomrades a certain theatrical effect.\n\nGrinnell slouched up and sat down among them, responding with a nod to\nthe unceremonious \"Hy're, Job?\" of the blacksmith, who seemed thus to do\nthe abbreviated honors of the occasion. The others did not so formally\nnotice his coming.\n\nThe subject of conversation was the same that had pervaded his own\nthoughts. He was irritated to observe how Purdee had usurped public\nattention, and yet he himself listened with keenest interest.\n\n\"Waal,\" said the ponderous blacksmith, \"I kin onderstan' mighty well ez\nMoses would hev been mighty mad ter see them folks a-worshippin' o' a\ncalf--senseless critters they be! 'Twarn't no use flingin' down them\nrocks, though, an' gittin' 'em bruk. Sandstone ain't like metal; ye\ncan't heat it an' draw it down an' weld it agin.\"\n\nHis round black head shone in the moonlight, glistening because of his\nhabit of plunging it, by way of making his toilet, into the barrel of\nwater where he tempered his steel. He crossed his huge folded bare arms\nover his breast, and leaned back against the door on two legs of the\nrickety chair.\n\n\"Naw, sir,\" another chimed in. \"He mought hev knowed he'd jes hev ter go\nter quarryin' agin.\"\n\n\"They air always a-crackin' up them folks in the Bible ez sech powerful\nwise men,\" said another, whose untrained mind evidently held the germs\nof advanced thinking. \"'Pears ter me ez some of 'em conducted tharselves\nez foolish ez enny folks I know--this hyar very Moses one o' 'em.\nThrowin' down them rocks 'minds me o' old man Pinner's tantrums. Sher'ff\nkem ter his house 'bout a jedgmint debt, an' levied on his craps. An'\narter he war gone old man tuk a axe an' gashed bodaciously inter the\nloom an' hacked it up. Ez ef that war goin' ter do enny good! His wife\nwar the mos' outed woman I ever see. They 'ain't got nare nother loom\nnuther, an' hain't hearn no advices from the Lord.\"\n\nThe violinist paused in his playing. \"They 'lowed Moses war a meek man\ntoo,\" he said. \"He killed a man with a brick-badge an' buried him in the\nsand. Mighty meek ways\"--with a satirical grimace.\n\nThe others, divining that this was urged in justification and precedent\nfor devious modern ways that were not meek, did not pursue this branch\nof the subject.\n\n\"S'prised me some,\" remarked the advanced thinker, \"ter hear ez them\ntables o' stone war up on the bald o' the mounting thar. I hed drawed\nthe idee ez 'twar in some other kentry somewhar--I dunno--\" He stopped\nblankly. He could not formulate his geographical ignorance. \"An' I never\nknowed,\" he resumed, presently, \"ez thar war enough gold in Tennessee\nter make a gold calf; they fund gold hyar, but 'twar mighty leetle.\"\n\n\"Mebbe 'twar a mighty leetle calf,\" suggested the blacksmith.\n\n\"Mebbe so,\" assented the other.\n\n\"Mebbe 'twar a silver one,\" speculated a third; \"plenty o' silver they\n'low thar air in the mountings.\"\n\nThe violinist spoke up suddenly. \"Git one o' them Injuns over yander ter\nQuallatown right seasonable drunk, an' he'll tell ye a power o' places\nwhar the old folks said thar war silver.\" He bowed his chin once more\nupon the instrument, and again the slow drawling conversation proceeded\nto soft music.\n\n\"Ef ye'll b'lieve me,\" said the advanced thinker, \"I never war so\nconflusticated in my life ez I war when he stood up in meetin' an' told\n'bout'n the tables o' the law bein' on the bald! I 'lowed 'twar somewhar\n'mongst some sort'n people named 'Gyptians.\"\n\n\"Mebbe some o' them Injuns air named 'Gyptians,\" suggested Spears, the\nblacksmith.\n\n\"Naw, sir,\" spoke up the fiddler, who had been to Quallatown, and was\nthe ethnographic authority of the meeting. \"Tennessee Injuns be named\nCher'kee, an' Chick'saw, an' Creeks.\"\n\nThere was a silence. The moonlight sifted through the dark little shanty\nof a shop; the fretting and foaming of a mountain stream arose from far\ndown the steep slope, where there was a series of cascades, a fine\nwater-power, utilized by a mill. The sudden raucous note of a night-hawk\njarred upon the air, and a shadow on silent wings sped past. The road\nwas dusty in front of the shop, and for a space there was no shade.\nInto the full radiance of the moonlight a rabbit bounded along, rising\nerect with a most human look of affright in its great shining eyes as it\ntremulously gazed at the motionless figures. It too was motionless for a\nmoment. The young musician made a lunge at it with his bow; it sprang\naway with a violent start--its elongated grotesque shadow bounding\nkangaroo-like beside it--into the soft gloom of the bushes. There was no\nother traveller along the road, and the talk was renewed without further\ninterruption. \"Waal, sir, ef 'twarn't fur the testimony o' the words he\nreads ez air graven on them rocks, I couldn't git my cornsent ter\nb'lieve ez Moses ever war in Tennessee,\" said the advanced thinker. \"I\nain't ondertakin' ter say what State he settled in, but I 'lowed\n'twarn't hyar. It mus' hev been, though, 'count o' the scripture on them\nbroken tables.\"\n\n\"I never knowed a meetin' woke ter sech a pint o' holiness. The saints\njes rampaged around till it fairly sounded like the cavortin's o' the\nungodly,\" a retrospective voice chimed in.\n\n\"I raised thirty-two hyme chunes,\" said the musician, who had a great\ngift in quiring, and was the famed possessor of a robust tenor voice. \"A\nleetle mo' gloryin' aroun' an' I'd hev kem ter the eend o' my row, an'\nhev hed ter begin over agin.\" He spoke with acrimony, reviewing the\njeopardy in which his _repertoire_ had been placed.\n\n\"Waal,\" said the blacksmith, passing his hand over his black head, as\nsleek and shining as a beaver's, \"I'm a-goin' up ter the bald o' the\nmounting some day soon, ef so be I kin make out ter shoe that mare o'\nmine\"--for the blacksmith's mount was always barefoot--\"I'm afeard ter\ntrest her unshod on them slippery slopes; I want ter read some o' them\nsayin's on the stone tables myself. I likes ter git a tex' or the eend\no' a hyme set a-goin' in my head--seems somehow ter teach itself ter the\nanvil, an' then it jes says it back an' forth all day. Yestiddy I never\nseen its beat--'Christ--war--born--in--Bethlehem.' The anvil jes rang\nwith that ez ef the actial metal hed the gift o' prayer an' praise.\"\n\n\"Waal, sir,\" exclaimed Job Grinnell, who had been having frequent\ncolloquies aside with the companionable jug, \"ye mought jes ez well save\nyer shoes an' let yer mare go barefoot. Thar ain't nare sign o' a word\nwrit on them rocks.\"\n\nThey all sat staring at him. Even the singing, long-drawn vibrations of\nthe violin were still.\n\n\"By Hokey!\" exclaimed the young musician, \"I'll take Purdee's word ez\nsoon ez yourn.\"\n\nThe whiskey which Grinnell had drunk had rendered him more plastic still\nto jealousy. The day was not so long past when Purdee's oath would have\nbeen esteemed a poor dependence against the word of so zealous a brother\nas he--a pillar in the church, a shining light of the congregation. He\nnoted the significant fact that it behooved him to justify himself; it\nirked him that this was exacted as a tribute to Purdee's newly acquired\nsanctity.\n\n\"Purdee's jes a-lyin' an' a-foolin' ye,\" he declared. \"Ever been up on\nthe bald?\"\n\nThey had lived in its shadow all their lives. Even by the circuitous\nmountain ways it was not more than five miles from where they sat. But\nnone had chanced to have a call to go, and it was to them as a foreign\nland to be explored.\n\n\"Waal, I hev, time an' agin,\" said Grinnell. \"I dunno who gin them rocks\nthe name of Moses' tables o' the Law. Moses must hev hed a powerful\nblock an' tackle ter lift sech tremenjious rocks. I hev known 'em named\nsech fur many a year. But I seen 'em not three weeks ago, an' thar ain't\nnare word writ on 'em. Thar's the mounting; thar's the rocks; ye kin go\nan' stare-gaze 'em an' sati'fy yerse'fs.\"\n\nWhether it were by reason of the cumulative influences of the continual\nreferences to the jug, or of that sense of reviviscence, that more alert\nenergy, which the cool Southern nights always impart after the sultry\nsummer days, the suggestion that they should go now and solve the\nmystery, and meet the dawn upon the summit of the bald, found instant\nacceptance, which it might not have secured in the stolid daylight.\n\nThe moon, splendid, a lustrous white encircled by a great halo of\ntranslucent green, swung high above the duskily purple mountains. Below\nin the valleys its progress was followed by an opalescent gossamer\npresence that was like the overflowing fulness, the surplusage, of light\nrather than mist. The shadows of the great trees were interlaced with\ndazzling silver gleams. The night was almost as bright as the day, but\ncool and dank, full of sylvan fragrance and restful silence and a\nromantic liberty.\n\nThe blacksmith carried his rifle, for wolves were often abroad in the\nwilderness. Two or three others were similarly armed; the advanced\nthinker had a hunting-knife, Job Grinnell a pistol that went by the name\nof \"shootin'-iron.\" The musician carried no weapon. \"I ain't 'feared o'\nno wolf,\" he said; \"I'll play 'em a chune.\" He went on in the vanguard,\nhis tousled yellow hair idealized with many a shimmer in the moonlight\nas it hung curling down on his blue jeans coat, his cheek laid softly on\nthe violin, the bow glancing back and forth as if strung with moonbeams\nas he played. The men woke the solemn silences with their loud mirthful\nvoices; they startled precipitate echoes; they fell into disputes and\nwrangled loudly, and would have turned back if sure of the way home, but\nJob Grinnell led steadily on, and they were fain to follow. They lagged\nto look at a spot where some man, unheeded even by tradition, had dug\nhis heart's grave in a vain search for precious metal. A deep excavation\nin the midst of the wilderness told the story; how long ago it was might\nbe guessed from the age of a stalwart oak that had sunk roots into its\ndepths; the shadows were heavy about it; a sense of despair brooded in\nthe loneliness. And so up and up the endless ascent; sometimes great\nchasms were at one side, stretching further and further, and crowding\nthe narrow path--the herder's trail--against the sheer ascent, till it\nseemed that the treacherous mountains were yawning to engulf them. The\nair was growing colder, but was exquisitely clear and exhilarating; the\ngreat dewy ferns flung silvery fronds athwart the way; vines in\nstupendous lengths swung from the tops of gigantic trees to the roots.\nHark! among them birds chirp; a matutinal impulse seems astir in the\nwoods; the moon is undimmed; the stars faint only because of her\nsplendors; but one can feel that the earth has roused itself to a sense\nof a new day. And there, with such feathery flashes of white foam, such\nbrilliant straight lengths of translucent water, such a leaping grace of\nimpetuous motion, the currents of the mountain stream, like the arrows\nof Diana, shoot down the slopes. And now a vague mist is among the\ntrees, and when it clears away they seem shrunken, as under a spell, to\nhalf their size. They grow smaller and smaller still, oak and chestnut\nand beech, but dwarfed and gnarled like some old orchard. And suddenly\nthey cease, and the vast grassy dome uprises against the sky, in which\nthe moon is paling into a dull similitude of itself; no longer wondrous,\ntranscendent, but like some lily of opaque whiteness, fair and fading.\nBeneath is a purple, deeply serious, and sombre earth, to which mists\nminister, silent and solemn; myriads of mountains loom on every hand;\nthe half-seen mysteries of the river, which, charged with the red clay\nof its banks, is of a tawny color, gleams as it winds in and out among\nthe white vapors that reach in fantastic forms from heaven above to the\nvalley below. There is a certain relief in the mist--it veils the\ninfinities of the scene, on which the mind can lay but a trembling hold.\n\n\"Folks tell all sort'n cur'ous tales 'bout'n this hyar spot,\" said Job\nGrinnell, his square face, his red hair hanging about his ears, and his\nragged red beard visible in the dull light of the coming day. \"I hev\nhearn folks 'low ez a pa'tridge up hyar will look ez big ez a Dominicky\nrooster. An' ef ye listens ye kin hear words from somewhar. An'\nsometimes in the cattle-herdin' season the beastises will kem an' crowd\ntergether, an' stan' on the bald in the moonlight all night.\"\n\n\"I dunno,\" said the advanced thinker, \"ez I be s'prised enny ef Purdee,\nez be huntin' up hyar so constant, hev got sorter teched in the head,\nter take up sech a cur'ous notion 'bout'n them rocks.\"\n\nHe glanced along the slope at the spot, visible now, where Moses flung\nthe stone tables and they broke in twain. And there, standing beside\nthem, was a man of great height, dressed in blue jeans, his\nbroad-brimmed hat pushed from his brow, and his meditative dark eyes\nfixed upon the rocks; a deer, all gray and antlered, lay dead at his\nfeet, and his rifle rested on the ground as he leaned on the muzzle.\n\nA glance was interchanged between the others. Their intention, the\npromptings of curiosity, had flagged during the long tramp and the\ngradual waning of the influence of the jug. The coincidence of meeting\nPurdee here revived their interest. Grinnell, remembering the ancient\nfeud, held back, being unlikely to elicit Purdee's views in the face of\ntheir contradiction. The blacksmith and the young fiddler took their way\ndown toward him.\n\nHe looked up with a start, seeing them at some little distance. His\nfull, contemplative eyes rested upon them for a moment almost devoid of\nquestioning. It was not the face of a man who finds himself confronted\nwith the discovery of his duplicity and his hypocrisy. There was a\nstrange doubt stirring in the blacksmith's heart. As he approached he\nlooked upon the storied rocks with a sort of solemn awe, as if they had\nindeed been given by the hand of the Lord to his servant, who broke them\nhere in his wrath. He knew that the step of the musician slackened as he\nfollowed. What holy mysteries were they not rushing in upon? He spoke in\na bated voice.\n\n\"Roger,\" he said, \"we'uns hearn ye tell 'bout the scriptures graven on\nthese hyar tables ez Moses flung down, an' we'uns 'lowed we'uns would\nkem an' read some fur ourselves.\"\n\nPurdee did not speak nor hesitate; he moved aside that the blacksmith\nmight stand where he had been--as it were at the foot of the page.\n\nBut what transcendent glories thronged the heavens--what august\nsplendors of dawn! Had the sun ever before risen like this, with the sky\nan emblazonment of red, of gold, of darting gleams of light; with the\nmountains most royally purple or most radiantly blue; with the prismatic\nmists in flight; with the slow climax of the dazzling sphere ascending\nto dominate it all?\n\nThe blacksmith knelt down to read. The musician, his silent violin under\nhis chin, leaned over his comrade's shoulder. The hunter stood still,\nexpectant.\n\nAlas! the corrugations of time, the fissile results of the frost; the\nwavering line of ripple-marks of seas that shall ebb no more; growth of\nlichen; an army of ants in full march; a passion-flower trailing from a\ncrevice, its purple blooms lying upon the gray stone near where it is\nstamped with the fossil imprint of a sea-weed, faded long ago and\nforgotten. Or is it, alas! for the eyes that can see only this?\n\n[Illustration: \"THE TABLES OF THE LAW\"]\n\nThe blacksmith looked up with a twinkling leer; the violinist recovered\nhis full height, and drew the bow dashingly across the strings; then let\nhis arm fall.\n\n\"Roger,\" the blacksmith said, \"dad-burned ef I kin read ennything hyar.\"\n\nThe young musician looked over his brawny shoulder in silence.\n\n\"Whar d'ye make out enny letters, Roger?\" persisted Spears.\n\nPurdee leaned over and eagerly pointed with his ramrod to a curious\ncorrugation of the surface of the rock. Again the blacksmith bent down;\nthe musician craned forward, his yellow hair hanging about his bronzed\nface.\n\n\"I hev been toler'ble well acquainted with the alphabit,\" said Spears,\n\"fur goin' on thirty year an' better, an' I'll swar ter Heaven thar\nain't nare sign of a letter thar.\"\n\nPurdee stared at him in wild-eyed amazement for a moment. Then he flung\nhimself upon his knees beside the great rock, and guiding his ramrod\nover the surface, he exclaimed, \"Hyar, Spears; right hyar!\"\n\nThe blacksmith was all incredulous as he lent himself to a new posture,\nand leaned forward to look with the languid indulgence of one who will\nnot again entertain doubt.\n\n\"Nare A, nor B, nor C, nor none o' the fambly,\" he declared. \"These\nhyar rocks ain't no Moses' tables sure enough; Moses never war in\nTennessee. They be jes like enny other rock, an' thar ain't a word o'\nwritin' on 'em.\"\n\nHe looked up with a curious questioning at Purdee's face--a strange face\nfor a man detected in a falsehood, a trick. The deep-set eyes were wide\nas if straining for perception denied them. Despite the chill, rare air,\ngreat drops had started on his brow, and were falling upon his beard,\nand upon his hands. These strong hands were quivering; they hovered\nabove the signs on the rocks. The mystic letters, the inspired words,\nwhere were they? Grope as he might, he could not find them. Alas! doubt\nand denial had climbed the mountain--the awful limitations of the more\nfinite human creature--and his inspiration and the finer enthusiasms of\nthe truth were dead.\n\nDead with a throe that was almost like a literal death. This--on this he\nhad lived; the ether of ecstasy was the breath of his life. He clutched\nat the stained red handkerchief knotted about his throat as if he were\nsuffocating; he tore it open as he swayed backward on his knees. He did\nnot hear--or he did not heed--the laugh among the little crowd on the\nbald--satirical, rallying, zestful. He was deaf to the strains of the\nviolin, jeeringly and jerkingly playing a foolish tune. It was growing\nfainter, for they had all turned about to betake themselves once more to\nthe world below. He could have seen, had he cared to see, their bearded\ngrinning faces peering through the stunted trees, as descending they\ncame near the spot where he had lavished the spiritual graces of his\nfeeling, his enthusiasm, his devotion, his earnest reaching for\nsomething higher, for something holy, which had refreshed his famished\nsoul; had given to its dumbness words; had erased the values of the\nyears, of the nations; had made him friends with Moses on the \"bald\";\nhad revealed to him the finger of the Lord on the stone.\n\nHe took no heed of his gestures, of which, indeed, he was unconscious.\nThey were fine dramatically, and of great power, as he alternately rose\nto his full height, beating his breast in despair, and again sank upon\nhis knees, with a pondering brow and a searching eye, and a hovering,\ntrembling hand, striving to find the clew he had lost. They might have\nimpressed a more appreciative audience, but not one more entertained\nthan the cluster of men who looked and paused and leered in amusement at\none another, and thrust out satirical tongues. Long after they had\ndisappeared, the strains of the violin could be heard, filling the\nsolemn, stricken, strangely stunted woods with a grotesquely merry\npresence, hilarious and jeering.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nPurdee found it possible to survive the destruction of illusions. Most\nof us do. It wrought in him, however, the saturnine changes natural upon\nthe relinquishment of a dear and dead fantasy. This ethereal entity is a\nmore essential component of happiness than one might imagine from the\nextreme tenuity of the conditions of its existence. Purdee's fantasy may\nhave been a poor thing, but, although he could calmly enough close its\neyes, and straighten its limbs, and bury it decently from out the\noffended view of fact, he felt that he should mourn it in his heart as\nlong as he should live. And he was bereaved.\n\nThere is a certain stage in every sorrow when it rejects sympathy.\nPurdee, always taciturn, grave, uncommunicative, was invested with an\naustere aloofness, and was hardly to be approached as he sat, silent and\nabsent, brooding over the fire at his own home. When roused by some\ncircumstance of the domestic routine, and it became apparent that his\nmood was not sullenness or anger, but simple and complete introversion,\nit added a dignity and suggested a remoteness that were yet less\nreassuring. His son, who stood in awe of him--not because of paternal\nseverity, but because no boy could refrain from a worshipping respect\nfor so miraculous a shot, a woodsman so subtly equipped with all elusive\nsylvan instincts and knowledge--forbore to break upon his meditations by\nthe delivery of Grinnell's message. Nevertheless the consciousness of\nwithholding it weighed heavily upon him. He only pretermitted it for a\ntime, until a more receptive state of mind should warrant it. Day by\nday, however, he looked with eagerness when he came into the cabin in\nthe evening to ascertain if his father were still seated in the\nchimney-corner silently smoking his pipe. Purdee had seldom remained at\nhome so long at a time, and the boy had a daily fear that the gun on the\nprimitive rack of deer antlers would be missing, and word left in the\nfamily that he had taken the trail up the mountain, and would return\n\"'cordin' ter luck with the varmints.\" And thus Job Grinnell's\nenigmatical message, that had the ring of defiance, might remain\nindefinitely postponed.\n\nAbner had not realized how long a time it had been delayed, until one\nevening at the wood-pile, in tossing off a great stick to hew into\nlengths for the chimney-place, he noticed that thin ice had formed in\nthe moss and the dank cool shadows of the interstices. \"I tell ye now,\nwinter air a-comin',\" he observed. He stood leaning on his axe-handle\nand looking down upon the scene so far below; for Purdee's house was\nperched half-way up on the mountain-side, and he could see over the\nworld how it fared as the sun went down. Far away upon the levels of the\nvalley of East Tennessee a golden haze glittered resplendent, lying\nclose upon an irradiated earth, and ever brightening toward the horizon,\nand it seemed as if the sun in sinking might hope to fall in fairer\nspheres than the skies he had left, for they were of a dun-color and an\nopaque consistency. Only one horizontal rift gave glimpses of a dazzling\nochreous tint of indescribable brilliancy, from the focus of which the\ndivergent light was shed upon the western limits of the land. Chilhowee,\nnear at hand, was dark enough--a purplish garnet hue; but the scarlet of\nthe sour-wood gleamed in the cove; the hickory still flared gallantly\nyellow; the receding ranges to the north and south were blue and more\nfaintly azure. The little log cabin stood with small fields about it,\nfor Purdee barely subsisted on the fruits of the soil, and did not seek\nto profit. It had only one room, with a loft above; the barn was a\nmakeshift of poles, badly chinked, and showing through the crevices\nwhat scanty store there was of corn and pumpkins. A black-and-white\nwork-ox, that had evidently no deficiency of ribs, stood outside of the\nfence and gazed, a forlorn Tantalus, at these unattainable dainties; now\nand then a muttered low escaped his lips. Nobody noticed him or\nsympathized with him, except perhaps the little girl, who had come out\nin her sun-bonnet to help her brother bring in the fuel. He gruffly\naccepted her company, a little ashamed of her because she was a girl;\nsince, however, there was no other boy by to laugh, he permitted her the\ndelusion that she was of assistance.\n\nAs he paused to rest he reiterated, \"Winter air a-comin', I tell ye.\"\n\n\"D'ye reckon, Ab,\" she asked, in her high, thin little voice, her hands\nfull of chips and the basket at her feet, \"ez Grinnell's baby knows\nChris'mus air a-comin'?\"\n\nHe glowered at her as he leaned on the axe. \"I reckon Grinnell's old\nbaby dunno B from Bull-foot,\" he declared, gruffly.\n\nThe recollection of the message came over him. He had a pang of regret,\nremembering all the old grudges against the Grinnells. They were\nre-enforced by this irrepressible yearning after their baby, this\nadmission that they had aught which was not essentially despicable.\nNevertheless, he suddenly saw a reason for the Grinnell baby's\nexistence; he loaded up both arms with the sticks of wood, and, followed\nby the peripatetic sun-bonnet, conscientiously weighed down with one\nbillet, he strode into the house, and let his burden fall with a mighty\nclatter in the corner of the chimney. The sun-bonnet staggered up and\nthrew her stick on the top of the pile of wood.\n\nPurdee, sitting silently smoking, glanced up at the noise. Abner took\nadvantage of the momentary notice to claim, too, the attention of his\nmother. \"I wish ye'd make Eunice quit talkin' 'bout the Grinnell's old\nbaby, like she war actially demented--uglies' bald-headed, slab-sided,\nslobbery old baby I ever see--nare tooth in its head! I do despise them\nGrinnells.\"\n\nAs he anticipated, his father spoke suddenly: \"Ye jes keep away from\nthar,\" he said, sternly. \"I trest them folks no furder 'n a\nrattlesnake.\"\n\n\"_I_ ain't consortin' along o' 'em,\" declared the boy. \"But I actially\nhed ter take Eunice by the scalp o' her head an' lug her off one day\nwhen she hung on thar fence a-stare-gazin' Grinnell's baby like 'twar\nfitten ter eat.\"\n\nThe child's mother, a cadaverous, pale woman, was listlessly stringing\nthe warping-bars with hanks of variegated yarn. The grandmother, who\nconserved a much more active and youthful interest in life, took down a\nbrown gourd used as a scrap-basket that was on a protruding lath of the\nclay-and-stick chimney, and hunted among the scraps of homespun and bits\nof yarn stowed within it. The room was much like the gourd in its aged\nbrown tint; its indigenous aspect, as if it had not been made with\nhands, but was some spontaneous production of the soil; with its bits of\nbright color--the peppers hanging from the rafters, the rainbow-hued\nyarn festooning the warping-bars, the red coals of the fire, the blue\nand yellow ware ranged on the shelf, the brown puncheon floor and walls\nand ceiling and chimney--it might have seemed the interior of a similar\ngourd of gigantic proportions. She dressed a twig from the pile of wood\nin a gay scrap of cloth, casting glances the while at the little girl,\nand handed it to her.\n\n\"I hain't never seen ez good a baby ez this,\" she said, with the\nconvincing coercive mendacity of a grandmother.\n\nThe little girl accepted it humbly; it was a good baby doubtless of its\nsort, but it was not alive, which could not be denied of the Grinnell\nbaby, Grinnell though it was.\n\n\"An' Job Grinnell he kem down ter the fence, an' 'lowed he'd slit our\nears, an' named us shoats,\" continued her brother. Purdee lifted his\nhead. \"An' sent a word ter dad,\" said the boy, tremulously.\n\n\"What word did he send ter--_me_?\" cried Purdee.\n\nThe boy quailed to tell him. \"He tole me ter ax ye ef ye ever read sech\nez this on Moses' tables in the mountings--'An' ye shell claim sech ez\nbe yer own, an' yer neighbors' belongings shell ye in no wise boastfully\nmedjure fur yourn, nor look upon it fur covetiousness, nor yit git a big\nname up in the kentry fur ownin' sech ez be another's,'\" faltered the\nsturdy Abner.\n\nThe next moment he felt an infinite relief. He suddenly recognized the\nfact that he had been chiefly restrained from repeating the words by an\nunrealized terror lest they prove true--lest something his father\nclaimed was not his, indeed.\n\n[Illustration: \"'WHAT WORD DID HE SEND TER--_ME_?'\"]\n\nBut the expression of anger on Purdee's face was merged first in blank\nastonishment, then in perplexed cogitation, then in renewed and\noverpowering amazement.\n\nThe wife turned from the warping-bars with a vague stare of surprise,\none hand poised uncertainly upon a peg of the frame, the other holding a\nhank of \"spun truck.\" The grandmother looked over her spectacles with\neyes sharp enough to seem subsidized to see through the mystery.\n\n\"In the name o' reason and religion, Roger Purdee,\" she adjured him,\n\"what air that thar perverted Philistine talkin' 'bout?\"\n\n\"It air more'n I kin jedge of,\" said Purdee, still vainly cogitating.\n\nHe sat for a time silent, his dark eyes bent on the fire, his broad,\nhigh forehead covered by his hat pulled down over it, his long, tangled,\ndark locks hanging on his collar.\n\nSuddenly he rose, took down his gun, and started toward the door.\n\n\"Roger,\" cried his wife, shrilly, \"I'd leave the critter be. Lord knows\nthar's been enough blood spilt an' good shelter burned along o' them\nPurdees' an' Grinnells' quar'ls in times gone. Laws-a-massy!\"--she wrung\nher hands, all hampered though they were in the \"spun truck\"--\"I'd\nruther be a sheep 'thout a soul, an' live in peace.\"\n\n\"A sca'ce ch'ice,\" commented her mother. \"Sheep's got ter be butchered.\nI'd ruther be the butcher, myself--healthier.\"\n\nPurdee was gone. He had glanced absently at his wife as if he hardly\nheard. He waited till she paused; then, without answer, he stepped\nhastily out of the door and walked away.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe cronies at the blacksmith's shop latterly gathered within the great\nflaring door, for the frost lay on the dead leaves without, the stars\nscintillated with chill suggestions, and the wind was abroad on nights\nlike these. On shrill pipes it played; so weird, so wild, so prophetic\nwere its tones that it found only a shrinking in the heart of him whose\near it constrained to listen. The sound of the torrent far below was\naccelerated to an agitated, tumultuous plaint, all unknown when its\npulses were bated by summer languors. The moon was in the turmoil of the\nclouds, which, routed in some wild combat with the winds, were streaming\nwestward.\n\nAnd although the rigors of the winter were in abeyance, and the late\npurple aster called the Christmas-flower bloomed in the sheltered grass\nat the door, the forge fire, flaring or dully glowing, overhung with its\ndusky hood, was a friendly thing to see, and in its vague illumination\nthe rude interior of the shanty--the walls, the implements of the trade,\nthe bearded faces grouped about, the shadowy figures seated on whatever\nmight serve, a block of wood, the shoeing-stool, a plough, or perched on\nthe anvil--became visible to Roger Purdee from far down the road as he\napproached. Even the head of a horse could be seen thrust in at the\nwindow, while the brute, hitched outside, beguiled the dreary waiting\nby watching with a luminous, intelligent eye the gossips within, as if\nhe understood the drawling colloquy. They were suffering some dearth of\ntimely topics, supplying the deficiency with reminiscences more or less\nstale, and had expected no such sensation as they experienced when a\nlong shadow fell athwart the doorway,--the broad aperture glimmering a\nsilvery gray contrasted with the brown duskiness of the interior and the\npurple darkness of the distance; the forge fire showed Purdee's tall\nfigure leaning on the door-frame, and lighted up his serious face\nbeneath his great broad-brimmed hat, his intent, earnest eyes, his\ntangled black beard and locks. He gave no greeting, and silence fell\nupon them as his searching gaze scanned them one by one.\n\n\"Whar's Job Grinnell?\" he demanded, abruptly.\n\nThere was a shuffling of feet, as if those members most experienced\nrelief from the constraint that silence had imposed upon the party. A\nvibration from the violin--a sigh as if the instrument had been suddenly\nmoved rather than a touch upon the strings--intimated that the young\nmusician was astir. But it was Spears, the blacksmith, who spoke.\n\n\"Kem in, Roger,\" he called out, cordially, as he rose, his massive\nfigure and his sleek head showing in the dull red light on the other\nside of the anvil, his bare arms folded across his chest. \"Naw, Job\nain't hyar; hain't been hyar for a right smart while.\"\n\nThere was a suggestion of disappointment in the attitude of the\nmotionless figure at the door. The deeply earnest, pondering face,\nvisible albeit the red light from the forge-fire was so dull, was keenly\nwatched. For the inquiry was fraught with peculiar meaning to those\ncognizant of the long and bitter feud.\n\n\"I ax,\" said Purdee, presently, \"kase Grinnell sent me a mighty cur'ous\nword the t'other day.\" He lifted his head. \"Hev enny o' you-uns hearn\nhim 'low lately ez I claim ennything ez ain't mine?\"\n\nThere was silence for a moment. Then the forge was suddenly throbbing\nwith the zigzagging of the bow of the violin jauntily dandering along\nthe strings. His keen sensibility apprehended the sudden jocosity as a\njeer, but before he could say aught the blacksmith had undertaken to\nreply.\n\n\"Waal, Purdee, ef ye hedn't axed me, I warn't layin' off ter say nuthin\n'bout'n it. 'Tain't no consarn o' mine ez I knows on. But sence ye _hev_\naxed me, I hold my jaw fur the fear o' no man. The words ain't writ ez I\nbe feared ter pernounce. An' ez all the kentry hev hearn 'bout'n it\n'ceptin' you-uns, I dunno ez I hev enny call ter hold my jaw. The Lord\n'ain't set no seal on my lips ez I knows on.\"\n\n\"Naw, sir!\" said Purdee, his great eyes glooming through the dusk and\nflashing with impatience. \"He 'ain't set no seal on yer lips, ter jedge\nby the way ye wallop yer tongue about inside o' 'em with fool words.\nWhyn't ye bite off what ye air tryin' ter chaw?\"\n\n\"Waal, then,\" said the admonished orator, bluntly, \"Grinnell 'lows ye\ndon't own that thar lan' around them rocks on the bald, no more'n ye\nread enny writin' on 'em.\"\n\n\"Not them rocks!\" cried Purdee, standing suddenly erect--\"the tables o'\nthe Law, writ with the finger o' the Lord--an' Moses flung 'em down thar\nan' bruk 'em. All the kentry knows they air Moses' tables. An' the\ngroun' whar they lie air mine.\"\n\n\"'Tain't, Grinnell say 'tain't.\"\n\n\"Naw, sir,\" chimed in the young musician, his violin silent. \"Job\nGrinnell declars he owns it hisself, an' ef he war willin' ter stan' the\nexpense he'd set up his rights, but the lan' ain't wuth it. He 'lows his\nline runs spang over them rocks, an' a heap furder.\"\n\nPurdee was silent; one or two of the gossips laughed jeeringly; he had\nbeen proved a liar once. It was well that he did not deny; he was put to\nopen shame among them.\n\n\"An' Grinnell say,\" continued Blinks, \"ez ye hev gone an' tole big tales\n'mongst the brethren fur ownin' sech ez ain't yourn, an' readin' of\ns'prisin' sayin's on the rocks.\"\n\nHe bent his head to a series of laughing harmonics, and when he raised\nit, hearing no retort, the silvery gray square of the door was empty. He\nsaw the moon glimmer on the clumps of grass outside where the\nChristmas-flower bloomed.\n\nThe group sat staring in amaze; the blacksmith strode to the door and\nlooked out, himself a massive, dark silhouette upon the shimmering\nneutrality of the background. There was no figure in sight; no faint\nfoot-fall was audible, no rustle of the sere leaves; only the voice of\nthe mountain torrent, far below, challenged the stillness with its\ninsistent cry.\n\nHe looked back for a moment, with a vague, strange doubt if he had seen\naught, heard aught, in the scene just past. \"Hain't Purdee been hyar?\"\nhe asked, passing his hand across his eyes. The sense of having dreamed\nwas so strong upon him that he stretched his arms and yawned.\n\nThe gleaming teeth of the grouped shadows demonstrated the merriment\nevoked by the query. The chuckle was arrested midway.\n\n\"Ye 'pear ter 'low ez suthin' hev happened ter Purdee, an' that thar war\nhis harnt,\" suggested one.\n\nThe bold young musician laid down his violin suddenly. The instrument\nstruck upon a keg of nails, and gave out an abrupt, discordant jangle,\nstartling to the nerves. \"Shet up, ye durned squeech-owl!\" he exclaimed,\nirritably. Then, lowering his voice, he asked: \"Didn't they 'low down\nyander in the Cove ez Widder Peters, the day her husband war killed by\nthe landslide up in the mounting, heard a hoe a-scrapin' mightily on the\ngravel in the gyarden-spot, an' went ter the door, an' seen him thar\na-workin', an' axed him when he kem home? An' he never lifted his head,\nbut hoed on. An' she went down thar 'mongst the corn, an' she couldn't\nfind nobody. An' jes then the Johns boys rid up an' 'lowed ez Jim Peters\nwar dead, an' hed been fund in the mounting, an' they war a-fetchin' of\nhim then.\"\n\nThe horse's head within the window nodded violently among the shadows,\nand the stones rolled beneath his hoof as he pawed the ground.\n\n\"Mis' Peters she knowed suthin' were a-goin' ter happen when she seen\nthat harnt a-hoein'.\"\n\n\"I reckon she did,\" said the blacksmith, stretching himself, his nerves\nstill under the delusion of recent awakening. \"Jim never hoed none when\nhe war alive. She mought hev knowed he war dead ef she seen him hoein'.\"\n\n\"Waal, sir,\" exclaimed the violinist, \"I'm a-goin' up yander ter\nPurdee's ter-morrer ter find out what he died of, an' when.\"\n\nThat he was alive was proved the next day, to the astonishment of the\nsmith and his friends. The forge was the voting-place of the district,\nand there, while the fire was flaring, the bellows blowing, the anvil\nringing, the echo vibrating, now loud, now faint, with the antiphonal\nchant of the hammer and the sledge, a notice was posted to inform the\nadjacent owners that Roger Purdee's land, held under an original grant\nfrom the State, would be processioned according to law some twenty days\nafter date, and the boundaries thereof defined and established. The\nfac-simile of the notice, too, was posted on the court-house door in the\ncounty town twenty miles away, for there were those who journeyed so far\nto see it.\n\n\"I wonder,\" said the blacksmith, as he stood in the unfamiliar street\nand gazed at it, his big arms, usually bare, now hampered with his coat\nsleeves and folded upon his chest--\"I wonder ef he footed it all the way\nter town at the gait he tuk when he lit out from the forge?\"\n\nIt was a momentous day when the county surveyor planted his\nJacob's-staff upon the State line on the summit of the bald. His sworn\nchain-bearers, two tall young fellows clad in jeans, with broad-brimmed\nwool hats, their heavy boots drawn high over their trousers, stood ready\nand waiting, with the sticks and clanking chain, on the margin of the\nice-cold spring gushing out on this bleak height, and signifying more\nthan a fountain in the wilderness, since it served to define the\nsoutheast corner of Purdee's land. The two enemies were perceptibly\nconscious of each other. Grinnell's broad face and small eyes laden with\nfat lids were persistently averted. Purdee often glanced toward him\ngloweringly, his head held, nevertheless, a little askance, as if he\nrejected the very sight. There was the fire of a desperate intention in\nhis eyes. Looking at his face, shaded by his broad-brimmed hat, one\ncould hardly have doubted now whether it expressed most ferocity or\nforce. His breath came quick--the bated breath of a man who watches and\nwaits for a supreme moment. His blue jeans coat was buttoned close about\nhis sun-burned throat, where the stained red handkerchief was knotted.\nHe wore a belt with his powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and carried his\nrifle on his shoulder; the hand that held it trembled, and he tried to\nquell the quiver. \"I'll prove it fust, an' kill him arterward--kill him\narterward,\" he muttered.\n\nIn the other hand he held a yellowed old paper. Now and then he bent his\nearnest dark eyes upon the grant, made many a year ago by the State of\nTennessee to his grandfather; for there had been no subsequent\nconveyances.\n\nThe blacksmith had come begirt with his leather apron, his shirt-sleeves\nrolled up, and with his hammer in his hand, an inopportune customer\nhaving jeopardized his chance of sharing in the sensation of the day.\nThe other neighbors all wore their coats closely buttoned. Blinks\ncarried his violin hung upon his back; the sharp timbre of the wind,\ncutting through the leafless boughs of the stunted woods, had a kindred\nfibrous resonance. Clouds hung low far beneath them; here and there, as\nthey looked, the trees on the slopes showed above and again below the\nmasses of clinging vapors. Sometimes close at hand a peak would reveal\nitself, asserting the solemn vicinage of the place, then draw its veil\nslowly about it, and stand invisible and in austere silence. The\nsurveyor, a stalwart figure, his closely buttoned coat giving him a\nmilitary aspect, looked disconsolately downward.\n\n\"I hoped I'd die before this,\" he remarked. \"I'm equal to getting over\nanything in nature that's flat or oblique, but the vertical beats me.\"\n\nHe bent to take sight for a moment, the group silently watching him.\nSuddenly he came to the perpendicular, and strode off down the rugged\nslope over gullies and bowlders, through rills and briery tangles, his\neyes distended and eager as if he were led into the sylvan depths by the\nlure of a vision. The chain-bearers followed, continually bending and\nrising, the recurrent genuflections resembling the fervors of some\nreligious rite. The chain rustled sibilantly among the dead leaves, and\nwas ever and anon drawn out to its extremest length. Then the dull clank\nof the links was silent.\n\n\"Stick!\" called out the young mountaineer in the rear.\n\n\"Stuck!\" responded his comrade ahead.\n\nAnd once more the writhing and jingling among the withered leaves. The\nsurveyor strode on, turning his face neither to the right nor to the\nleft, with his Jacob's-staff held upright before him. The other men\ntrooped along scatteringly, dodging under the low boughs of the stunted\ntrees. They pressed hastily together when the great square rocks--Moses'\ntables of the Law--came into view, lying where it was said the man of\nGod flung them upon the sere slope below, both splintered and fissured,\nand one broken in twain. The surveyor was bearing straight down upon\nthem. The men running on either side could not determine whether the\nline would fall within the spot or just beyond. They broke into wild\nexclamations.\n\n\"Ye may hammer me out ez flat ez a skene,\" cried the blacksmith, \"ef I\ndon't b'lieve ez Purdee hev got 'em.\"\n\n\"Naw, sir, naw!\" cried another fervent amateur; \"thar's the north. I jes\nnow viewed Grinnell's dad's deed; the line ondertakes ter run with\nPurdee's line; he hev got seven hunderd poles ter the north; ef they air\na-goin' ter the north, them tables o' the Law air Grinnell's.\"\n\nA wild chorus ensued.\n\n\"Naw!\" \"Yes!\" \"Thar they go!\" \"A-bearin' off that-a-way!\" \"Beats my\ntime!\" as they stumbled and scuttled alongside the acolytes of the\nCompass, who bowed down and rose up at every length of the chain.\nSuddenly a cry from the chain-bearers.\n\n\"Out!\"\n\nStillness ensued.\n\nThe surveyor stopped to register the \"out.\" It was a moment of thrilling\nsuspense; the rocks lay only a few chains further; Grinnell, into whose\nconfidence doubt had begun to be instilled, said to himself, all\na-tremble, that he would hardly have staked his veracity, his standing\nwith the brethren, if he had realized that it was so close a matter as\nthis. He had long known that his father owned the greater part of the\nunproductive wilderness lying between the two ravines; the land was\nalmost worthless by reason of the steep slants which rendered it utterly\nuntillable. He was sure that by the terms of his deed, which his father\nhad from its vendor, Squire Bates, his line included the Moses' tables\non which Purdee had built so fallacious a repute of holiness. He looked\nonce more at the paper--\"thence from Crystal Spring with Purdee's line\nnorth seven hundred poles to a stake in the middle of the river.\"\n\nPurdee too was all a-quiver with eagerness. He had not beheld those\nrocks since that terrible day when all the fine values of his gifted\nvision had been withdrawn from him, and he could read no more with eyes\nblinded by the limitations of what other men could see--the infinitely\npetty purlieus of the average sense. He had a vague idea that should\nthey say this was his land where those strange rocks lay, he would see\nagain, he would read undreamed-of words, writ with a pen of fire. He\nstarted toward them, and then with a conscious effort he held back.\n\nThe surveyor took no heed of the sentiments involved in processioning\nPurdee's land. He stood leaning on his Jacob's-staff, as interesting to\nhim as Moses' rocks, and in his view infinitely more useful, and wiped\nhis brow, and looked about, and yawned. To him it was merely the\nsurveying for a foolish cause of a very impracticable and steep tract of\nland, and the only reason it should be countenanced by heaven or earth\nwas the fees involved. And this was what he saw at the end of Purdee's\nline.\n\nSuddenly he took up his Jacob's-staff and marched on with a long stride,\nbearing straight down upon the rocks. The whole _cortege_ started\nanew--the genuflecting chain-bearers, the dodging, scrambling, running\nspectators. On one of the strange stunted leafless trees a colony of\nvagrant crows had perched, eerie enough to seem the denizens of those\nweird forests; they broke into raucous laughter--Haw! haw! haw!--rising\nto a wild commotion of harsh, derisive discord as the men once more gave\nvent to loud, excited cries. For the surveyor, stalking ahead, had\npassed beyond the great tables of the Law; the chain-bearers were\ndrawing Purdee's line on the other side of them, and they had fallen, if\never they fell here from Moses' hand and broke in twain, upon Purdee's\nland, granted to his ancestor by the State of Tennessee.\n\nHe could not speak for joy, for pride. His dark eyes were illumined by a\nglancing, amber light. He took off his hat and smoothed with his rough\nhand his long black hair, falling from his massive forehead. He leaned\nagainst one of the stunted oaks, shouldering his rifle that he had\nloaded for Grinnell--he could hardly believe this, although he\nremembered it. He did not want to shoot Grinnell; he would not waste the\ngood lead!\n\nAnd indeed Grinnell had much ado to defend himself against the sneers\nand rebukes with which the party beguiled the way through the wintry\nwoods. \"Ter go a-claimin' another man's land, an' put him ter the\nexpense o' processionin' it, an' git his line run!\" exclaimed the\nblacksmith, indignantly. \"An' ye 'ain't got nare sign o' a show at\nMoses' tables!\"\n\n\"I dunno how this hyar line air a-runnin',\" declared Grinnell, sorely\nbeset. \"I don't b'lieve it air a-runnin' north.\"\n\nThe surveyor was hard by. He had planted his staff again, and was once\nmore taking his bearings. He looked up for a second.\n\n\"North_west_,\" he said.\n\nGrinnell stared for a moment; then strode up to the surveyor, and\npointed with his stubby finger at a word on his deed.\n\nThe official looked with interest at it; he held up suddenly Purdee's\ngrant and read aloud, \"From Crystal Spring seven hundred poles\nnorth_west_ to a stake in the middle of the river.\"\n\nHe examined, too, the original plat of survey which he had taken to\nguide him, and also the plat made when Squire Bates sold to Grinnell's\nfather; \"north_west_\" they all agreed. There was evidently a clerical\nerror on the part of the scrivener who had written Grinnell's deed.\n\nIn a moment the harassed man saw that through the processioning of\nPurdee's land he had lost heavily in the extent of his supposed\npossessions. He it was who had claimed what was rightfully another's.\nAnd because of the charge Purdee was the richer by a huge slice of\nmountain land--how large he could not say, as he ruefully followed the\nline of survey.\n\nBut for this discovery the interest of processioning Purdee's land would\nhave subsided with the determination of the ownership of the limited\nenvironment of the stone tables of the Law. Now, as they followed the\never-diverging line to the northwest, the group was pervaded by a\nsubdued and tremulous excitement, in which even the surveyor shared. Two\nor three whispered apart now and then, and Grinnell, struggling to\nsuppress his dismay, was keenly conscious of the glances that sought him\nagain and again in the effort to judge how he was taking it. Only Purdee\nhimself was withdrawn from the interest that swayed them all. He had\nloitered at first, dallying with a temptation to slip silently from the\nparty and retrace his way to the tables and ascertain, perchance, if\nsome vestige of that mystic scripture might not reveal itself to him\nanew, or if it had been only some morbid fancy, some futile influence of\nsolitude, some fevered condition of the blood or the brain, that had\ntraced on the stone those gracious words, the mere echo of which--his\nstuttered, vague recollections--had roused the camp-meeting to fervid\nenthusiasms undreamed of before. And then he put from him the\nproject--some other time, perhaps, for doubts lurked in his heart,\nhesitation chilled his resolve--some other time, when his companions and\ntheir prosaic influence were all far away. He was roused abruptly, as he\nstalked along, to the perception of the deepening excitement among them.\nThey had emerged from the dense growths of the mountain to the lower\nslope, where pastures and fields--whence the grain had been\nharvested--and a garden and a dwelling, with barns and fences, lay\nbefore them all. And as Purdee stopped and stared, the realization of a\ncertain significant fact struck him so suddenly that it seemed to take\nhis breath away. That divergent line stretching to the northwest had\nleft within his boundaries the land on which his enemy had built his\nhome.\n\nHe looked; then he smote his thigh and laughed aloud.\n\nThe rocks on the river-bank caught the sound, and echoed it again and\nagain, till the air seemed full of derisive voices. Under their stings\nof jeering clamor, and under the anguish of the calamity which his\nreeling senses could scarcely measure, Job Grinnell's composure suddenly\ngave way. He threw up his arms and called upon Heaven; he turned and\nglared furiously at his enemy. Then, as Purdee's laughter still jarred\nthe air, he drew a \"shooting-iron\" from his pocket. The blacksmith\nclosed with him, struggling to disarm him. The weapon was discharged in\nthe turmoil, the ball glancing away in the first quiver of sunshine\nthat had reached the earth to-day, and falling spent across the river.\n\nGrinnell wrested himself from the restraining grasp, and rushed down the\nslope to his gate to hide himself from the gaze of the world--his world,\nthat little group. Then remembering that it was no longer his gate, he\nturned from it in an agony of loathing. And knowing that earth held no\nshelter for him but the sufferance of another man's roof, he plunged\ninto the leafless woods as if he heavily dragged himself by a power\nwhich warred within him with other strong motives, and disappeared among\nthe myriads of holly bushes all aglow with their red berries.\n\nThe spectators still followed the surveyor and his Jacob's-staff, but\nPurdee lingered. He walked around the fence with a fierce, gloating eye,\na panther-like, loping tread, as a beast might patrol a fold before he\nplunders it. All the venom of the old feud had risen to the opportunity.\nHere was his enemy at his mercy. He knew that it was less than seven\nyears since the enclosures had been made, acres and acres of tillable\nland cleared, the houses built--all achieved which converted the\nworthlessness of a wilderness into the sterling values of a farm.\nHe--he, Roger Purdee--was a rich man for the \"mountings,\" joining his\nlittle to this competence. All the cruelties, all the insults, all the\ntraditions of the old vendetta came thronging into his mind, as\ndistinctly presented as if they were a series of hideous pictures; for\nhe was not used to think in detail, but in the full portrayal of\nscenes. The Purdee wrongs were all avenged. This result was so\ncomplete, so baffling, so ruinous temporally, so humiliating\nspiritually! It was the fullest replication of revenge for all that had\nchallenged it.\n\n\"How Uncle Ezra would hev rej'iced ter hev lived ter see this day!\" he\nthought, with a pious regret that the dead might not know.\n\nThe next moment his attention was suddenly attracted by a movement in\nthe door-yard. A woman had been hanging out clothes to dry, and she\nturned to go in, without seeing the striding figure patrolling the\nenclosure. A baby--a small bundle of a red dress--was seated on the pile\nof sorghum-cane where the mill had worked in the autumn; the stalks were\nbroken, and flimsy with frost and decay, and washed by the rains to a\npallid hue, yet more marked in contrast with the brown ground. The\nbaby's dress made a bright bit of color amidst the dreary tones. As\nPurdee caught sight of it he remembered that this was \"Grinnell's old\nbaby,\" who had been the cause of the renewal of the ancient quarrel,\nwhich had resulted so benignantly for him. \"I owe you a good turn, sis,\"\nhe murmured, satirically, glaring at the child as the unconscious mother\nlifted her to go in the house. The baby, looking over the maternal\nshoulder, encountered the stern eyes staring at her. She stared gravely\ntoo. Then with a bounce and a gurgle she beamed upon him from out the\nretirement of her flapping sun-bonnet; she smiled radiantly, and finally\nlaughed outright, and waved her hands and again bounced beguilingly, and\nthus toothlessly coquetting, disappeared within the door.\n\nBefore Purdee reached home, flakes of snow, the first of the season,\nwere whirling through the gray dusk noiselessly, ceaselessly, always\nfalling, yet never seeming to fall, rather to restlessly pervade the air\nwith a vacillating alienation from all the laws of gravitation. Elusive\nfascinations of thought were liberated with the shining crystalline\naerial pulsation; some mysterious attraction dwelt down long vistas\namongst the bare trees; their fine fibrous grace of branch and twig was\naccented by the snow, which lay upon them with exquisite lightness,\ndespite the aggregated bulk, not the densely packed effect which the\nboughs would show to-morrow. The crags were crowned; their grim faces\nlooked frowningly out like a warrior's from beneath a wreath. Nowhere\ncould the brown ground be seen; already the pine boughs bent, the\nneedles failing to pierce the drifts. On the banks of the stream, on the\nslopes of the mountain, in wildest jungles, in the niches and crevices\nof bare cliffs, the holly-berries glowed red in the midst of the\never-green snow-laden leaves and ice-barbed twigs. When his house at\nlast came into view, the roof was deeply covered; the dizzying whirl had\nfollowed every line of the rail-fence; scurrying away along the furthest\nzigzags there was a vanishing glimpse of a squirrel; the boles of the\ntrees were embedded in drifts; the chickens had gone to roost; the sheep\nwere huddling in the broad door of the rude stable; he saw their heads\nlifted against the dark background within, where the ox was vaguely\nglimpsed. He caught their mild glance despite the snow that in-starred\nwith its ever-shifting crystals the dark space of the aperture, and\nintervened as a veil. They suddenly reminded him of the season--that it\nwas Christmas Eve; of the sheep which so many years ago beheld the angel\nof the Lord and the glory of the great light that shone about the\nshepherds abiding in the fields. Did they follow, he wondered, the\nshepherds who went to seek for Christ? Ah, as he paused meditatively\nbeside the rail-fence--what matter how long ago it was, how far\naway!--he saw those sheep lying about the fields under the vast midnight\nsky. They lift their sleepy heads. Dawn? not yet, surely; and they lay\nthem down again. And one must bleat aloud, turning to see the quickening\nsky; and one, woolly, white, white as snow, with eyes illumined by the\nheralding heavens, struggles to its feet, and another, and the flock is\nastir; and the shepherds, drowsing doubtless, are awakened to good\ntidings of great joy.\n\nWhat a night that was!--this night--Christmas Eve. He wondered he had\nnot thought of it before. And the light still shines, and the angel\nwaits, and the eternal hosts proclaim peace on earth, good-will toward\nmen, and summon us all to go and follow the shepherds and see--what? A\nlittle child cradled in a manger. The mountaineer, leaning on his gun by\nthe rail-fence, looked through the driving snow with the lights of\ndivination kindling in his eyes, seeing it all, feeling its meaning as\nnever before. Christ came thus, he knew, for a purpose. He could have\ncome in the chariots of the sun or on the wings of the wind. But He was\ncradled as a little child, that men might revere humanity for the sake\nof Him who had graced it; that they, thinking on Him, might be good to\none another and to all little children.\n\nAs he burst into the door of his house the elations of his high\nreligious mood were rudely dispelled by shrill cries of congratulation\nfrom his wife and her mother. For the news had preceded him. Ephraim\nBlinks with his fiddle had stopped there on his way to play at some\nneighboring merry-making, and had acquainted them with the result of\nprocessioning Purdee's land.\n\n\"We'll go down thar an' live!\" cried his wife, with a gush of joyful\ntears. \"Arter all our scratchin' along like ten-toed chickens all this\ntime, we'll hev comfort an' plenty! We'll live in Grinnell's good house!\nBut ter think o' our trials, an' how pore we hev been!\"\n\n\"This air the Purdees' day!\" cried the grandmother, her face flushed\nwith the semblance of youth. \"Arter all ez hev kem an' gone, the\njedgmint o' the Lord hev descended on Grinnell, an' he air cast out. An'\nhis fields, an' house, an' bin, an' barn, air Purdee's!\"\n\nThe fire flared and faded; shadows of the night gloomed thick in the\nroom--this night of nights that bestowed so much, that imposed so much\non man and on his fellow-man!\n\n\"Ain't the Grinnell baby got _no_ home?\" whimpered the hereditary enemy.\n\nThe mountaineer remembered the Lord of heaven and earth cradled, a\nlittle Child, in the manger. He remembered, too, the humble child\nsmiling its guileless good-will at the fence. He broke out suddenly.\n\n\"How kem the fields Purdee's,\" he cried, leaning his back against the\ndoor and striking the puncheon floor with the butt of the gun till it\nrang again and again, \"or the house, or the bin, or the barn? Did he\nplant 'em? Did he build 'em? Who made 'em his'n?\"\n\n\"The law!\" exclaimed both women in a breath.\n\n\"Thar ain't no law in heaven or yearth ez kin gin an honest man what\nain't his'n by rights,\" he declared.\n\nAn insistent feminine clamor arose, protesting the sovereign power of\nthe law. He quaked for a moment; dominant though he was in his own\nhouse, he could not face them, but he could flee. He suddenly stepped\nout of the door, and when they opened it and looked after him in the\nsnowy dusk and the whitened woods, he was gone.\n\nAnd popular opinion coincided with them when it became known that he had\nformally relinquished his right to that portion of the land improved by\nGrinnell. He said to the old squire who drew up the quit-claim deed,\nwhich he executed that Christmas Eve, that he was not willing to profit\nby his enemy's mistake, and thus the consideration expressed in the\nconveyance was the value of the land, considered not as a farm, but as\nso many acres of wilderness before an axe was laid to the trunk of a\ntree or the soil upturned by a plough. It was the minimum of value, and\nGrinnell came cheaply off.\n\nThe blacksmith, the mountain fiddler, and the advanced thinker, who had\nbeen active in the survey, balked of the expected excitement attendant\nupon the ousting of Grinnell, and some sensational culmination of the\nancient feud, were not in sympathy with the pacific result, and spoke as\nif they had given themselves to unrequited labors.\n\n\"Thar ain't no way o' settlin' what that thar critter Purdee owns\n'ceptin' ez consarns Moses' tables o' the Law. He clings ter them,\" they\nsaid, in conclave about the forge fire when the big doors were closed\nand the snow, banking up the crevices, kept out the wind. \"There ain't\nno use in percessionin' Purdee's land.\"\n\nAnd indeed Purdee's possessions were wider far than even that divergent\nline which the county surveyor ran out might seem to warrant; for on the\nmountain-tops largest realms of solemn thought were open to him. He\nlevied tribute upon the liberties of an enthused imagination. He exulted\nin the freedom of the expanding spaces of a spiritual perception of the\nspiritual things. When the snow slipped away from the tables of the Law,\nthe man who had read strange scripture engraven thereon took his way one\nday, doubtful, but faltering with hope, up and up to the vast dome of\nthe mountain, and knelt beside the rocks to see if perchance he might\ntrace anew those mystic runes which he once had some fine instinct to\ndecipher. And as he pondered long he found, or thought he found, here a\nfamiliar character, and there a slowly developing word, and anon--did he\nsee it aright?--a phrase; and suddenly it was discovered to him that,\nwhether their origin were a sacred mystery or the fantastic scroll-work\nof time as the rock weathered, high thoughts, evoking thrilling\nemotions, bear scant import to one who apprehends only in mental\nacceptance. And he realized that the multiform texts which he had read\nin the fine and curious script were but paraphrases of the simple\nmandate to be good to one another for the sake of that holy Child\ncradled in manger, and to all little children.\n\n\n                                 THE END\n\n\n\n\nIN THE \"STRANGER PEOPLE'S\" COUNTRY.\n\nBy CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1\n50.\n\n\n    In this strong story Miss Murfree has shown better art than in\n    any of her other long novels. It is a romance of the Tennessee\n    mountains, told with singular effect. The mystery and the\n    picturesqueness of it make it notable. We have enjoyed it, and\n    we recommend it to those who are hungry and thirsty for a\n    genuinely entertaining story.--_Independent_, N. Y.\n\n    Miss Murfree has never had a more fascinating field for a\n    story.... She continues to be a romancist of strong imagination\n    and sustained dramatic power.--_Literary World_, Boston.\n\n    The extraordinary freshness and reality of the picture of the\n    hill-people's life in the mountainous regions of Tennessee make\n    this one of the most readable of the many readable American\n    stories which abound just now.--_Saturday Review_, London.\n\n    A brilliant story, full of power, remarkably picturesque and\n    vigorous in the telling.... The author writes in the spirit of a\n    thorough literary artist, and this book in plot, character,\n    drawing, vividness, and interest is an advance even on the\n    admirable stories that brought her into notice and established\n    her reputation.--_Saturday Evening Gazette_, Boston.\n\n    The author delineates the natural scenery of the region with\n    graphic power, and the actors in her stories are drawn to the\n    life. This book is equal to any of its predecessors in dramatic\n    power.--_Observer_, N. Y.\n\n    This is, perhaps, the best story which Miss Murfree has\n    published.... Though Miss Murfree's pen has described the\n    wonderful mountain scenery over and over again in her previous\n    volumes, yet here are found new, fresh touches that are\n    charmingly beautiful, strange, and weird.--_Zion's Herald_,\n    Boston.\n\nPUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK\n\n_For sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the publishers, postage\nprepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada, or Mexico, on receipt\nof the price._\n\n\n\n\nR. D. BLACKMORE'S NOVELS.\n\n\nPERLYCROSS. A Novel. 12mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 75.\n\n    Told with delicate and delightful art. Its pictures of rural\n    English scenes and characters will woo and solace the\n    reader.... It is charming company in charming surroundings. Its\n    pathos, its humor, and its array of natural incidents are all\n    satisfying. One must feel thankful for so finished and\n    exquisite a story.... Not often do we find a more impressive\n    piece of work.--_N. Y. Sun._\n\nSPRINGHAVEN. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50; 4to, Paper, 25 cents.\n\nLORNA DOONE. Illustrated. 12mo, Cloth, $1 00; 8vo, Paper, 40 cents.\n\nKIT AND KITTY. 12mo, Cloth, $1 25; Paper, 35 cents\n\nCHRISTOWELL. 4to, Paper, 20 cents.\n\nCRADOCK NOWELL. 8vo, Paper, 60 cents.\n\nEREMA; or, My Father's Sin. 8vo, Paper, 50 cents.\n\nMARY ANERLEY. 16mo, Cloth, $1 00; 4to, Paper, 15 cents.\n\nTOMMY UPMORE. 16mo, Cloth, 50 cents; Paper, 35 cts.; 4to, Paper, 20\ncents.\n\n    His tales, all of them, are pre-eminently meritorious. They are\n    remarkable for their careful elaboration, the conscientious\n    finish of their workmanship, their affluence of striking\n    dramatic and narrative incident, their close observation and\n    general interpretation of nature, their profusion of\n    picturesque description, and their quiet and sustained\n    humor.--_Christian Intelligencer_, N. Y.\n\nPUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.\n\n_The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the\npublishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada,\nor Mexico, on receipt of the price._\n\n\n\n\nBY GEORGE DU MAURIER\n\n\nTRILBY. A Novel. Illustrated by the Author. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental,\n$1 75; Three-quarter Calf, $3 50; Three-quarter Crushed Levant, $4 50.\n\n    Certainly, if it were not for its predecessor, we should assign\n    to \"Trilby\" a place in fiction absolutely companionless.... It\n    is one of the most unconventional and charming of\n    novels.--_Saturday Review_, London.\n\n    It is a charming story told with exquisite grace and\n    tenderness.--_N. Y. Tribune_.\n\n    Mr. Du Maurier has written his tale with such originality,\n    unconventionality, and eloquence, such rollicking humor and\n    tender pathos, and delightful play of every lively fancy, all\n    running so briskly in exquisite English and with such vivid\n    dramatic picturing, that it is only comparable ... to the\n    freshness and beauty of a spring morning at the end of a\n    dragging winter.... It is a thoroughly unique story.--_N. Y.\n    Sun_.\n\nPETER IBBETSON. With an Introduction by his Cousin, Lady * * * * *\n(\"Madge Plunket\"). Edited and Illustrated by GEORGE DU MAURIER. Post\n8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50.\n\n    That it is one of the most remarkable books that have appeared\n    for a long time is, however, indisputable.--_N. Y. Tribune_.\n\n    There are no suggestions of mediocrity. The pathos is true, the\n    irony delicate, the satire severe when its subject is unworthy,\n    the comedy sparkling, and the tragedy, as we have said,\n    inevitable. One or two more such books, and the fame of the\n    artist would be dim beside that of the novelist.--_N. Y. Evening\n    Post_.\n\nPUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.\n\n_The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the\npublishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada,\nor Mexico, on receipt of the price._\n\n\n\n\nBY MARY E. WILKINS.\n\n\nPEMBROKE. A Novel. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50.\n\nJANE FIELD. A Novel. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25.\n\nYOUNG LUCRETIA, and Other Stories. Illustrated. Post 8vo, Cloth,\nOrnamental, $1 25.\n\nA NEW ENGLAND NUN, and Other Stories. l6mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25.\n\nA HUMBLE ROMANCE, and Other Stories. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 25.\n\nGILES COREY, YEOMAN. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, Ornamental, 50 cents.\n\n    We have long admired Miss Wilkins as one of the most powerful,\n    original, and profound writers of America; but we are bound to\n    say that \"Pembroke\" is entitled to a higher distinction than\n    the critics have awarded to Miss Wilkins's earlier productions.\n    As a picture of New England life and character, as a story of\n    such surpassing interest that he who begins is compelled to\n    finish it, as a work of art without a fault or a deficiency, we\n    cannot see how it could possibly be improved.--_N.Y. Sun_.\n\n    The simplicity, purity, and quaintness of these stories set them\n    apart in a niche of distinction where they have no\n    rivals.--_Literary World_, Boston.\n\n    Nowhere are there to be found such faithful, delicately drawn,\n    sympathetic, tenderly humorous pictures.--_N. Y. Tribune_.\n\n    The charm of Miss Wilkins's stories is in her intimate\n    acquaintance and comprehension of humble life, and the sweet\n    human interest she feels and makes her readers partake of, in\n    the simple, common, homely people she draws.--_Springfield\n    Republican_.\n\nPUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK.\n\n_The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by the\npublishers, postage prepaid, to any part of the United States, Canada,\nor Mexico, on receipt of the price_.\n\n\n\n\n\n<pre id=\"pg-footer\">","title":"The Phantoms of the Foot-Bridge, and Other Stories","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":93112}