"But you don't," Jasper filled in, winking at Jim, who dodged as if an acorn had been flipped at his eye. "Ma'm," he added, "blamed if I believe a woman ever has a right good laugh after she's past thirty. About that time nature turns down the lamp for her and she begins to see shadows. If she does laugh much atter this it is at an enemy. She won't laugh with you—she laughs at you. You've got to look funny to her—you've got to have on suthin' that looks odd."

"Oh, I don't think so, Mr. Starbuck," Mrs. Mayfield replied. "It has often been denied, but a woman has the true sense of humor, but—"

"Humor!" exclaimed the old fellow. "Why, she's got mo' than a day in April."

"You misunderstand me. I mean that she has a true sense of fun. Being more sensitive than man, some things that a man wouldn't notice, strike her as ridiculous. To say that she has no fun would be to rob her of sorrow, for the keenest sorrow comes after we have had our fun."

"Ma'm, you air settin' in a boat, paddlin' at ease and I am a rollin' up my britches higher an' higher, a tryin' to wade atter you; but you air a gittin' out whar it is too deep fur me to foller you."

"A compliment charmingly expressed, Mr. Starbuck. But if I row away from you, it was you who placed me in the boat."

"Ma'm, I allus thought it would be hard to talk to an educated woman. I 'lowed she would talk a finery that I couldn't understand, but you sorter make me change my mind."

"Jasper, you do fret a body so," Margaret put in. "You would lead us to think you never met a woman befo'. Why, thar air lots o' women up here—can't talk silk and braid and plush, but they know how to say what they mean."

Mrs. Mayfield bowed to her. "I quite agree with you, Mrs. Starbuck. Women everywhere are pretty much the same."

"So glad to hear you say that, Miz Mayfield," Margaret replied. "It ain't often that anybody agrees with me—Jasper never do. If I'd say a crow's black, he'd 'low it was white."

"Yes," drawled the old man, "ef you was to say so; but you never would say a crow was black. You'd say he was yaller. No, I don't allers dispute what you say. Tuther day when I flung a rock at a steer, it struck a tree, bounced back and hit me and you said, 'Thar, you've hurt yo'se'f,' and I didn't dispute it. Jest give me the truth and you won't here no complaint. Am I right, Jim?"

Jim did not relish his position as "prover." The umpire of household argument "hath but a losing office." In the opinion of one side or the other his decision is unjust. "You are nearly always right when you think you are, Uncle Jasper, and you don't often think you are right unless you are; and I can say the same of Aunt Margaret."

"Oh, I tell you," the old man declared, shaking his head, "Jim will keep out of trouble as long as he kin; an' I want to say he is givin' me a mighty useful lesson right along now about this time."

"Gracious! Look thar!" Margaret exclaimed.

"Hold on!" Jasper commanded, "don't nobody move. Keep right still and don't say a word."

In the door stood a dog, gazing with glassy stare. Any one could see that is was mad. A tiger leaping forth from a jungle and standing with his eyes ablaze, must be a terrible sight. But the tiger, red tongue out, crouching, eyes like fire, could not inspire more of terror than the dead eye of a mad dog. We know that its tooth, its claw, its very foam means death, lingering, horrible.

"Don't move," commanded Jasper, slowly getting up from the table. There was no weapon within reach. "I'll have to choke him," said the old man. "If any of you moves a muscle I'll hold you responsible." Gazing into the eyes of the dog, he slowly moved toward the door. Then, making a sudden motion forward, he sprang to one side; and the dog was in the air, and when he came down the old man was upon his back, with hands grasped around his throat. The women shrieked. Jim and Tom sprang forward. "Look out, boys, don't let him scratch you. Here, Jim, grab his hind legs. Mr. Elliott, fetch that handspike from over thar in the corner."

Jim seized the dog's legs and Tom brought the big stick. "Shall I mash his head with it, sir?"

"No. Put it across his neck and then I'll b'ar down on one end an' you on the other an' with a twist Jim kin break his neck. Thar, we air gittin' him." At the proper moment Jim gave the dog an upward twist and there was a snap. They heard his neck break.

"It's all right," said Old Jasper. "Why, you women folks mustn't take on now. Thar are two times when you mustn't take on—when thar's danger and when thar ain't."

"I know he's pizened!" Margaret cried.

"Well, now, don't bet no money on that fur you'll lose it. He didn't tech me."

"Let us thank the Lord," said Jim.

"All right," Jasper replied; "but thar ain't no hurry; the dog's dead."



CHAPTER VII.

NOT SO FAR OUT OF THE WORLD.

Men with guns came down the road, shouting "mad dog." The cry was taken up and it echoed among the hills. In barbaric Europe, when every village was a principality unto itself, the cry at midnight, summoning men from their beds to butcher or be butchered, could not have been more startling than the noon-tide cry of "mad dog" in rural Tennessee. Mothers seized their children, fathers caught up guns and axes. The cross-roads merchant slammed his door and locked it. Oxen, catching the alarm, bellowed in the fields.

Starbuck went out into the road to meet the men. "Say," he said, in answer to their shout, "if you air lookin' for a mad dog I kin let you have one cheap. He's round thar."

The dog was dragged away and the community returned to the allegiance which it owed to quietude and laziness; the shiftless lout loitered along the road, and the old woman, on the gray mare, followed by the fuzzy mule colt, carried down to the "commercial emporium," "a settin' o' goose aigs" to be swopped for a handful of coffee and a lump of brown sugar.

"Ma'm," said Starbuck to Mrs. Mayfield, as he went back into the house, "you see that we don't live so fur outen the world atter all. Of co'se thar air places that have got mo' l'arnin' than we have, but we kin skeer up a mad dog an' git rid o' him as quick as the best of 'em. An' I reckon by this time you find that our affairs ain't so uneventful as you put it. Young feller," he went on, speaking to Tom, "I like the way you acted under fire. Thar was a time when I believed that a feller with store clothes on was easy skeered, and I laughed when I seed 'em j'inin' the army—'lowed they would w'ar out in a day or two; but they outmarched us fellers that follered the plow an' when the time come they tuck their red medicine an' never whimpered. Ricolleck one little chap that didn't look like he was strong enough to pull up a handful o' white clover—snatched up a flag, butted his way to the front and put his colors on the breastworks o' the inimy."

"I thank you," Tom replied. "But you don't seem to be astonished that the preacher wasn't scared."

"Who, Jim? Oh, no. Jim's a Starbuck."

"Don't make me out any worse than I naturally am, Uncle Jasper," said Jim, smiling in that mild consciousness of humor sometimes necessary and always appropriate to the pulpit.

Mrs. Mayfield smiled upon him, and bade him come with her to the place where the short shade of noon-time was napping on the hill-top. He clutched his hat and followed her and old Jasper snorted. "Follers her like a pet lamb," said the old man to his wife when Tom and Lou also had strolled off. "I mean Jim do. But to tell you the truth she'll never marry him; don't know that he wants her, you understand, but if he do he's in a bad fix. She's good and as putty as a red-bird, but I don't reckon that she'd like to be the wife of a mountain preacher. And come to think about it, I don't see why a woman would want to be the wife of any preacher—much. Not that the preacher wouldn't be good to her, but because she'd be a settin' herse'f up as a mark fur all the other women in the neighborhood. Ef a preacher's wife laugh they say she ain't a takin' no intrust in church work, an' ef she is sorrowful they say it's all put on."

"Jasper, you don't know what you're a talkin' about, but you air puffeckly nat'ral as long as you're a sayin' suthin' ag'in women. You don't understand 'em at all."

"And ef I did I'd be smarter than old Solomon. He had fo' or five hundred of 'em about him and he didn't understand even the most foolish one of 'em. How air you goin' to understand a critter that don't understand herse'f? But I tell you this here Miz Mayfield is smart—talks like a new book that's got picturs in it."

"Oh! Then I reckon I can't talk at all."

"Have you hearn anybody hint that you can't talk? Did you ever notice that when a man begins to talk about a woman, makes no diffunce who, his wife puts it up that he's a talkin' about her? Did you?"

"No, nor you nuther. Gracious above!—book with picturs in it! But if Jim wants to marry her, why don't he say so? What do he want allus to be a steppin' round her skirts like a frost-bit chicken?"

"Wall, he ain't had time to ax her yit. It took the gospel mo' than a thousand years to reach America, an' we oughtn't to expect preachers to be in a rush."

She scowled at him and he went away, laughing, and she stood in the door, shading her eyes with her hand, watching Tom and Lou as slowly they walked down the road. Over to the right, in the dazzle of the sun, Jim and Mrs. Mayfield were climbing a hill; and reaching the top, she sat down on a rock and bade him sit near her, but he shook his head and said that he preferred to stand where he was, and then, realizing that his remark was abrupt, sat down by her and was silent. At her feet the violets were blooming. There came a breeze, and the blossom of a poplar sapling brushed her face and shed its perfume in her hair.

"In the city all is struggle and plot," she said, and musing for a time in silence, she continued: "But here all seems to be innocence and beauty."

"Not all innocence, ma'm," the preacher replied. "The poisonous insect sometimes lives where the air is sweet. There is no land that is not in need of the doctrine of gentleness. To the lovely eye almost all things may look lovely—"

"Thank you," she broke in.

"Oh, not at all," he replied, unable to remember his ease of a moment ago. "The fact is I don't believe we are goin' to have any rain for some time yet. Needin' it a little, now, too."

"You were talking in a different strain just now and I interrupted you. I am sorry. Let me lead you back."

"I don't hardly know where I was, ma'm. The fact is, I'm always about half lost when I'm with you."

"Mr. Reverend, don't embarrass me."

"Embarrass you? Ma'm, I haven't had a fight in a good while, but if a feller was to come along and embarrass you, why he'd soon have reason to think that scarlet fever had broke out in the neighborhood."

"Now, please don't talk that way. Let us get back to where we were. You were saying that all lands were in need of the doctrine of gentleness. I suppose it is true, but this land needs only the doctrine while there are others that are in need of the lash—I might say, the sword. I am not as high in the social world as you may suppose, but what I know of society leads me to believe that we polish a barbarism and call it a brilliant grace. Politeness is charming to look at and to hear, but it is the art of telling and acting a lie. Among these hills we hear a laugh and we know that some one is amused. In society we see a smile and we feel that some one is a hypocrite."

"I hope it ain't that bad, ma'm."

"But it is that bad."

"When Uncle Jasper asked you if yo' husband was dead, you said worse than that—divorced. Was he very mean to you, ma'am?"

"He was a brute, Mr. Reverend."

"Did anybody knock him down for you?"

"Oh, no."

"Is he livin'?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Do you want him knocked down?"

"Why, Mr. Reverend! Just now you were talking of the doctrine of gentleness, and now you speak of knocking some one down. How can you be so changeable."

"I'm not changeable, ma'm. The doctrine of gentleness don't apply to a snake, and if that man didn't treat you right he is a snake. And I'm a preacher; I go out among them that needs prayer and I pray; in the night when it seems that everybody else in the world is asleep, I have gone out and knelt down in the dirt and prayed that the pain and the bitterness might be taken from the troubled hearts of my neighbors. I've gone to see many a young feller and begged him to give up fightin'—I've done all that, but if you was to tell me where I could find that man—man that was a brute to you, I'd hunt him and with my fist I would mash the teeth out of his mouth. Where does he live?"

"We must not think of him, Mr. Reverend. And besides, when I speak of him, how do you know that I tell the truth?"

"Ma'm, if a man should inspire you with a lie, it would be proof enough that he is a brute."

She clapped her hands and laughed. "Oh, Troubadour, recite your soul to me!"

"What did you say, ma'm?"

"Oh, nothing." She pointed and Jim saw Tom and Lou enter the vine-hung gulch leading to the place where corn had been ground at night.



CHAPTER VIII.

THE SPIRIT THAT PLAYED WITH HER.

"This looks like the scenery in a theatre," said Tom, as slowly they walked up the gulch. She asked him what he meant and he explained as best he could the nature of a play-house, where to sweet music and amid flowers the hero told the heroine that he would die for her. She replied that it must be pretty, but that a book which she had read told her that it was wrong to go to such a place. In this book there was a girl, and one night she went with a young man to a theatre and when she came back her mother was dead. Tom suggested that possibly the old lady might have died anyway, but Lou shook her wavy hair till all sorts of witcheries fell out of it.

"No, she died because the girl went, and I have thought I'd be afraid to go as long as my mother was alive."

He helped her across the rivulet, though it was not more than a foot wide at this place, and a little further on, helped her across again when there was no necessity for it. "It didn't seem to have any influence on the old man, did it?" he remarked.

"The girl goin' to the theatre? Oh, no; it takes more than that to kill a man. Cousin Jim says when he went down to Memphis while the yeller fever was there, he saw the theatre house. He went inside, and the seats were red and soft—softer than the seats in a church, but there wasn't anybody there for all the people that went there were dead with the fever. But I have often wondered if there was so much music and so many flowers how it could be so bad. They say that the angels have harps and that in heaven there is music, but I haven't heard that there is any music at the other place. Oh, did you see that bird almost light on me?"

"Thought you were a flower," Tom replied, helping her across the rivulet again.

"Oh, it didn't. What makes you wanter talk that way for? Look, here is where I used to make my play-house, and here are pieces of the broken dishes yet, and that broken bottle was my bureau. Wait a minute and let me think. There was a little boy played with me and his name was Bud—not a sure enough little boy, but one that I pretended like; and I could hear him talk and he'd say the prettiest things. He lived up there under that big rock and would always come when I called him, but one time a woman come along and she heard me talkin' to him and she couldn't see him with her sort of eyes; and she went down to the house and told mother that I must be crazy, and after this Bud wouldn't come when I called him. That was a long time ago—a year and a half befo' year befo' last. We will go on now."

When they came to the log hut, Tom cried out: "Oh, here is another play-house. Is it yours?"

"No, this is where they grind corn."

He looked in at the low door and marveled at the strangeness of the place, and after a long silence she asked him what he was thinking about and he replied:

"About that little boy. He must have been happy."

"Yes, till that hateful woman came along and killed him. Wasn't she mean? I wonder if hundreds of spirits haven't been killed that way. How beautiful everything is sometimes when we shut our eyes. It is then that we see spirits, but I was sick once and the spirits all got to be old and wrinkled and they'd come up and grin at me; and after that for a long time I was afraid to see things with my eyes shut. Isn't it nice to be as brave as you are?"

He looked at her and his eyes were aglow with softened fire, and his hand was near her own, resting on the log door-way, but he was not brave now for he trembled and when he spoke his voice wavered. "Don't mock me by calling me brave. There never was a bigger coward."

"Why, you are trembling now. Is it because I told you of the spirits? But you ain't a coward. My father says you are brave and he knows, for you wan't afraid of that mad dog, and there's nothin' as bad as that. Oh, down yonder where the branch is bigger there is a water fall; and after a rain it roars and I used to go there with little Bud and we called it a scolding giant. Shall we go down there?"

"Yes, but you mustn't—mustn't think of that boy Bud so much."

"Oh, he was only a spirit."

"Yes, but so is everything that is anything. Take the spirit away and we'd all be cattle. And I know exactly what species of cattle I'd be—I'd be a calf—just a red calf with horns about an inch long, and in nosing around I'd get a basket on my head, be frightened and make myself ridiculous. I never knew it before, but I know now that I'd be a calf."

"Oh, no you wouldn't, no such of a thing. What makes you talk about yourself that way? Come on, now."

Over a bluff of rock fifty feet high the rivulet poured and in the spray they saw a rainbow. Down below where they stood ferns were rank and the rocks were soft with moss. Here they sat and chatted of nothing but themselves, he discovering faults in himself and she denying them, calling him prettily to task for his slander, and thrilled him from one indecision to another. The sun, emblazoning for a moment a distant mountain top, purpled the lower world and then all was in shade. For a long time they had been silent and when she spoke he started out of his revery and rubbed his eyes as if he had been asleep; but he had not, for as a spirit, a little boy Bud, he had played with her in the gulch, coming out from beneath the rock when she called him.

"Let us go back to the house," she said. "They will wonder what has become of us."

Jim and Mrs. Mayfield were coming down the hill. The preacher, too, had for the most part been silent, though not in reverie, but in a constant struggle. Once he said to her: "Ma'm, I can't get it out of my head that you are makin' fun of me."

"I make fun of you, Mr. Reverend? I admit that in the past my heart was gayer than wise, but there never was a time when I could have made fun of you."

Slowly they walked down the hill and he pondered over what she had said, but a simple heart is often a suspicious heart; rustic faith is afraid of itself, and he did not believe her. He was not wise enough to see that in her eye he was a moral Hercules. He did not know that in his great strength, in his very awkwardness, there was a fascination for this woman who had drunk wine from a golden goblet and found it bitter. On every creed there are dark spots, and in his devotion to his calling he was afraid that she had come to him as a temptation, to lead him away from the work of saving souls. Sometimes he caught himself foolishly wishing that suddenly she might develop into a man, the evil one himself, that he might defy him; and then the softness of her words would bring shame upon him and he would mutter imprecations against himself.

"The sun is no longer shining upon it, but in my mind that hill-top will always glow," she said when they had reached the road. "It must ever remain a gold-tipped promontory of the past."

"Ma'm, I don't know what you mean."



CHAPTER IX.

AT DRY FORK.

The next day was Sunday, and immediately after breakfast Jasper announced that he was going "to haul a passel of them" over to church, the place of worship and of gossip being about five miles distant. And when everything was made ready, Mrs. Mayfield was delighted to find upon going out to the gate that they were to be drawn by two enormous oxen. But Margaret objected. "Thar air two hosses out yander at the stable, and it is jest one of Jasper's pranks to take these steers," she said. "And I jest know he's a doin' it to humiliate me." The old man, pretending to fix the yoke, ducked his head to hide his grinning countenance. "Hosses out thar, but here we go like niggers to a camp-meetin'," she went on. "I'm not goin'."

"Oh, do go, Mrs. Starbuck," Mrs. Mayfield pleaded.

"No, I won't go a step. I won't be shamed in this way."

"Sorry, Margaret," said Jasper. "I 'lowed you'd enjoy yo'se'f, still if you don't want to go thar's no way of compellin' you. Wall, climb up, everybody."

Mrs. Mayfield and Lou were helped into the wagon, Jasper climbed up and had begun to swing his long lash when Margaret cried out: "You haven't fixed any place for me."

"For you?" Jasper replied. "Didn't know you was a goin'."

"Oh, you think you kin make me stay at home all day by myse'f, do you? All the time studyin' how you kin go away an' leave me. Well, I'll show you wuther I'm goin' or not."

The old man laughed. "Oh, pleased to have you come along, as the hawk said to the chicken." She climbed up and sat down beside him and he dodged as if she had struck at him. "Now stop yo' foolishness an' drive on, Jasper. An' I'll jest bet anythin' that these steers run right off'n the bluff inter the creek. I jest know it."

"Oh, not with a preacher an' all these good-lookin' women," replied Jasper. "Whoa hawr, come here, Buck. Come here, Bright."

The old wagon creaked, groaned, shuddered and away they went down the hill. Lou and Mrs. Mayfield "bursting into song," Jim and Tom laughing. The dawn had been red and the early morning was still pink, with here and there a mist-veil floating up from the creek. In the air were sudden joys, the indescribable and indefinable glees of a lightsome day, the very childhood of time; and back to the north the migratory bird was singing his way, mimicked and laughed at by the native mocking songster, jongleur of the feathered world. In all this blythe land it did not seem that there was an ache or a pain, of the body or of the heart; the light, the air, the music, all combined to form a wordless sermon on the mount.

"Mr. Reverend, you are silent again," said Mrs. Mayfield, and the preacher replied: "I didn't know that, ma'm. I thought I was singing."

"I'm not singin'," Margaret spoke up, grasping Jasper's arm. "I haven't been so jolted since the mules ran away with me."

"Margaret," said Jasper, "you'd be jolted in the garden of Eden. Jolted out, I gad," he roared.

"I wouldn't, no sich of a thing, an' you know it. Lou, air you shore you put everything in the basket."

"Yes'm."

"The pickels, and the chickens? I jest know you forgot the coffee, as if I could go all day without it. I never seed the like. Folks air gittin' mo' an' mo' keerless every day. Of co'se you could put in the pickels—had to do that to leave the coffee out. Now what prompted you to do that?"

"Do what, mother?"

"Why, leave that coffee out?"

"It's in the basket."

"Then why did you tell me you didn't fetch it? What do you want to torment a body fur? Now, Jasper, whut air you a settin' up here fur, a shakin' like a lump o' calf-foot jelly? You give me the fidgits."

"Wall, thar won't be nobody a laughin' now putty soon," said Jasper. "I kin see right now that these steers air goin' to run off inter the creek."

"They ain't a goin' to do no sich of a thing, an' you know it. Miz Mayfield, did you ever see sich carryin's-on?"

"I have never experienced a more delightful drive, Mrs. Starbuck. We read of the beautiful past, and it seems to me that to-day I have been permitted to live a hundred years ago. A hundred! Five hundred, and should not be surprised to see a troop of knights come galloping down the glen, with armor flashing and with poetic war-cries on their lips. Were you thinking of that, Mr. Reverend?"

"No, ma'm. I was thinking of the men, clothed in skins and with shepherd's crooks in their hands, carrying the gospel to the barbarians of old."

"And I was thinking," said Tom, "of old Daniel Boone, with his flint-lock rifle, going to Kentucky. And what were your thoughts, Miss Lou?"

"I wasn't thinkin'—I was just a livin', that's all. Sometimes what a blessin' it is jest to breathe. I reckon we are the happiest when we don't have to think, when we jest set still and let things drift along like the leaf that's a floatin' down the river."

"Very pretty, my dear," Mrs. Mayfield replied. "Thought is not happiness, though bliss may not lie wholly in ignorance. I should think that the happiness most nearly perfect is the half-unconscious rest of a thoughtful mind—the sound sleep of the strong."

"That's all very well," said Old Jasper, waving his long lash over the steers. "But you can't gauge happiness, and half the time you can't tell what fetches it about. Some days you find yo'se'f miserable when thar ain't nuthin' happened, an' the next day, when still nuthin' has tuck place to change things, you find yo'se'f happy. If you kin do a little suthin' to help a po' body along—an' do it, mind you, without thinkin' that you air doin' it fur a purpose, then the chances air that you'll be happy all day. But ef you help a feller with the idee of it a makin' you happy, it won't, somehow. It's like the card player a givin' a man money becaze he thinks it will fetch him good luck. I ricolleck one time I seed a big feller a bullyin' a po' little devil, an' I told him to quit an' he wouldn't, an' I whaled him. Didn't think nuthin' about it till I got nearly home an' I foun' myse'f a whistlin' like a bird, an' all that day I was as happy as a lark."

"Of co'se, ef you had a fight," Margaret spoke up. "To you it was like eatin' a piece o' June apple pie. Ah, don't I ricolleck once when we went to a political speakin'? I reckon I do. A settin' thar jest as quiet as could be, a listin' to a man that was makin' the puttiest speech, a talkin' like a preacher, an' all at once you hopped up an' made at him an' I never seed such a fight—an' you come a walkin' back to me with yo' hands full of his hair. Laws a massy, don't I ricolleck it?"

"Talkin' putty! W'y, Margaret, the feller was a tellin' of a lie. I didn't want to fight him an' break up the meetin', an' I was showin' that by settin' thar so quiet. But when he begun to lie, it was my duty to remind him of it."

"Wall," she replied, after a moment's silence, "if that preacher out thar at Dry Fork' to-day begins to say things that you think ain't true, jest set thar an' say nuthin', fur it ain't none o' yo' business."

"That's right, Margaret. I don't kere what a man says when he's a preachin', jest so he don't p'int at me. He kin say that Moses drunk up the Red Sea ef he wants to—but he mustn't p'int as if he could prove it by me."

"Oh, it would do you a world of good ef he did p'int at you. Nuthin' on the yeth would please you so much."

Down into the lowlands lying along a blue river the wagon rolled. Here the vegetation was rank, and the tops of the hickory trees were dim in the dazzling blue above. Great birds with long legs stretched out far behind, flew past, ancient war-bolts they seemed; and a flying squirrel looped his flight from one tree to another. The tall rattle weed, in bloom, nodded a yellow salute as they passed.

"We are the guests of honor," said Mrs. Mayfield. "They have marshalled a gay army of soldiers to meet us."

"The roots of them weeds is pizen," Jasper spoke up, cutting off a yellow plume with his whip. "They look suthin' like the stalk of angelica an' sometimes they air dug up by mistake fur sich. See that squirrel. Look how he rattles up that hickory bark. Wall, down yan we turn to the right an' go up a little rise, dip down ag'in, then go up an' keep on a goin' up fur about a mile an' thar's the church. Who preaches to-day, Margaret?"

"Brother Fetterson."

"Ah, hah, good man; an' I want to say that he's got mighty fine jedgment when it comes to a hoss. He fust rid in here on a hoss that had about fo' j'ints to the squar foot. Some of our fellers told him he was so thin he oughtn't be rid in the day—ought to keep him fur the dark; called him a sort of night mare. But he tuck it good natured an' jest kep' on a chawin' o' his tobacker. Then atter a while he lows that mebby some good brother mout like to swap with him, an' ever'body laughed fitten to kill. Then he said mebby they mout like to swop saddles. Wall, they done that an' right thar was the rise of that preacher in the good opinion of this here community, fur it wan't long till he swopped off his hoss, a givin' the saddle to boot, an' he kept on a swoppin' till the fust thing we knowed he had the finest hoss in the whole neighborhood, an' the fust feller he swopped with was a walkin' an' a totin' his saddle. That's the sort of a preacher the folks likes to hear, fur they've got confidence in his jedgment."

The log meeting-house was on a hill in the midst of a walnut grove. Its roof was green with moss and its sides gray and yellow. Many a storm had swept over this old pile of wood. In it the ordinance of secession had been read. Knives flashed, pistols barked, and blood was poured out upon the floor. Old Oliver's horses ate their oats at the marble altar of an ancient cathedral; and within these log walls, and at this long slab, this mourners' bench, tear-stained by a generation long since in the grave, the horses of the guerrillas ate their corn. Descendants of the same men, carrying on what might have seemed a continuation of the same family quarrel, first one side and then another occupied Dry Fork as a fort; and when the rain was pouring as if to wash away the blood, Buell slept on a bench in this old house, and two days later Bragg's orders were issued from its pulpit.

Numerous horses were tied about and the mule colt was blowing his treble horn. Maidens in their finery and young fellows rigged out from the pack of the nomadic Hebrew walked about, glancing shyly at one another. On the grass beneath the trees, lying, squatting, sitting, old men talked of early frosts and late snows, of strange and wonderful things that had happened away back in the days of misty tradition; one man's father had seen a ghost, and another man's grandfather, while leading to the altar a beautiful girl, was suddenly horrified to see her turn into a hideous witch. When Jasper's "haul" had got out of the wagon, and while the women were shaking out their skirts, Laz Spencer came along in jacket and shrunken trousers.

"Laz," said Jasper, "you ought to sue that peddler. Yo' britches hain't shrunk the same. One leg's shorter than tuther."

"So I hearn," Laz replied, looking first at one leg and then at the other. "But britches ain't whut's a troublin' me at the present writin'. Miss lady's duds is what's a ailin' of me. Mag Bailey 'lowed she'd meet me over here, but she didn't come. I'd ruther be deceived by ten men than one woman. You kin whup a man, but it won't do to whup a woman till you marry her, an' even then it's sorter dangersome."

"She's your fiance, I suppose," Tom remarked, winking at his aunt.

"I don't know whut you mean, but she ain't my nuthin' it don't seem like."

"I mean you are engaged to her."

"Don't look much like it. Told her ef she'd meet me over here we mout be. Reckon her not comin' is a hint that she ain't agreeable to the p'int. How air you an' Lou a gittin' along?"

Margaret began to cough and Jasper ducked down behind the wagon. Lou blushed until her cheeks were as red as the ribbon on her hat. "I git along well with ever'body," she said.

"You embarrass us, Mr. Spencer," Tom spoke up, red as the breast of a robin.

"That so?" replied Laz. "Wall, Mister, ef you don't want to be jolted don't try to jolt me."

"I beg your pardon, sir, if—"

"Oh, no harm done, Mister. Wait a minit," he added, squatting and peering down the hill among the trees. "I'm a billy goat with only one ho'n ef yander don't come Mag with Sim Mason. Him an' her as sho's I'm a foot high. Say, Jasper, they calls the sakermint the blood o' the lamb, don't they? Wall, ef they want it to-day they kin have the blood of a calf."

"Oh, Mr. Spencer," cried Mrs. Mayfield, going to him in alarm, "I do hope you'll have no trouble."

"Hope so, too, ma'm, but I ain't a signin' no notes of hand. Look, he's a hitchin' her hoss fur her an' you see ef he don't walk with her up to the church do'. An' ef he do, thar's—whut did I tell you?"

Sim walked to the church door with Mag, and then in observance of established customs, sauntered off, happening to stroll in the direction of Laz. Margaret appealed to Jasper. "Don't you let 'em have no trouble here. If you do, I won't let you have no peace fur a month."

"Don't expect to have none nohow," the old man drawled.

Sim came along and Laz stepped forth to meet him. The newcomer advanced, holding out his hand. "Laz," he said, "I'm glad to be of some service to you. Mag was a comin' to church an' as her sister couldn't come I rode along with her. Me an' her sister air goin' to be married befo' long."

Laz took hold of his hand. "Sim," he said, and his voice wavered and tears gathered in the sympathetic eyes of Mrs. Mayfield—"Sim, I done you wrong. I 'lowed you was a tryin' to cut me out an' I done you a injestice, an' ef thar's any sort of punishment you want to put on me, put it thar an' I'll take it an' won't say a word."

"Laz, old hoss, I've already put the punishment on you—I've tuck her sister Ella, the flower an' the perfume of the family."

"They tell us," said Mrs. Mayfield, turning to her nephew, "that once the sun went down and never more arose to illumine a day of gallantry. They did not tell us the truth."

"No, auntie. These people are the unconscious survivors of the floral contest at the poetic court of love."

"Ah, and they have even touched you, wayward boy. But come, shall we not go into the house?"

"You folks go on an' I'll be there atter a while," replied Jasper. "Thar's a feller over yander that's got a bay nag I want an' I mout strike up a swop with him by the time the preacher gits to his second an'—der—rer."

"You ain't goin' to do no sich of a thing," said Margaret. "I didn't come all the way over here to be humiliated. You'll go right in thar an' set down by me. Folks have said you don't love me an' I don't intend that you shall prove it to 'em."

Jasper grinned, took her arm, and led the way into the house. It was a long sermon, with many excursions, devious hog-paths running criss-cross through a wilderness. But it was ardent and hammering. Old Satan was defied, dared to come forth and show himself to this assembly, true soldiers of the cross. Children nodding and held upright by their mothers, hands hanging limp, looked like rag dolls; and many a strong man and devil-hating dame felt themselves slipping off into drowsiness. Jasper snored. Margaret pinched him, determinedly awake in order to inflict punishment; and when at last the welcome benediction fell upon nodding heads and weary shoulders, there was a scramble for the doors and a rush for the baskets. Jasper swore that he never was as hungry in all his life, and upon his arm Margaret put a restraining hand.

"Now don't eat like you never got nothin' at home. Miz Mayfield, it's all put on with him."

A table cloth was spread on the ground and before the old man had tasted a morsel, he went about looking for someone, astray at the feast, who might not have brought a basket or received an invitation. He returned with Laz, Sim and Mag. The girl minced, nibbling at a chicken wing, and the boys pretended to be dainty, but when the girls were not looking, grabbed like a hired hand at a barbecue. After a time, when the sun had moved far around, Old Jasper wiped his knife on his trousers and remarked: "Wall, I don't know how the rest of you feel, but as for me I'm goin' off down thar summers in the holler an' take a nap."

Margaret protested, but a word from Mrs. Mayfield assured him that privilege, and he strode away, humming as he went. Laz and Mag "santered" off, Sim sprawled out to sleep, Tom and Lou bird-peeped at each other and Jim and Mrs. Mayfield sat on a log in a lace-work of sun and shade.

"This has been one of the happiest days of my life," she said. "I didn't know that there could be so much pleasure without incident. Ah, a quaint and plotless people, Mr. Reverend."

"There may be more plot than you think, ma'm. These folks all have their troubles. And on the hill-side where you see the white flower, blood runs sometimes. Uncle Jasper and I are about the last of our race—last of the men folks. Most of us have been killed."

"I don't see how that could be, Mr. Reverend. Such gentleness—"

"Don't be fooled in us, ma'm. We ain't been always blameless. Through our house old Satan has walked, leaving his tracks."

"Satan tempted the Son of Man, Mr. Reverend."

"Yes, ma'm; but didn't walk through His house, leaving of his tracks."



CHAPTER X.

TIED TO A TREE.

The sun was down and the stars were abroad and the young moon looked like a silver bear-claw in the sky when Jasper turned his steers homeward; and all the party broke out in song as down the hill they rattled. The shallows in the river sang too, and high in a tree, a bird too riotous to leave off with the coming of night, was carrolling the tired end of his spree. Suddenly all singing stopped. There was a flutter in the bushes and birds flew away and a rabbit scampered over a log. It was a loud cry of distress and all nature heeds the cry of pain. Laugh and the bird listens; shriek and it flies away.

"Whoa!" shouted Jasper. "What was that yell?"

"Someone in distress," Tom answered. "Seems to be over to the left."

They listened. The cry came again, and upon it was borne the words, distinct now in the stillness: "Fur de Lawd's sake doan kill me."

"Come on!" Jasper shouted, as he leaped out of the wagon; and everyone followed him. "Hold on thar!" the old man cried. "Don't tetch him whoever you air. Do you hear me? It's Jasper Starbuck that's a talkin' to you."

Down a slant and in an open space there was a fire of twigs, and in its light were four men, one a negro bound hand and foot, the others an oldish man and evidently his two sons.

"What's the matter here?" Jasper demanded.

"Wall," replied the oldish man, "whatever it is, it ain't no affair of yourn. Tie him across the log, boys."

The negro implored mercy. "Marster, ez de Lawd is my jedge, I ain't guilty. I ain't been er good man—I 'knowledges dat, but dis time I ain't guilty."

"Hold on," Jasper demanded, and the women, standing behind him, murmured commendation of his course. Tom and Jim stood apart, in positions of advantage in the event that there should be a fight. "Hold on," Starbuck repeated, speaking to the father of the two young men. "You must be a newcomer in these here parts, or you would have held on at the first command. Don't reckon you know me."

"I don't know you, but I know my own business. My name is Sanderson, and I am from North Caroliny, and we air goin' to whup this nigger within a inch of his life or know the reason why."

"All right," said Jasper, taking off his hat and scratching his head. "That is, if I don't give you the reason why. Thar happens to be a reason. But befo' I git down to it, let me ask what this po' devil's done."

The negro broke out with fresh imploration. "Ole marster, save me. I ain't nuthin' on dis big yearth—dar ain't no way fur me ter be no count. De Lawd ain't gib me whut he has you folks. He has put me yeah ter run like er rabbit wheneber I sees er white man er comin', an' I do hopes you take my part. I'll tell you whut he 'cuze me erbout. I wuz er comin' laung de road, an' I yeard a dog yelp, an' I come ter de dog er minit later an' he lay dar in de road wid his head mashed. I wuz er lookin' at de po' thing when up come deze men an' 'cuzed me er killin' him; but old marster, let me tell you suthin': dar's mighty few niggers dat eber kills er dog, caze de dog an' de nigger so close ter de yearth da's friends. I didn't kill de dog."

"Mister," said Sanderson, "I mout come yo' way a thousand times and I never would interfere with you, and my advice to you now is, don't interfere with me. You spoke of me not knowin' you. Wall, you don't know me, nuther."

"Jasper," Margaret exclaimed, "that's a threat, an' don't you let the fack that us women folks air here stand in yo' way."

"No," cried Mrs. Mayfield, "we will all fight to protect this poor creature."

Something gleamed in Lou's hand. It was a penknife. She said nothing, but she stepped forward, the spirit of vengeance come out of the night; but the old man touched her on the arm and said: "Little sweetheart, you can't find no wild vines to dig up here with yo' knife."

"No," said Tom, "let me take it," and whispering, he added, "One word from you and I will cut his throat. But you must be still."

She smiled at him and replied: "I will, because you say so," and again the shy girl, trembling in the presence of one who loved her, she shrank back and was a graceful shadow in the dusk.

"Mr. Stranger," said Jasper, "I am waitin' fur you ter untie that po' old nigger."

"Thank you, Mr. Stranger," said the North Carolina man, "and I will when we git through with him. He wanted to kill my dog so as he could steal suthin', and a thief ought to be punished. That's a law I take with me wharever I go."

"Good law," Jasper replied. "And thar's a law that's allus in force whar I live and it's this here: when a thief is accused there must be some proof befo' he is punished."

Jim spoke for the first time. He had stood with folded arms, and sometimes his lips moved as if he were muttering a prayer. And now his voice was as solemn as a benediction: "The poor Ethiopian was lead down into the waters of forgiveness and baptized. In the sight of the Savior the color of his skin had not made him a sinner. About the weak and the wretched the gospel threw its protecting arm, and to-night it is here to do the same. I represent the gospel, and as the gospel, I ask you to liberate that man."

"Hah, preacher," replied Sanderson. "And what if I don't pay no attention to the gospel?"

And Jim's voice was deep and solemn when he answered: "Then Jim Starbuck, the man, will mash your head and throw you out into the road where your dog is lying."

Old Jasper slapped himself and laughed, but there were tears in his eyes. "Thar won't be no necessity for that, Jim. You know my appetite ain't been right good lately—I've needed exercise, and the sort of exercise I need, this here man is goin' to help me to take. Mister, once mo' I ask you to untie that po' nigger, and then we will git at the evidence. You hearn what the preacher said, and—"

Through the bushes a man came stalking. He was rugged and brusque, but he bowed to the women and offered to shake hands with the men; but Jasper inquired as to his business upon the scene, and put him back upon formality until this point should be settled.

"Why, it's jest this," said he, looking round at the negro. "I was a drivin' down the hill jest now, and a drivin' peart, when out run a dog and bit at my hosses' feet. One of the hosses knocked him down and befo' he could git up the wheel run over him. It made me mad, come a bitin' at my hosses, an' I driv on, but I got to thinkin' that somebody mout be accused of killin' him, so I come back, an' shore enough here you'd got a nigger tied up. The killin' was a accident."

"All right, gentlemen," said Sanderson. "I'll turn him loose, and it will be a good lesson fur him—it will l'arn him not to kill no dog of mine. Cut the rope, Bob," he added, speaking to one of the boys.

The negro dropped down upon his knees to thank Jasper, but the old man bade him arise and go about his business. "I would have done the same for a dog," said he. "Wait a minit. You don't look like you've had anythin' to eat lately. Here, boys, let's give him a few dimes."

Contributions were quicker and more spontaneous than the pennies that fall in the twilight upon the outstretched banner of the Salvation armyist; the newcomer took a piece of smooth silver out of a yarn sack and handed it over, following the pace which Jasper had set. Tom gave a dollar and Jim contributed enough to buy a hymn-book.

"Gentlemen," said Sanderson, "when I think a man's done wrong I want blood, and sometimes I reckon I'm a little hot-headed about it—my jestice is sorter blind—but when I find he hain't done wrong, w'y I don't love money. Here, nigger, here's fifty cents, and I want you to understand you mustn't kill a dog of mine."

With a broad grin, catching the reflection of the silver in his hand, the negro bowed low. "No, sah, I ain't gwine kill no dog o' yo'n. Ef I wuz ter meet yo' dog, I'd say, 'come yeah,' an' I'd hug him right dar. Huh, I neber seed sich putty women folks in my life, an' I knows da's de cause o' deze white folks gibbin' me all dis money. Huh, I wouldn' mine bein' tied up dar ag'in. Mr. Sanderson, I blebe dat yo' name, I'll go an' bury yo' dog fur you. Ladies an' gennermen, under de moon an' yeah 'neath de trees, I wush you good-night."

"Poetic duck," said Tom, as the darkey turned away.

"Charming in his pleading and in his gallantry," his aunt replied.

"Must have been brought up in the white folks' house," Sanderson remarked, and then, bowing to the company, marshalled his boys and marched off.

"Margaret," said Jasper, when again they were seated in the wagon, "I am proud of you."

"No, you ain't, no sich of a thing, an' you only want a chance to tell me so." He had slipped one arm about her and her head was on his shoulder.

"Beautiful," Mrs. Mayfield whispered to Jim. "Ah, what a day this has been to me. And, Mr. Reverend, I have begun to think that there is something good about nearly every one. Even that man whom we thought was such a brute became gentle."

"That's true, ma'm, but I think that there's one man that is absolutely depraved. Not the murderer, for he might feed the hungry. Not the wife-beater, for afterward he might beg her forgiveness and kiss her. Not the man that would rob the dead, for he might give a penny to a little child. But the man whose soul is in love with money. I don't mean his soul, for he has none, but the man whose every thought is money, money. He is a murderer, a wife-beater, a robber of the dead. He can sleep at night when he knows that by his shrewdness, which has won him friends among the rich, he has stretched out upon the bare floor a starving child. Christ did not die for that man."

"No, Mr. Reverend," she replied, her head hung low; and something dropped upon his hand—a tear.

Like two birds Lou and Tom were twittering. He asked her if she had been happy that day because she did not think, and she answered that she had been happy because she had thought.

Suddenly someone ran out of the woods in front of the steers. The wagon stopped and Jasper shouted: "Whut's the matter here?"

A voice replied: "Wy, sah, atter buryin' de dog I tuck a sho't cut ter head you off. I's de nigger, an' my heart wuz heavy, an' I had ter come an' tell you suthin'. You'se Mr. Starbuck, ain't you?"

"Yes, but what about it?"

"Wall, sah, atter I tell you, w'y you kin tie me ter er tree an' whup me ef you wants ter, but I got ter tell you. Not laung ergo, I stole er chicken from yo' roost. An' now you may punish me."

"Hah? What sort of a chicken?"

"Er rooster, sah."

"What, that old dominecker?"

"Yas, sah, de dominecker."

"Did yon eat him?"

"Yas, sah, I eat him."

"Wall, that was punishment enough. Git up here, boys."

It was the first time that Mrs. Mayfield had ever heard Jim laugh. He roared and he whooped as the wagon rattled along, and she was afraid that he was going to fall off. She asked him a question and he answered with a snort.

When they reached home a man was standing at the gate. Jasper inquired who it was, for in the dark he could not distinguish his visitor, and a voice replied:

"It's me, Gabe Wells—hollered helloa, and you wanted me to fetch you a newsparer an' a can of cove oysters an' about a straw hat full of crackers."

"Why, yes, Gabe, come in. Wondered why you hadn't fotch them oysters over. Next to chitterlin's I reckon they air the best things in the world."

When they were at supper, with Gabe eating as if he had not eaten at home, Jasper related their adventure in the woods, and Gabe declared that he would like to take a hand in such an affair. He swore roundly that Sanderson was a brute, but when he heard that with the rest he had contributed money, he wiped his mouth and said: "You can't allus tell. That feller's a gentleman, an' some time a passel of us must hitch up an' drive over to see him. We can't afford to negleck such neighbors as him."

"What sort of a newspaper did you fetch, Gabe?" Margaret inquired, and he handed her "The Fire-Side Companion."

"Full of news from beginnin' to end," he said. "None of yo' tame stuff about Uncle Billy a comin' to town with a load of wood or Aunt Sally a renewin' of her per-scription."

"Any discussion a goin' on down at town?" Jasper asked, and Gabe began to rack his memory.

"Wall, no, I b'lieve not. Hearn one feller call one man a liar."

"Whut come of it?"

"Oh, nuthin' much. Hauled him home in a wagin. Say, it was the puttiest wagin I ever seen—yaller stripes on the wheels, an' it clucked like a hen with her fust drove of chickens. But I tell you I come mighty nigh a gittin' some money down thar. A feller had three shells an' bet me I couldn't guess which one of 'em he put a pea under. I seed him put it under one—seed him jest as cl'ar as I see you, an' I would have bet him five dollars, but—"

"But what?"

"Didn't have the money. Allus my luck. Ever' time I've come across a chance fur a good speckerlation I ain't got no money. But I must be goin'—I don't know, howsomedever, fur wife must have fed the stock by this time. Lemme see. I reckon I better go."

That night when the romantic woman from the city was asleep, she did not dream that the preacher was on his knees, with clasped hands, gazing up at her window.



CHAPTER XI.

READING THE NEWS.

The next morning Old Jasper took up the story-paper and for a long time sat at the table, bending over it, reading laboriously. Not far away his wife sat, knitting and slowly rocking. Sometimes the old man's face would light up and then it would darken.

"Shot fo' an' stobbed three," he read. "Hold on, he's about to git another one. Got him! Oh, you bet he's got him foul. Wait a minit." Then, gripping the table with one hand and with the other one grasping the paper, he continued to read: "'Then the Captain findin' himself again surrounded by the'"—he halted and began to spell out the word—"'by the—b-a-n-d-i-t-s—threw down his empty pistol, drew his dirk and—' Who tore this off?" he got up excitedly and demanded. "Here, fetch me what the Captain done. Never in all my life was I left in sich a lurch. Why, thar's no tellin' how many mo' he killed. Didn't think that feller Gabe was sich a good jedge of a paper, but blamed if he didn't fetch me one with news a oozin' out at every pore. And now somebody has come along an' grabbed the works outen it. Margaret, don't you see whut a fix I'm in? Can't you help me?"

Without looking up from her knitting, she replied: "Why, Jasper, that ain't news. It's only a story-paper."

He staggered back as if she had thrown over him a pail of cold water. His hair looked limp, and dew-beads of emotion stood out upon his brow. He took a step forward and limped as if he had lost a part of his strength.

"What, Margaret, ain't news when a man shoots fo' an' stobs three? Now you air a woman of fine sense. I've allus said that, and for mercy sake don't come a tellin' me that you don't know what news is. Scold me whenever you feel like it, but don't come a tellin' me that."

She didn't look up. "But Jasper, it ain't true."

"Ain't true? Here it is, right here. Look." He shuffled over to her and spreading out the paper put his finger at the place whence the vital spark had fled. "Look, spelled out jest like in a almanic. See fur yo'se'f."

Then came her voice, cold and cutting to his hopes: "Oh, I know it's thar well enough. What I mean is it's all made up—it's a tale."

"A tale? What's that? What do you mean by a tale? Do you mean that it didn't happen?"

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean. Of course it didn't happen."

He gazed at her, wondering whether or not to accept her wisdom. Then upon the floor he flung the paper and trampled upon it. "If that's the case, I don't want nuthin' mo' to do with it. Come a foolin' with a man's affections thatter way. Ought to have been out yander at work half a hour ago. Been a settin' here a thinkin' I was a gittin' facts. Man ought to be whupped fur printin' a lie jest like fur tellin' one."

Margaret showed signs of sympathy. "Jasper, I wouldn't let it bother me so."

He started. "Wouldn't let it bother you when you been a stuffin' yo'se'f with a lie? Wouldn't let it bother you when a man gains yo' confidence an' then deceives you?"

"Oh," she said, rocking herself and plying her needles, "it don't amount to nuthin'. I wouldn't pay no attention to it."

"Look here, Margaret. Now—now, don't make light of my trouble."

Into her lap she let her knitting fall and earnestly she looked at him. "I never make light of a real trouble, Jasper, but it seems that you do. A real trouble is a comin' down the road, but you don't appear to mind it. Have you seed Lije Peters sense he was here the other day?"

"No, I ain't been lookin' fur him."

"But he mout look for you."

"He won't have to look under the bed," the old man replied, slowly walking up and down the room.

"Jasper, do you think he'll git that app'intment as deputy marshal?"

He halted and stood with his hands behind him. "I don't know, but if he do, it means shore enough trouble." He took his hands from behind him and looked at them. "Red on yo' hands don't make a good glove. The mo' I talk to Jim, the preacher, the wus I hate red. Blood may be thicker than water all right enough, but it ain't as smilin' when the sun hits it. I don't want to fight, but—"

"Oh, yes you do," she broke in. "You'd ruther fight than eat."

A smile illumined his bronze countenance. "Wall, I ain't always hungry." The smile passed and with countenance grave and with voice deep he said: "Every whar you see a home, you may know that somebody has fit fur it. Every privilege in this here life has cost blood. If a man wants to be treated as a lamb, he must prove himself a tiger. He must conquer befo' he's allowed to set down an' love. I don't want to kill that feller, but—"

Laz Spencer appeared at the door. "Come in, Laz."

He came in and took off his slouch hat, standing there as if he had something on his mind. Suddenly he exclaimed as if discharging a great diplomatic mission: "Mornin', mornin'."

Margaret bade him good morning, and then asked concerning the health of the "folks."

He sat down and twisted his hat round and round. "The folks air jest tolerable, ma'm. How's all with you?"

"Tolerable," Margaret answered.

"Yo' brother Bill a gittin' better?" Jasper inquired.

Round and round Laz twisted his hat. "Pearter than he war yistidy, but not as peart as he war the day befo'."

"Yo' mother still a eatin' of spoon vidults, Laz?"

"No, doc' he 'lows she kin eat knife an' fork stuff now."

"Any news over yo' way?"

"Nuthin' wuth dividin'. Doc' he sewed Patterson up an' 'lows he may git well."

"Why, what's the matter with Patterson?"

"Sam Perdue cut him with a knife."

"Fur pity's sake," Margaret exclaimed.

"I ain't hearn about it," said Jasper.

"Yes, they had a right sharp time," Laz drawled. "Andy, he died."

"What Andy?"

"Andy Horn."

"Did you ever?" Margaret declared.

"What ailed him?" Jasper asked, showing increased interest.

"Got cotched in a saw mill. Ma'm," he added, looking at Margaret without turning his head, "I reckon you hearn about old Aunt Sis Garrett?"

"Not a word."

"Fell down day befo' yistidy an' broke her hip."

"Why," said Margaret, "you didn't tell us yistidy at meetin'."

"Wall, I had suthin' else on my mind at the time. When things git to pushin' around in my mind, I jest let one thing crowd out another."

"Fell down and broke her hip," Margaret mused aloud.

"Yes'm. Runnin' fitten to kill herse'f at the time. Can't run so mighty brisk, you know, bein' old an' sorter rheumatic, but she done the best she could. I seed a old feller a runnin' once, an' I says—"

"But here," Jasper broke in, "ain't she old enough to know better'n to run fitten to kill herse'f?"

"Yes, suh, but she had to run on this here occasion. She was a gittin' outen the way."

"Outen the way of what?"

"The crazy man that was atter her with a knife. Reckon you ricolleck Bud Thomas," he went on without a change of countenance. "He made a fiddle outen a gourd an' could play on it a right sharp. Went along by the sto' one day an' he war a settin' on a box with this here gourd riddle, an—"

"Well, but what about him?" Jasper broke in.

"He war the crazy man. Reckon you ricollect that black ash tree down by the creek at Baker's ford. Come along thar one time when the white suckers war a runnin' an' I had a pair of grab hooks, an'—"

"Well, what about Baker's ford?" Jasper asked, coming closer to him, and Margaret leaned forward expectantly.

"That's whar he hung hisse'f."

"What are we all a comin' to?" Margaret sighed, sitting back in her chair.

Laz continued: "Didn't have no rope, so he hung hisse'f with a grape vine."

Starbuck shook his head. "Oh, you kin put a grape vine to mo' uses than one."

Margaret turned upon him. "Jasper, I wouldn't make light of it."

"I ain't a makin' light of it—can't make nuthin' of it. Laz, kin you think of any other little thing that's happened to fret yo' neighborhood?"

"Believe not, nothin' wuth dividin'. Did hear that Tobe Walsh war kicked to death by a mule. Didn't put much faith in it, though."

"But was it true?"

"Yes. The mule got him. Buried ter-day."

"Oh, isn't that sad," Margaret wailed. "And he leaves a young wife, too."

"Better than to leave an old one," said Jasper. "The young widder, you know, kin smile through her grief."

"Had to tote her from the grave," Laz went on. "But she picked up a right smart chance when Steve Moore came along. Had her bonnet set fur him befo' she married Tobe, but he broke the strings an' got away."

"Don't want to borry nothin', do you, Laz?" Jasper inquired.

"Wall, yes," he answered, his countenance for the first time showing signs of animation. "I come over to borry a hoss fur a week or two. Our old nag fell offen the bluff an' killed hisse'f."

"That was ruther accommodatin', Laz. You would a been compelled to haul him away in a day or two longer. But you want to borry a hoss for a week or two? Don't you think you mout keep him a leetle longer?"

"Yes, mout on a pinch."

"Got any corn to feed him on?"

Laz began to scratch his head. "Wall, that is whut I was a goin' to talk to you about. Our co'n crib war down on the branch. Branch riz an' washed all the co'n away, an' I'd like fur you to let me have enough to feed on fur a month or so."

Jasper was standing near Margaret. She reached over and plucked his sleeve. "You can't do it, you jest can't. It would be a robbin' of yo'se'f."

"Wall," drawled the old man, with a countryman's philosophical resignation in the face of a difficulty that cannot be avoided, "when a man robs hisse'f he ginerally knows about how fur the work has gone on. I've been a lettin' putty nigh every man have what he wants an' it's most too late to stop now. Laz, tell Kintchin to haul you over a load of co'n an' you kin ride Old Roan home."

The borrower nodded his head, arose and started toward the door, but halted and turned back. Starbuck inquired if there were anything else on his mind. He scratched his head as if he would harrow up his sleeping faculties and managed to say that he believed not.

"Laz, wush you'd try to keep my hoss away from that bluff."

"Oh, I'll take as good kere of him as if he belonged to me."

"What!—as if he belonged to you? Then I reckon I better not let you have him. You must do better than that, Laz. An' say, don't furgit to fetch him back."

"Oh, I never furgit nuthin'. Good-day."

Margaret hastened to the window and called after him: "Oh, Laz. We air goin' to kill a sheep to-morrer. Tell yo' mother we'll send her over a hindquarter."

"Yes'm," he answered, without looking back, and slouched off down the road.

Up and down the room the old man walked, deep in thought. With his eyes half-closed, sometimes he looked like a lion dozing in the sun. They say that a game-cock is the bravest thing in the world. That is not true. Nothing can be gamer than a game man. He is willing to die for a principle. And never is he thrice armed unless his quarrel is just.

Laz came back to the window and spoke and the old man started and looked toward him. "Jasper, I have hearn that Lije Peters is about to be app'inted deputy marshal."

"Yes, Laz, that's the news a stirrin'."

Behind the lout's countenance a light was gradually turned up. "We all knows whut that means, Jasper, an' ef you need me, all you've got to do is to git out on the hill-top an' holler. Layin' in bed one night, an' I hearn a feller holler. I went to him. They had him tied across a log an' his shirt was off. I asked the cap'n of the gang whut it meant, an' he 'lowed that the feller had been in the habit o' whippin' his wife, an' then I 'lows, I does—'Old chap, I reckon you'll hatter swallow yo' salts. Good night.' An' I hearn him a swollerin' 'em. But if I hear you holler, Jasper, I'll—"

"Don't talk about it, Laz."

"All right. Good-day."

When he was gone the old man resumed his walk, musing: "Don't want to see nuthin' red on the ground."

He took out his knife, put his foot on a chair, and began to cut his shoe-strings. As he was cutting the string from the other shoe his wife, peeping round at him, inquired:

"Whut you do that fur?"

"I don't want to die with them on if I kin help it." And shutting his knife with a snap he resumed his walk up and down the room. "And I am a fixin' 'em so I kin kick 'em off."

"For mercy sake, Jasper, don't talk thatter way."

His sense of humor came back to him. "Oh, I may not have to kick 'em off. It wouldn't surprise me if somebody else done the kickin'. But it's better to be prepared. The good Book says—"

"Oh, now, the good Book don't say no sich of a thing, and you know it. What makes you allus want to fetch in the good Book? Don't you know it say, 'Thou shan't kill?' Don't you?"

"Yes, but I ain't found whar it say, 'Thou shall let a feller kill you.'"

"Oh, there ought to be some way a smoothin' of it over."

"Yes, Margaret, a smoothin' of it over an' a pattin' it down with a shovel."

"Oh, fur goodness sake, don't talk thatter way. It distresses me so."

"Why, jest a while ago you was fretted because I didn't treat it serious. Wush you'd sorter draw off in writin' what you want me to do."

"Don't talk thatter way. I am so anxious, an' 'specially at this time when—"

"When what?"

"When these folks air here—when that young feller is a payin' so much attention to Lou."

"Don't worry about her, Margaret. If she has to take bitter medicine, she'll do it an' smack her mouth."

"But, Jasper, he's the son of a United States Jedge."

"Wall, but thar ain't no objection to that, is there?"

"Oh, how tormentin' a man kin be when he tries."

"Oh, how tormentin' a woman kin be when she don't try."

"Did anybody ever hear the like? Jasper, don't you see how much Lou is a thinkin' of him? Air you so blind that you can't see that? An' you know that the app'intment of Peters mout spile it all."

The old man shrugged. "Yes, mout spile it all fur Peters. Let me tell you suthin'. I ain't a stairrin' round to see how much one pusson thinks of another, an' I don't know how much she keers fur that young feller, but I do know that she is worthy of any man that ever trod shoe luther. We give her all the freedom a girl wants, an' that man ain't a livin' that could turn that freedom into shame. If she falls in love with him, she will love him like a Starbuck—with all her soul. An' if he don't love her, she'll be silent like a Starbuck. One day when we was a goin' down the creek in canoe you saw a fish come up an' strike at the paddle. Margaret, that was a Starbuck among fish."

There came a loud cry of "halloa," and Jasper went to the window.

"Helloa yo'se'f."

"My wagon's stalled down here," a man shouted, "and I'd like for you to fetch your steers and give me a lift up the hill."

"What air you loaded with?"

"Hoop poles."

"All right, I'll send a nigger down an'—" Just then he caught sight of Kintchin. "Here, you scoundrel, I thought I told you to haul a load of corn over to Spencer's."

The negro came up to the window. "Yas, suh, but you didn't tell me. I heard you tell dat man Laz, but he sich a liar you kain't blebe nuthin' dat's said ter him."

Jasper turned away to laugh and Kintchin came round into the house.

"But you heard me tell him, you scoundrel," said the old man.

"Yas, suh, I wuz er standin' dar at de cornder o' de house at de time, an' I yered you tell him, an' I would er blebed it, ez I tell you, but dat man is sich er monst'us twister o' de fack dat nuthin' said ter him soun's like de truf. I blebed it when you told him, but de minit he told me it sounded like er lie."

"Kintchin, that's putty good sense, anyhow."

"Yas, suh, an' ain't all dat sense wuth er quarter?"

Jasper began to grabble into his pocket, when Margaret spoke up: "Jasper, don't give that nigger no money. He won't do a thing I tell him to."

Starbuck gave him a piece of silver, and with a look of deep injury the darkey turned to Margaret. "Now, Miss Mar'get, whut you all time come er flatter me datter way fur? You knows I's allus a braikin' my naik fur you. I don't kere ef you is er 'oman, you's got er soul ter save, an' you oughter be a lookin' out fur it."

He ambled slowly toward the door, muttering as he went, and Jasper's sharp command did not serve to enliven him overmuch.

"Come, move on a little faster, and yoke up the steers and haul that man's wagon up the hill. Never saw as slow a nigger in my life. Come on, and I'll go with you."

He hastened out, passing Kintchin and commanding him to come on. Margaret busied herself with picking up scraps of paper, among them doubtless being an account of what the captain did, and threw them out into the yard. Standing at the door, and glancing down the road, she spied Mrs. Mayfield, Jim, Tom and Lou coming from a stroll among the hills. Back into the house she ran, snatched down a turkey-wing fan from a nail in the wall, dusted a rocking-chair, smoothed herself, and was rocking placidly as any lady of leisure when the hill-side romancers entered the room.



CHAPTER XII.

DIDN'T DO ANYTHING HEROIC.

During all the morning Jim had been silent. Standing on a purple knob, arms folded, gazing far away toward the rugged scenes of his life's work, he had reminded the world-woman of some discoverer, a Cortez viewing the Pacific; and when to break the spell of his attitude she asked him why he gazed so fixedly, he replied: "I am looking away off yander at the duty I am neglecting, ma'm."

"Why, you couldn't neglect a duty, Mr. Reverend."

"I didn't think so, but I am. I put myself in mind of the old feller that stood all day a smelling of a rose bush when the weeds were choking his corn. In my wheat field the tares are coming up, now that I am away, and I ought to be there to pull them up by the roots."

"But you need a vacation. Ail preachers take vacations. Why, in the cities, they—"

"Yes, ma'm," he broke in. "Sometimes they shut up their churches, I know, and they go away from their desks and their pulpits; but they are learned men, bristling with sharp points against the man who attacks their creed. I am not armed that way. I can't argue; I can't defend the church against the smart men that Satan has hired. All I can do is to preach in my rough way and go about and beg men to do as near right as they can."

"And St. Paul could not have done more, Mr. Reverend."

"Ah," he said, bowing low, and then looking up at her. "I am afraid of St. Paul. He was a great scholar and in his hands the gospel was a dazzling thing. But with poor, ignorant Peter it was simple; and I choose Peter for my master because I am not afraid of him."

Below them Tom and Lou sat on a rock. The game young fellow was still shy. Sometimes he looked as if he despaired of ever recovering his wonted nerve, for in this girl, so modest and so shrinking, he knew that there lay asleep the wildcat's fearful spirit. Bold by nature he longed at times to see this spirit blaze, but her soft eyes pleaded with him and gentleness made him afraid.

* * * * *

"Come right in," said Margaret as they appeared at the door. "Have this cheer, Miz Mayfield?"

"No, thank you I'll sit over here." She sat down near the table, and Jim took a seat opposite to her and resumed his silent gaze. "We have had a delightful stroll," said Mrs. Mayfield, taking off her gloves; and Lou who stood behind her peeped around lovingly into her eyes.

"Stroll," cried Tom. "I call it a chase. And you could catch a deer almost as easily as to keep up with Miss Lou."

"Why, Mr. Tom, I didn't walk fast."

"Oh," he rejoined, "you didn't walk at all. You flitted."

His aunt looked at him. "Tom, dear, don't be extravagant."

"Extravagant! That's the reason father let me come up here. So I couldn't be extravagant."

"He is determined to be literal," she said with a sigh.

Lou gathered up a handful of flowers that lay in Mrs. Mayfield's lap. "Let me have these," and she began to weave them into the city woman's hair.

"Why, daughter," cried Margaret, "don't do that. She mout not like it."

"Oh, don't stop her, please," Mrs. Mayfield replied, and then to Jim she added: "Did you ever have a fawn touch you with its velvety lip? The thrill of innocence, the—"

"Auntie, don't be extravagant," Tom broke in, and Lou gave him a look of tender reproof. "I wish you'd hush, Mr. Tom. I like to hear her talk."

"Why—why don't you like to hear me talk?"

"I do except when you interrupt her."

He hung his head. "Thank you. Wishes should be sacred when set to music."

"A very pretty speech," said Mrs. Mayfield, nodding Tom a compliment, and Margaret, not to be left behind, declared: "Oh, he couldn't be pearter if he tried."

"There," exclaimed the girl, patting Mrs. Mayfield's head, "you are in bloom."

"She was the moment you said so," Tom replied.

"Do you think so?"

"Yes, I know it. She burst into bloom the moment you spoke."

"Then I'm glad I said it. Some how you always make me feel glad when I've said somethin'. You are the only—only people that ever did that."

Jim had not spoken. Mrs. Mayfield asked him why he was so silent. "A man is sometimes most silent when he is afraid of saying too much," he answered, looking down.

"Mysterious wisdom," she mused, and this gave Tom his opportunity.

"Well, that's what you like, Auntie. You never did care for anything you could understand."

"I don't care for impertinence, sir," and Lou laughed at him: "There, you got it that time."

"Ma'm, I have no desire to be mysterious," said Jim. "A hay stack in an open field couldn't be plainer than my life up to now, but there comes a time even in the most honest man's life when he feels that he must hide something, and that something is the fact that he does feel."

"There, auntie," cried Tom, "he has given you enough mystery to last you—fifteen minutes."

"Is it too warm in here?" Margaret inquired, getting up and going toward the door. They told her that it was "very pleasant," and she looked around at them as if in her opinion it was getting fairly warm but not quite warm enough.

"Mr. Reverend," said Mrs. Mayfield, "I have never known a man like you. And did you ever have a fight, being a Starbuck?"

"I have seen men fall down."

"But you never killed anybody, did you—still being a Starbuck?"

"Kill anybody!" Tom cried. "Why, he's a D. D. not an M. D."

"Oh, hush, you stock joker. But Mr. Reverend, don't you think it is awfully wrong to fight?"

And gazing into her eyes he said: "At times, ma'm, it is just as essential as prayer. Now, Peter drew his sword and cut off a man's ear, and Peter stood right up next to Christ."

"But the Savior told him to put up his sword."

"Very true, ma'm, but not until after the feller had lost his ear."

"Law, me!" exclaimed Margaret, standing at the door, "but you folks air cuttin' up scollops."

"Mr. Reverend," Mrs. Mayfield continued, determined to pursue a subject so interesting to herself, "someone told me of a very heroic thing you did."

"Why, ma'm, I can't look back an' see that I ever did anything heroic. I have helped many an old woman across the creek; I have helped a man set out his tobacco plants, and I want to tell you that settin' out tobacco is the most fetching work I ever did."

"But this was something you can't make light of. I am told that when Memphis was stricken with yellow fever you went down there and nursed the sick."

For a moment he was silent and then he said: "They needed strong arms down there then. The hospitals were full and the churches empty. It seemed to me like the gospel had got scared and was running to the mountains. The Lord may not have called upon me to preach, but I do believe he called on me to go down there."

Leaning upon the table she gazed into his face as if she were for the first time in her life contemplating a human mystery. "You are a noble man, Mr. Reverend. My faith in man gasped and died, but into it you have blown the sweet breath of a new life. Don't misunderstand me, I—"

"No, ma'm, I won't do that. It is not for me to place an estimation upon you. I don't know much about—"

"Come right in," Margaret called to Mose Blake, hesitating at the door. She led him into the room and began to introduce him to the company. "Mose, this is Miz Mayfield—" Mose shook hands with Jim. "No, this is Miz Mayfield." Mose shook hands with Lou, then with Mrs. Mayfield, and turning to Tom, to whom he was now presented, shook the stool which Tom held in his hand and upon which he was about to sit, took it from him and sat down. "All h—h—h—h—hands w—w—well, I h—h—hope."

"Well as usual," Margaret answered, sitting down in the rocker. "Why ain't you folks been over?"

"Been a t—t—t—tryin' t—t—t—t—t—to git off. Granny sot t—t—t—the feather b—b—b—bed a—f—f—fire night afore l—l—l—last an' come mighty n—n—n—nigh b—b—b—burnin' up."

"Why, you don't say so?" Margaret exclaimed.



"Yes I d—d—d—do say so a—a—a—atter a f—f—f—fashion."

"How far do you live from here Mr. Blake?" Tom inquired.

"Oh, 'bout t—t—t—three sights and a g—g—g—good long w—w—w—walk."

"Charmingly indefinite," said Mrs. Mayfield and Jim, his eyes set, nodded to her. Tom declared himself willing to bet that Mose was a good fellow, "and I don't want to be impertinent," he ventured to remark, "but do you know they can cure stammering now? They can."

"Y—y—y—yes, I kik—kik—kik—know. I tuck—tuck some l—l—l—lessons once a—a—a—and was kik—kik—kik—cured. Got along all r—r—r—right till I t—t—tried to talk—long as I di—d—d—din didn't say nuthin'. Lou, air you g—g—g—goin' to church Sunday?"

"I don't know."

"Lowed I'd g—g—g—go with you. Mother said I ought to go up to the m—m—m—m—m—mourner's b—b—bench, but p—p—p—p—pap he 'lowed if I did git 'ligion I couldn't s—s—s—shout. But I'm in a hurry this m—m—m—m—mornin'. Granny's sick and wants some m—m—m—med—hison."

"What's the matter with her?" Margaret inquired.

"Don't know. She didn't s—s—s—say."

"But what sort of medicine did they send you after?"

"Oh, a—a—a—any sort you ain't g—g—g—got no use fur."

"Why, that won't do," Mrs. Mayfield spoke up. "Why don't you send for a physician?"

"Oh, that's a—a—a—all right. It never makes any d—d—dif—difference with granny what s—s—sort of medicine she t—t—t—take—takes. If you go to church Sunday, L—L—L—Lou, I may see you there. G—g—g—got somethin' to s—s—s—say to you."

"How are you going to manage to say it?" Lou asked and he began to make signs.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Mayfield, "what he has to say could be conveyed by signs."

"Yes," Tom declared, "signs are very impressive. Fellow made a few at me once and when he got through I found he'd knocked me down."

"Knocked you down!" cried Lou. "Oh, how could anybody knock you down?"

Mrs. Mayfield looked at Jim. "How charming to be a hero in the sight of a beautiful eye."

Jim drooped and said: "Yes'm."

Mose who had been screwing up his face began again: "Feller knock me down have me to w—w—w—w—whup."

The voice of Kintchin, driving the steers, came up the hill: "Whoa, hor, Buck, come yere. Come yere Bright." Mose remarked after a serious effort that the steers must have about all they could pull, and then added that he must be going. Tom asked if he found it difficult to pull himself loose, and his aunt cried out! "Why Thomas." Kintchin's voice was heard again, further off and Mose said he "reckoned" he'd have to be pulled out by the steers. Margaret who had been searching the safe and the "cubbo'd", bade him wait a moment, that she had some medicine for him. "Here," she said, giving him two small packages, "'is some quinine and some calomy. Tell yo' granny not to take too much of the calomy. Mout salavater her."

"Yes'm. But it won't m—m—m—m—make any diffunce with granny w—w—w—wuther she's s—s—s—salivated or not. She ain't got no teeth. And b—b—b—besides, she likes the quinine better. She's d—d—d—d—deef and the q—q—q—quinine makes her head r—r—r—r—roar and she thinks she's hearin' suthin'. Well, er g—g—g—g—good day."

"Miz Mayfield," said Margaret, when Mose was gone, "I reckon these folks air mighty queer to you."

"Oh, no, they are close to nature in her most whimsical mood, and a mother of fun is better than a step-mother to scandal."

"I don't know what you mean, auntie" said Tom, "and I don't guess you do, but I'll bet they are game and that is enough to make them all right with me."

"Why," Lou replied, "the man that won't fight is a Judas."

"Good," cried Tom, taking her hands. "I'd rather hear a girl say that than to hear her play a symphony. Before my father was a judge he was a soldier. Now they call him a learned jurist but I am prouder of the fact that he was a distinguished colonel of cavalry."

"Gracious me!" exclaimed Margaret, "I must see about dinner."

"I'll help you mother," said Lou.

"No you won't," Margaret replied. "You jest stay right whar you air."

"You won't object to my helping," said Mrs. Mayfield, arising.

"Oh, no, that is you may come an' look on."

Jim snatched his hat off the floor and followed, leaving Tom and Lou alone in the room. The girl stood leaning on the table looking at the young fellow, and though often of late had they strolled alone in the woods, yet he seemed to feel that this was the first time he stood facing so confidential a privilege.

"And you lived away off in Maine," said Lou.

"Yes, until father received the appointment to come down here."

"Is yo' mother livin'?"

"No, I can just remember her."

She mused for a few moments as if struggling with a thought. "I read of them findin' a new star," she said, "and I wondered if it wan't the speret of some good man or woman that hed passed away from down here an' gone up there."

"If that were true," he replied, coming forward and putting his hands on the table, gazing into her eyes—"if that were true and I should find a new star brighter than all the rest, I would call it—Lou."

She straightened up. "You must be careful how you talk to me because I might not know how to act. When folks would hide things they must talk like in a book, and I can't do that. But do you think if I was to read books I could be smart?"

"I have begun to think that books don't make so much difference after all. It's the soul that makes people great."

"There's hardly any way for a woman to be great," she said. "All I can hope for is not to be foolish."

"You couldn't be foolish. You might make a man foolish, but you—"

"Oh, how could I make anybody foolish?" she cried, and leaving the table she stood leaning upon the back of a rocking chair.

"How long have you known Mr. Peters?" he inquired and he appeared to be embarrassed.

"All my life."

"Is he game?"

"Game enough, I reckon. Why do you ask?"

"I met him in the road and without cause he insulted me. And I could have killed him!"

"He insulted you?" and she came closer to him. "Insulted you? Then why didn't you kill him?"

"Because—because—I can't tell you now and you musn't ask."

Away from him she turned her head. "All right, I won't ask."

Margaret came to the door. "Lou, go down to the spring house and fetch me that jar of butter," and coming into the room as Lou started, she added, just as Jasper came in. "It's a mighty heavy jar, Mr. Elliott. You mout go an' help her."

"Oh, may I?" Tom asked of Lou.

"Yes, you may, but—"

"But what?"

"I won't ask you to."

"Oh, you won't have to ask me."

"Well, then, come on."

Jasper looked knowingly at Margaret, who, laughing, went back into the kitchen and the old man, shaking his head, humorously mused: "Blamed if I don't wish I could fix up things thatter way." He sat down, took up a lap-board, and upon it began to cut a piece of leather; but leaving off the work, gave himself up to deep thought. "Shot fo' and stobbed three," he said, his mind on the story paper. "Ah, it may not be true, but it sounds mighty natchul. I wonder how it all is goin' to end. Don't want to think about it; wush I could think of somethin' else. Margaret's got her heart set. And I wonder if my little girl has too. If she has it's the first time, an' if his heart don't come when hers calls it, it will never call ag'in." And for a long time he sat there, immovable, gazing; and in his old eyes there was a dream.



CHAPTER XIII.

MIGHT WIPE HER FEET ON HIM.

Old Jasper's meditations were disturbed by Kintchin who thrust his head through the window and inquired: "Doan want me to take dat co'n ober ter Spencer's 'fo' dinner, does you?"

"No, any time this evenin' will do."

The negro came into the house and as he entered Starbuck said to him: "And while you are resting you mout grind the axes."

"Yas, suh; grind de axes while I's er restin'. Look yere, Mr. Starbuck, ain't you got some work fur me ter do while I's er eatin'?"

"Let me see. I reckon I can rig up a thing so you can churn with yo' foot."

"Yas, suh. But whut's de use in stoppin' dar? You mout ez well scuffle roun' an' fin' suthin fur me ter do wid de udder foot. Look yere, Mr. Starbuck, ef it's jest de same ter you, I blebe I'd like ter quit dis place."

"Why do you want to quit? Don't I give you plenty to do?"

"Oh, yas, suh; dat is on er pinch. But de truf is it 'pear ter me like things er gittin' sort er squawlly roun' yere. Dat man Peters he's threatenin' ter knock er nail kag in de head an' ring er dish rag an' I doan want ter git in no row. You Starbuck folks may not mind it, but I ain't uster bein' shot. He say he gwine be 'p'inted deputy marshal, an' w'en he sees me er grindin' de co'n he gwine put er lot o' holes th'u' me. I doan want ter look like no sifter."

Jasper arose, put down his lapboard, shut his knife and with a serious air said to the old darkey. "I'm here to protect, you, Kintchin."

"Yas, suh, but you mout do de most o' yo' pertectin' atter I'se dun dead."

"Wall, atter you're dead it won't make any difference."

"N—n—no, suh, dat's er fack. I hadn't thought o' dat. Funny how sich er 'po'tent p'int will come ter er man w'en he neber did think o' it befo', ain't it?"

"Don't you worry. You air safe enough."

"Safe ernuff? I doan know whut you calls safe ernuff. You mout feel like you's safe ernuff ez long ez you ain't lost bof laigs an' er arm or two, but dat sort er safe doan suit me."

"I give you my word, an' you know whut that means."

"Yas, suh, I knows all 'bout dat, but er word kain't stop er bullet."

Over to the old negro he slowly walked and gently put his hand on his shoulder: "My word can, old man—mine has, an' I will protect you with my life."

"Yas, suh, an' I'll stay, but ef I gits killed I gwine hol' you 'sponsible. Mark whut I tells you." He turned to go and at that moment Peters entered the room. The negro quickly shambled to get out of his way, and halted in the door.

"Starbuck," said the visitor, "thought I'd drap over to see you ag'in. And whut's that nigger always hangin' round fur when I want to talk to you?"

"Lives here, don't he?"

"That ourt ter settle it but, I lay it won't," muttered the negro, standing in the door. Peters turned toward him with the remark:

"That vote they give you don't count for much."

"No, suh, not till da counts it."

"Shut up."

"Yas, suh, dat's whut I's er doin' jest ez fast ez I kin."

"Peters," said Starbuck, "I don't like to ask a man his business when he's in my house."

"I reckon business is the right word, Starbuck," and moving closer to Kintchin he demanded: "Somebody got a mortgage on yo' feet so you can't move 'em?"

"Wha'fo'?" replied the negro, ducking his head.

"You keep on a standin' thar when you see I want to talk to Starbuck."

"W'y, bless yo' life, you's so entertainin' I kain't hardly t'ar myse'f loose. Wheneber you talks it puts me in de min' o' er fiddle."

"But it don't make you move yo' feet, you scoundrel."

"No, suh, ef I moved my feet when de fiddle wuz gwine folks would think I wuz er dancin' an' da'd turn me outen de church, an' I doan want 'em ter do dat. Hurts er man's business w'en he's turned outen de church."

Peters addressed himself to Jasper. "Well, you have teached that nigger nearly enough impudence to break his neck."

"Didn't know I was sich a good teacher, Lije. Don't you want a few lessons? Go on, Kintchin." The negro slowly went away, looking back and shaking his head, and Starbuck added: "Peters, I'm afraid I'll have to furgit my raisin' an' ask you what you want."

"I want to give you the opportunity to have some sense."

"Well, now, Lije, it's mighty kind of you to be givin' out that sort of artickle. Puts me in mind of the old feller that give away his shirts when he didn't have none to spare."

"Good natchul talk, Starbuck—natchul as the squawk of a duck. But I didn't come here to swop the perlitenesses of the season."

"No?" said Starbuck.

"You know I have been out of the neighborhood an' ain't had a chance to talk business until lately."

"That's so."

"And you ought to know what that business is."

"Yes, I know."

"Even if a man is gittin' old, Starbuck, thar ain't no reason why he should be a fool."

"That's a fact, Lije."

"And the biggest fool in the world, Starbuck, is the man that won't keep out of trouble when he kin."

"That's true."

"Starbuck, ain't yo' eyes wide enough open to see that I kin ruin you?"

"Yes, Lije, with his eyes half shet a man kin see a rattlesnake."

"Then with both of 'em wide open he ought to see a panther."

"I'm a lookin' at you."

"That's all right, Starbuck. But we've passed the time fur beatin' about the bush."

"I ain't a beatin', Lije."

"Starbuck, do you want to be ruined?"

"Stop!"

"Do you want to see yo' wife with her head bowed down on the table?"

"Stop!"

"Do you want to hear yo' daughter cryin' down thar in the valley?"

"I tell you to stop!"

"Do you want to know that the little grave down yander—"

"Stop, Peters, stop!" the old man cried, and then held forth his hands. "You don't see nuthin' red on my hands, do you? Look, they are jest as nature made 'em. Peters, fur God's sake don't turn 'em red."

"That's good talk, Starbuck, an' it mout belong to the pulpit but not to business, an' I'm a business man."

"Yes, you look like it."

"And I'll act like it, too; I'll tell you that fur yo' own infermation. An' thar ain't a man in the country that likes to give out infermation better'n I do—when I see that it's goin' to be of use to somebody. But I don't like to waste my wisdom, Starbuck. Look, here, don't you know the right to ruin you has come down to me from my folks, like er old spinnin' wheel? It's a fact, and you know it. But I don't want to do it if I can help it. I know I would make yo' daughter a good husband, but frum what I kin gether she wouldn't wipe her feet on me."

"Oh, yes, Peters, she mout if she had been walkin' in the mud."

"Yes, ah, hah. So I've got another plan."

"Oh, I don't reckon you're slow, Lije, when it comes to gittin' up plans."

"That's true. An' I'm jest a little slow about askin' favors, but I want to borry a thousand dollars, an' I don't want no time sot when it must be paid back, nuther. I want that understood."

"Why, that's what they call blackmail, ain't it?"

"Oh, I don't care whut they call it, but I want you to git it fur me. That p'int is settled. You've got to git it, an' git it quick."

"Why, Peters, I'd have to sell my land."

"Better do that than to throw away yo' liberty. You know that it means ruin for you an' yo' wife an' a broken heart fur yo' girl. All I've got to do is to act, an' you go to the penitentiary."

Upon Starbuck's face there was an expression of keen suffering. Pleadingly he put up his hands, looking toward the door leading into the kitchen and exclaimed. "Hold on. Somebody mout hear you."

"Oh, got you to thinkin', have I?"

"Yes, an' a man thinks better when he's by hisse'f."

Peters moved off toward the door and halting, remarked: "Yes, may think better when he's by hisse'f, but not as fast. When he's got thinkin' to do that he don't want to do he mout shirk it if left by hisse'f. Well, I'll give you a leetle mo' time, but not much. My plan is that when you've got a bad piece of work on hand, git through with it as soon as possible. I'm goin' down the road a piece an' will drap in on my way back," and as he passed out he looked back and added: "Thinkin' ought to make a man wise."

The old man stood looking through the window, at Peters as he ambled along the road, and turning away he muttered, "Shot fo' an' stobbed three," his mind flying back to the story paper.

Mrs. Mayfield, followed by Jim, came in from the kitchen, remarking, "we have been helping your wife but she has expelled us."

"I don't reckon thar was very much help needed." He waited until she had sat down, and then coming slowly toward her he inquired: "Ma'm, air all the deputy marshals in the state under yo' brother, the Jedge?"

"All in this district, I should think, are under the jurisdiction of his court."

"I reckon the Jedge is putty hard on folks that makes what they call wild-cat liquor."

"Extremely so, Mr. Starbuck. He sends them all to the penitentiary."

"I don't reckon he knows that a man may make liquor and yit have some little jestice on his side."

"My brother can see no justice in a violation of the law."

The old man was silent for a few moments and then he asked: "Do he have the app'intment of the deputy marshals?"

"I don't know as to that. I suppose, however, that the Marshal appoints his own deputies. Do you want someone appointed?"

"Me? Oh, no," and walking off he added to himself: "It's someone I don't want app'inted. That's the question with me." Margaret came in and he inquired if dinner were nearly ready.

"As soon as the co'n pone's done," she answered, and he swore that he was as hungry as a bear in the spring of the year. The old negro mammy came to the door and with a peculiar softness which ever characterized his voice when speaking to her, he bade her come in. "Set down," he said, bringing a chair for her. "You look monst'us tired. Now, jest rock yo'se'f thar an' putty soon you'll git rested."

"Thank you, Mars Jasper. An' I hopes you's all well, bof in de flesh an' in de sight o' de Lawd."

"Ah, mammy," said the old man, "you never forgit the Lawd, do you?"

"How kin I, Mars Jasper, w'en I so close ter Him. An' Marster, dis is my birfday."

"Is that so? And how old air you to-day, mammy?"

"I doan hardly know, but I's eider eighty-fo' ur eighty-six."

"An' nobody's life could have been given mo' away in love to others."

"I hopes dat my soul is white, Mars Jasper."

"As white as a lamb, washed in the dew."

"Thank you, Mars Jasper, fur I ain't gwine be yere much longer, fur I's er gwine home. De road has been long an' I's almos' wore out, but I'll git home atter while, an' when I does, I gwine tell de Lawd erbout de folks down yere."

Tom and Lou came from the spring house, carrying a small jar, and the old man exclaimed: "Why, it must be heavy." His wife knew that he was charicaturing her and she stood contemptuous, with arms folded, as he sprang forward to assist the two "youngsters." "Let me help you," and pretending to stagger under a great weight, he took the jar and with great apparent difficulty put it on the table.