"Jasper," said his wife, "I wouldn't make light of it."

"Light of it! Why, I couldn't make light of anything so heavy."

"Father," said Lou, "the bees have swarmed and settled on the peach tree."

"That so? Why, I thought thar was honey in the air. Come on Jim an' help me hive 'em. Won't take but a minit." Jim began to roll up his sleeves. "Oh," protested the old man, "I don't want you to preach to 'em. Ma'm," he continued, addressing Mrs. Mayfield, "he always goes at 'em with his sleeves rolled up, and, I gad, he fetches 'em."

Jim strove to explain to Mrs. Mayfield, but Jasper pulled at him. "That's all right, Jim, she understands. Come on, or them bees might fly away. Come on, I tell you. Ma'm take yo' eye offen him so he kin come on. Thar, I thank you," he said, bowing, when Mrs. Mayfield looked in another direction. "Thankee, ma'm an' ef I had a eye as fetchin' as your'n I could haul wood with it. Come on, Jim." He drew the preacher out of the house, and Margaret said to Mrs. Mayfield: "Don't let Jasper fret you, ma'm."

"Oh, no, Mrs. Starbuck, to me he is an old time story book, illustrated."

"My father fret anybody?" cried Lou. "How could he?"

"Why don't you say I couldn't fret anybody," Tom broke in, and looking sweetly at him she innocently inquired, "Could you?"

At the corner of the fence Jasper and Jim halted. They had just seen Peters enter the house. "Howdy," said the ruffian, entering the room. "I 'lowed I mout find Starbuck here."

"It would be safer for you to meet him where other folks are," Lou spoke up and Peters bowed mockingly.

"Mars Peters," said Mammy, "please don't bother Mars Jasper, he's er gittin' old."

And toward the poor old creature the ruffian turned with a scowl. "Shut up, you old fool."

"Why, Mr. Peters," they all of them cried, and at that moment Jasper and Jim came into the room. "Peters," said the old man, "this woman nursed me. My mammy died an' left me to her, an' as a little baby she was the only mother I knowed. My grandaddy built this house, an' that door was opened by him an' never has been shut, an' anybody comin' along that road was always welcome to come in. But thar is one man that must never darken it ag'in." He took out his watch and looking at it, continued: "I'll give you jest one minit, Peters."

The ruffian looked at a gun standing in the corner; looked at Jasper holding the watch; looked at the women, who in disgust turned their faces from him; looked at the door, and clearing his throat, walked out.

"Sometimes, ma'm" said Jasper speaking to Mrs. Mayfield, "the laziest man ain't got no time to stay no longer."

"Well, I wouldn't make light of it," remarked Margaret.

"No lighter than I can help. I reckon we'd better eat a snack an' then Jim, you may preach to them bees."



CHAPTER XIV.

AN OLD MAN PREACHED.

Several days passed and Peters was seen no more about the Starbuck place, but the old man knew that the scoundrel had not surrendered his scheme, but merely was lying low, waiting for his appointment as deputy marshall. Such an office was not hard to get. The danger attending it often made material scarce, for higher among the hills where the rebellious spirit of man had never failed to gaze with defiant contempt into the eye of the law, the distiller's blood smeared the rock and the deputy, if not taken away by friends, was left to the buzzard. So, whether or not trouble was on the road to meet old Jasper, depended upon a piece of paper, to be written and stamped in the capital of the State. But something else soon arose to claim the sympathetic attention of the household.

One morning Lou came running into the house almost breathless, with the excited words that old mammy was dying in her cabin. They all of them hastened to her bedside, and when she saw the old man kneeling upon the floor, she put forth her mummied hand and left it rest upon his head.

"I's gwine tell de Lawd erbout de folks down yere," were her last words, and from the woods they brought wild flowers and among them she slept, black sentiment of a hallowed past—a past of slavery, but of love. More than treasured heirlooms, of rusty swords which, once bright, had flashed in gallant hands; more than tress of hair, tipped with gold and ribbon-bound; more than old love-letters, books or fading picture of serenest face—more than all else does the old black mother bind us to the sunny days of yore. Beneath a tree, where at evening when the sun was low often had she sat watching the cows as home they came from the cane-breaks in the bottoms, they dug her grave; and from all about, from fern-fringed coves and knobs where the scrub oak grew, the people came, old men and women to pay their respects to this bit of another age, going home—and the children, came wonderingly, curious, with pictures of witches in their fertile minds. The sermon was preached by an old negro nearing ninety. At the head of the grave he stood and cast his whitish eyes about, but nothing was there for him to see, for during many years he had groped about in darkness. Once the property and playmate of a favored child, he had been taught to read, and as the years passed on, stubborn learning yielded to him, and along the hill-sides he walked with the old prophets, with their poetic words burning in his mind.

"Friends, close to me but somewhere off in the darkness," he said, "we have come here to put this poor old piece of human clay in the cradle that won't be rocked until the last day. In the years gone by, many a time have we seen her, at the break of day, coming home from a bedside where she had watched and nursed all night. When our spirits were low for want of hope, she has sung us back into faith. When our blood leaped to throw aside lowly ways and take up with the ways of sin, she told us that she was going home to tell the Lord. No letter in the great Book fastened itself on her poor mind, but in her soul the spirit of that Book always had a home. My friends, here was a poor old creature who never in all her long life had anything to hope for except a word of gratitude for a kindness done. Many a time I read the Bible to her, and though I made it the study of my long life, yet from what might seem the darkness of her mind, there would sometimes flash a new light and fall with bright explanation upon its pages." The old negro halted to wipe his brow and Jim whispered to Jasper: "Is that learning or ignorance inspired? I never heard many white men talk that way."

"I don't know what it is," Jasper replied. "But that old man, I have hearn tell, went through a great school along with his young marster."

"It should not be in sorrow that we place her here," the preacher continued. "With the simple minded and therefore the virtuous, she accepted the gospel as a reality and not as a theory, and a gleaner in the harvest field of promise, she takes to the Master her old hands full of the wheat of faith, and her soul will enter upon its glorious reward. Let us pray."

As they were returning from the grave a negro came up to Jasper and said that he wished for a moment to speak to him. "Doan you reccernize me?" he inquired, and Starbuck replied that he did not.

"W'y, sah, I's de generman whut de white man had tied ter de tree."

"Oh, yes, and also the gentleman that fell in love with my old rooster."

"Yas, sah, de se'f same."

"And now what can I do for you—put another chicken in yo' way?"

"No, sah, dat ain't whut I want. I wuz er cuttin' some wood dis mawnin' ober at de Peters' place, an' I yere some talk dat don't soun' like er flute. 'Pear like dat white man has got some trouble in his head fur you."

"Yes, I know."

"An, frum whut I coul' gather he gwine gib it ter you; an' ef you wants me ter I'll he'p you tie him ter er tree an' w'ar him out."

"No, that won't do. But do you know whether or not he has got a app'intment from off yander at Nashville? Did you hear?"

"I doan think it quite got yere yit, but he keep on er lookin' down de road 'spectin' it to come erlaung at any minit. Ef you want me ter, suh, I'll keep er lookout while I's er workin' roun' de place, an' knock him in de head de minit it do come."

"No, you musn't do that. Is he expectin' some help?"

"He wuz er talkin' erbout some men, sah. You ain't got no cullud ladies ober at yo' house now, is you?"

"No, an' I don't want any mo' for none could take the place of old mammy."

"No, sah, I reckons not, but I wuz jest er thinkin' dat ef you had any dar I would drap ober a visitin'. I's allus sorter s'ciety struck atter I goes ter er funul. It's den dat I kin fetch 'em wid my talk. It's easy ter out-talk er lady atter er funul. I's had 'em take down er ole glove an' empty dar money in my han'."

"What's your name?"

"Da calls me Ham, suh."

"Well, Ham, I reckon thar's a good deal of the scoundrel about you."

"Ain't it funny suh, dat I's yered dat befo'? Yas, suh; but scounnul or not, I'll keep er sharp lookout on dat man Peters an' come an' tell you ef suthin' happen."

Lou was tearful and depressed over the death of the old woman, whom she had loved, who indeed was as a gentle grandmother to her, and going home from the burial had but little to say; and Tom, respecting what to him was a strange grief, walked along in silence. And for the most part Jim was silent, too, but Mrs. Mayfield was aroused by what she had seen and heard. "Every day this rugged world up here presents something new, Mr. Reverend. Instead of becoming more able to compare it with other places I have known, it is further and further removed as time passes. Of course I had read books and heard songs, but never before coming here did I believe that in real slavery had there existed poetry."

"They tell me, ma'm, that the greatest poetry has come out of the dark," he replied, walking with his eyes cast down.

"Then even as a Southerner you don't believe that slavery was right."

"No, ma'm, for slavery must dwarf the soul and the Book teaches that the Ethiopian had a soul to save."

"But some of the slaves must have been kindly treated."

"Yes, ma'm, but the true way to be kind to ignorance is to enlighten it."

"The old man who preached had known enlightenment and yet he holds no bitterness against the people who kept his race in the dark."

"Ma'm, as a general thing the negro is not revengeful. Sometimes he is a beast and he commits terrible crimes, but he is often like an animal—a dog. Kindness makes him forget an injury. With his strong animal nature his affection is warm, and sometimes when he forgets revenge he has also forgotten gratitude."

He fell into silence and they walked slowly along, now far behind the others. She strove to lead him back into a discussion, but he would not talk, and when they reached the house, she sat down alone, and he stood out at the fence, looking up and down the road. A man came along and asked him how much longer he expected to remain in the neighborhood, and glancing round at the house, at the woman who sat near the door, he replied: "Don't think I'm going to stay much longer. Have you had any news from over my way?"

"None except they are anxious for you to come on back."

"Well, you may tell them that they may expect me soon."

That night the household went early to bed, with the exception of Old Jasper who, with a candle, sat at his table, not reading the story paper, but attempting to write.



CHAPTER XV.

THE GIRL AND THE CHURN.

The next morning Lou was churning out in the yard and near her Mrs. Mayfield sat, sewing. The scene was inspiring. Off to the right flowed the blue creek, and everywhere were the hills, softly purple in the distance.

"Things look so lonesome since poor mammy died," said the girl.

"But her passing away was beautiful," the city woman made reply, sewing, thinking, glancing up with a sigh and then permitting her gaze to wander off among the hills. "You were very fond of her, weren't you?"

"Yes. Her black face was one of the first I ever saw. She nursed father and me, too; and she was like a mother. I—I wish you would stay here a long time, Mrs. Mayfield."

"I don't like to think of returning to what people almost senselessly call the world. This is the world as God made it. And amid these heart-throbs of genuine nature I am beginning to live anew."

"But you'd get tired of it if you had to milk a cow that can pop her tail like a whip," and after churning vigorously for a time, she inquired: "Did you have trouble away off yonder where so many folks live?"

"Yes, my married life ended in misery."

Lou ceased to churn and for a time stood musing. "Did you' husband tell you a lie?"

"He lived a lie, my dear."

"Lived a lie? I don't understand how anybody can do that. Didn't he love you?"

"Once, perhaps, but the love of some men is as variable as the wind, blowing in many directions."

"But how could he tell you he loved you if he didn't?"

"My dear, men tell women many things that aren't true."

"I don't like to know that." She ceased churning again and thoughtfully leaned upon the dasher. Suddenly she looked up and then came the question: "And did they put yo' husband in jail?"

"Oh, no."

"What did they do with him?"

"His friends shrugged their shoulders, laughed and—forgave him."

"And didn't yo' friends try to kill him?"

"Oh, certainly not."

"What did they do?"

"Well, they shrugged—and didn't forgive me."

"But they had nothing to forgive," she replied, with a frown.

"In the world, my dear, that makes no difference." She was silent for a time and the girl stood motionless, looking at her. "Sometimes I have thought," she continued, "that it was not altogether his fault. With the error of tenderness and confidence I believed that my life was his, his mine; I believed that his every thought belonged to me—and perhaps I asked him too many questions, and when a woman begins to do that, she is unconsciously setting a trap for her husband."

For a moment the girl looked at her. "I don't know what you mean. But when you came here with all yo' putty dresses, I thought you must be happy."

"Little girl, there are many well-dressed troubles, and misery may gleam with diamonds. But we won't talk about it. I have battled it out and now I am surprised—and perhaps just a little disappointed," she added with a laugh, "to find that I'm not as unhappy as I was. Sometimes there is a consolation in feeling that we are utterly wretched."

"Is there?" She meditated for a time, puzzled, and then said: "I don't believe it. You might just as well say that we have better health when we're sick."

Mrs. Mayfield looked away, and the girl stricken with remorse, hastened to her and said: "There, I have been too brash, haven't I? You must forgive me for I didn't intend to be brash."

"Brash, my dear? What do you mean by that?"

She laughed. "Why, I thought everybody know'd what brash meant. Well, it's er—too quick to say somethin' you oughtn't to say."

"Well, then, I don't think you were 'brash.'"

"Thank you." She resumed her work, and after a time left off to inquire: "May I ask you somethin'?"

"Certainly—anything."

"Well, where you came from how long does it take anybody to—to fall—in love?"

Mrs. Mayfield blushed. "No longer than it does here, my dear. Sometimes here and everywhere love comes like death, in the twinkling of an eye. But why do you ask?"

Upon her bosom the girl pressed her hands. "Because lately there is somethin' here that tastes bitter an' sweet at the same time. You have told me somethin' about yo'se'f an' now I will tell you somethin'. I—I love Tom."

The woman arose. "Oh, but you mustn't tell it—you mustn't let him know it. He is wayward and I am afraid that he has innocently deceived you. He is hardly responsible—he says many things he doesn't mean. He—"

"And is he a liar, too?" the girl exclaimed, her eyes ablaze with anger.

"Oh, no, not that. But has he told you?"

She stood cold and defiant. "Not with words that I didn't understand, but sometimes when he looks into my eyes I feel that he is tellin' me with somethin' I do understand, and now—now I must shut my eyes." And catching up the churn she ran into the house, Mrs. Mayfield calling after her.

"Come back, Lou, I didn't mean that. Please come back and let me explain." She hastened toward the door and Lou came running out. "Lou, I didn't mean—" But she would not stay to hear. She ran away and Mrs. Mayfield was begging her to return when Tom came hurriedly out of the house. The girl had seen him and with fluttering heart she was seeking the loneliness of the woods.

Mrs. Mayfield seized Tom by the hand. "Just a moment, Tom. Wait, sir; just a moment." He strove to pull away, but she held him back.

"Yes, as soon as I catch the fawn. Let me go, please."

"Why, have things come to such a pass as this? Wait just a moment, I tell you."

"Well, what is it?"

"Why won't you be more considerate? Why do you act this way? What are you trying to do? You must remember that Mr. Starbuck is our host, and that his daughter, while one of the most lovable of little girls—"

"Ah, you are leaving off your romance and are coming down to level-headedness. Yes, she is lovable and as sweet as a wild strawberry, and I have fought against this thing until I am tired of it. But what are you trying to get at?"

"She is not of your world, Tom."

"Oh, world be blowed. I've got no world—never had one."

"Well, then, your set, your—"

"Damn my set, if I've got one. I wouldn't give her for all the sets in the world. You can see that—you must have seen it all along."

"Then you are in earnest?" she asked, putting her arm about him.

"In earnest? You might just as well ask a dying man if he means it."

"That's all I want to know, my boy—I want to know that you are true."

"You are all right, auntie," he said, kissing her.

"It is simply a question of love, Tom. And that should come before everything. Go and find her."

"Yes, if I have to track her with the hounds," he replied, hastening away; and she stood looking after him, with a new light in her eye. And while she was standing there, Jim came out of the house.

"Ma'm," he said, and she turned with a start; and toward her he came with a gentle boldness, and she looked at him in surprise. "Ma'm, I have come to tell you good-bye."

Her breath came quick, and then with a smile she quieted herself as one resigned to evil news. "Why, you aren't going, are you?"

Standing a few paces from her he hung low his head. "Yes, I thought I'd better cut my stay a little short. My people need me."

As someone far away she saw him, though he was nearer now. "But don't we—don't your uncle need you?"

He was not too big, not awkward now—his hands were not in his way, and thinking not upon how to stand, stood gracefully; and the breeze that came down the creek brought cool perfume from the nestling coves where all the day and the night the wild rose nodded.

"No, ma'm; my work lies away over among the mountains." She turned to walk away from him, but looking up, was closer. "I beg yo' pardon, ma'm, but haven't you got a picture of yo'se'f you would give me?"

"A picture of me? What do you want with it, Mr. Reverend?"

"My cabin is under the hill, and in the winter time it is dark there and I would like to have—have a never-failing lamp to lighten it."

"Oh," and her hands were pressed to her bosom, "You can't mean that."

"Ma'm, I don't joke about sacred things."

"Mr. Reverend—"

"If you would call me Jim one time—just once, I should have something to dream about."

She gestured and he caught her hand. "Please don't," she pleaded, slowly taking her hand away. "Please don't talk that way. You know I told you that you had revived my faith in man, after it had gasped and died. But you spoke a resurrecting word and—"

"But would my dreaming again and again that I had heard you call me Jim—would that kill it again? Honey,—I—I beg your pardon. I am used to talking to children, and I call them by pet names. I beg your pardon."

She looked far away, at the blue water rippling down the hills. "If in your sight I could be as a little child."

"Ma'm, I lead a child, but you could lead me."

"To walk with you, Mr. Reverend, would be along the upward path, toward the sunrise."

"Ma'm, you make me think of Christian when he stood with clasped hands, looking up at the golden city where they sang, 'holy, holy.'"

"How could I make you think of that, Mr. Reverend?"

"Walking with me toward the sunrise. Ah, but the wild briar would tear your dress."

"But haven't the briars torn your flesh?"

He pointed upward. "Ah, and a wound in His service is balm to the soul."

"Mr. Reverend, a true woman would take most of the wounds if—"

"If she were—loved?"

"Yes," she said, and her face was pale.

Before her he drooped, sinking to the earth, and on his knees he gently took her hand. "Toward woman my heart has been dumb, but you have given it a tongue. I love you. You dazzled me and I was afraid to speak—I was afraid that I might be worshipping an idol."

"Oh, not an idol. Oh, not that. No poor heart could be so humble as mine, Mr. Reverend. But strong in its love for you, it accepts your love as a benediction. Oh, if you only knew what I have suffered—"

"But I must not know and you must forget. With me you must begin your life over again."

Upon her hand he pressed a kiss, and no idle eye was there in mockery to gaze upon them and no ear save his own heard her when she said: "And together we will do His work."

"In the vineyard of usefulness. Ma'm, we will go among the stricken and nurse them."

Gentle mischief sometimes sweetens quiet joy. "Then, you haven't come to tell me good-bye," she said, and the light from her eye fell upon his face, leaving there a smile. "Well no, not now," he replied, arising. "But I had spoken for passage in the stage coach and I must go now and tell them not to save the place for me. And when I come back we will go to the mountain-top and view from afar the field of our life's work."

"May I go with you?"

Now they were slowly walking toward the gap in the yard fence which Old Jasper called the gate.

"The way is short, but it lies over the creek and through the brambles," he said, and after a pause, looking fondly into her eyes he added, out of his great store-house of care and sympathy: "The thorns would thirst for your blood."

"They have drunk yours and your thorns shall be mine."

They stood at the gap in the fence. "Yes," he said, "when I have more than I can take care of. The fact is—what shall I call you?"

"Mary," she answered.

"Mary," he repeated. "It is sweet with the memory of many a home and hallowed by the Christian's hope. And, Mary, when I come back I will bring a preacher and a paper from the law. You understand?"

"Yes, I understand, and the understanding is beautiful and precious." She stood so near and he was so lost—so near that her lips were close to his and he kissed her and started as if the earth had shaken beneath his feet.

"And—and now, Mary, I won't have to beg your pardon when I call you by pet names."

"No, Jim."

"And we will surprise them, Mary."

"Yes, Jim."

He kissed her again and hastened down the road. She looked after him until his head sank down behind a hill, and then for a long time she stood there, leaning upon the fence, and suddenly, with her hands clasped, she cried: "Oh, miracles were wrought in the wilderness."



CHAPTER XVI.

THE APPOINTMENT COMES.

While she was still standing there, musing over her happiness, Lije Peters, peering about, came into the yard. He cleared his throat and she looked at him, and moving further off, she sat down in a rocking-chair which she had brought from the house earlier in the day. With a show of respect Peters took off his hat.

"Howdy do, ma'm? I don't believe you an' me air very well acquainted."

"Our acquaintance hasn't ripened into friendship."

He laughed and replied: "Well, the bloom may be as putty as the fruit."

"Very good. I didn't expect it—of you."

"Didn't expect me at all, did you?"

"If I had I should not have remained here."

He cleared his throat. "I know all about bees, but I didn't know befo' that a butterfly could sting. But I'd ruther be stung than to have no attention paid to me at all." She arose to go away, but he intercepted her. "Beggin' yo' pardon, ma'm, for what I've said an' what I am about to say, will you let me talk business to you for about a minit?"

"I know nothing about business," she replied.

"But you know somethin' about love, don't you? Putty much the same thing."

"How dare you talk to—"

"Now, don't be fretted. I've got my own way of gittin' at a p'int. I'm a thorn bush by the road-side. The sheep comes along an' I pick off some of their wool. An' towards me there comes an old sheep, with his eyes shet, a shakin' of his head. An' he'll lose all his wool. But you could turn him aside."

"I don't know what you mean, sir."

"Starbuck is the old sheep. You'd better help turn him aside. A word from you'll do it. I told him I wanted to borry a thousand dollars. He'll understand. You tell him to lend it to me."

"I will do nothing of the sort, you—"

"If you don't, you'll be sorry. Jest now I spoke to you about love. It wan't an accident. No. An' if he don't let me have the money, Jim the preacher may be ashamed to preach ag'in. An' he won't talk no mo' honeysuckle to you, nuther. He will disappear, an' yo' heart may grieve, but yo' jedgment will be glad."

"You infamous scoundrel."

He bowed to her. "The scoundrel sometimes tells the truth, an' when he do it's the worst truth in the world; an' if I'm a scoundrel that's the sort of truth I'm a tellin'."

"Go away from here, you brute."

"All right, all right. I have give you yo' chance, an' now I must have it out with the old sheep. When I see you ag'in yo' eyes may not be so bright. A hot pillow, turned over an' over in the night, when the rooster crows an' thar ain't no sleep, ain't good fur the eyes. I'm goin' now, an' you better think it over. Good-day, ma'm. I have give you yo' chance an' my conscience is clear."

He walked off up the road and she was about to go into the house when Old Jasper came along, with an axe on his shoulder. Seeing that she was disturbed, he inquired if anything were wrong.

"Why, that man Peters was here a moment ago, and—"

"Oh, don't pay no attention to him. He's a joker," said the old man, and going to a bench near the fence, poured water into a tin can, went to the grind-stone, and upon it began slowly to pour a stream.

Mrs. Mayfield stood near, watching him, but her mind reverted to Peters. "But he says—"

"Never mind what he says," the old fellow broke in, grinding his axe. "We all ought to be kind to him." He examined the edge of the axe. "For I don't think he's goin' to live very long."

"Why, he looks healthy enough."

"Yes, but he's mighty deceivin'. Most of his men folks died when they was about his age. Suthin' the matter with the fam'ly that causes 'em to drop off along about then."

"Singular, isn't it?"

"Mighty curious."

"Couldn't the doctors do anything for them. Not that I care, you understand, but it's interesting as a—"

"No, somehow the doctors was always called in too late. Ma'm, Jim tells me he's goin' home."

"Did he tell you just now when you must have met him in the road?"

"No. Jest now when I met him he didn't say nothin', but he looked at me and his eye was a hummin' of a tune."

"And when he comes back," she said, half musingly, "he may tell you what tune he was humming."

"Hah!"

"Wait till he comes back."

The old man, shrewder than she was aware, left off his work and at her looked a droll inquiry. She met his gaze. "Ma'm, you don't mean that with all yo' finery you—"

With a gesture she cut him short, "Don't talk that way, Mr. Starbuck. He comes to me a religion typified, and I would rather walk over a stony road with him than to ride in a chariot with any other human being."

The old man laughed and shook his head. "Oh, I know'd it as soon as I seed his eye a hummin' of a tune, an' I said to myse'f, 'at last the gate has been opened for him.'"

"But please don't say a word about it to anybody, Mr. Starbuck. Let the result come as a surprise."

"I won't, but when does the—"

"Oh, I mustn't tell you that. I want to surprise you, too."

"All right. I reckon I'm the easiest man to surprise you ever come across."

She came closer to him. "Let me turn for you—Uncle Jasper."

He slapped his leg and laughed. "Uncle Jasper! Now that do sound like music, don't it? No, you better not turn this here grind-stone. You mout git splashed."

She took the crank from him and began laboriously to turn it. "Down in Maine where I came from I used to turn for the men when they ground their scythes—just for fun."

"Yes, fun for them that seed you do it, I reckon. Maine—Maine. That whar they uster burn witches?"

"Oh, no, they never burned any witches in Maine."

"Why, couldn't they ketch 'em?"

"Oh, they never burned any witches in this country, Uncle Jasper. That's all a fable."

The old man pondered as if searching in his mind for a forgotten name. "But," said he, "they uster burn them fellers—fellers that done sorter this way," and he began to shake his shoulders.

"Oh, you mean Quakers."

"Yes, Quakers."

"Yes, they hanged Quakers."



"Kotch 'em stealin' hosses, I reckon."

"No, hanged them on account of their religion."

"Whew, ruther hard on that sort of doctrine."

"Helloa, Jasper," a voice called, and looking about they saw Laz Spencer climbing upon the fence. They bade him good morning, and sitting on the top rail of the fence he took out a jews-harp and began to wipe it on his coat-sleeve.

"How air you gittin' along, Laz?" Old Jasper inquired.

"Never better."

"Glad to hear it. Best day of a man's life is when he was never better. I'll let that nigger finish this job," he said, sticking the axe into a log; and Mrs. Mayfield, willing enough to play quits, smiled upon him and walked out to the gap and stood looking down the road.

"Have a drink of water, Laz?" Jasper inquired, pointing to a pail on the bench.

"No, laid on a rock an' got a drink outen the creek as I come along."

"Wall, this is fresh water. Wan't fotch from the spring mo' than twenty-fo' hours ago."

"Don't reckon you kin tempt me, Jasper."

The old man took up the gourd, and in attempting to drink, let the water pour through the handle and run down his sleeve. He threw the vegetable dipper back into the bucket and declared that a man might as well try to drink out of a sifter.

"Any news over yo' way, Laz?"

"Don't believe thar's anythin' wu'th dividin'."

"Nobody shot or cut?"

"Let me see. Reckon you hearn about Oscar Pryor."

"No, not sence he borrid five dollars of me. What about him?"

"Went down in the bottoms whar folks war a leetle too civilized an' fell in a well."

"Did they git him out?"

"Oh, yes, they got him out jest in time."

"Jest in time to save his life?"

"No, jest in time to keep from sp'ilin' the water. He drownded all right."

"Ought to have drownded long ago," Jasper replied. "But I'd a leetle ruther it had tuck place befo' he got the five from me."

"But say, Jasper, come to think of it we did have some right sharp excitement over our way yistidy. 'Lowed thar war suthin' on my mind. Ricolleck the hoss the preacher swopped to Dave Somers?"

"The bay with white fetlocks?"

"Yes, thatter'n. Wall, Dave tuck him home an' put him in the stable, an' in the night he got up an' went out to rub him, havin' him on his mind, an' when he went into the stable he found the hoss dead."

"What, you don't mean it?"

"Wall, I don't deceive a man about sich a matter. Yes, found him dead; an' he roused up his neighbors an' they all come an' looked at the hoss, but he didn't kere fur, as I tell you, he war dead. An' now the talk is that the preacher known that thar war suthin' wrong with him, an' jest wanted to git rid of him. Dave, you know, went up to the mourner's bench some time ago an' got a right lively artickle of religion; but when his hoss died he 'lowed, he did, that he didn't want no sich religion that this here preacher would fetch an' he ups an' cusses, he does, an' flings his religion away."

"Wall," said Jasper, "this here is news. What air they goin' to do about it?"

"Kain't do nothin', I reckon. Dave would whup the preacher, but the gal he is a goin' to marry told him he shouldn't. Say, Jasper, I was on my way down to Smithfield, an' I didn't know but you mout want suthin' fotch from down thar."

"No, ain't a hurtin' fur nothin' at the present. Lemme see. Yes, I want you to give a order to the stone-cutter for a tombstone for mammy's grave."

"How big?"

"Oh, 'bout three feet by six."

"Reckon you'll want suthin' cut on the rock."

"Yes. Sot up mighty nigh all night a drawin' of it off. Got it right here." From his pocket he took a piece of paper and began to read: "'Old Black Mammy, come here nobody don't know when an' went home on the eighteenth of June, 1884. Her skin mout have been as dark as the night when thar ain't no moon an' no stars, but her soul is like the risin' of the sun when thar ain't a cloud in the sky.'" Mrs. Mayfield had turned to listen, and Jasper inquired of her: "Will that do, ma'm?"

"Yes, Uncle Jasper, it is very expressive."

"Wall, would you mind goin' over it an' fixin' it up for me?"

"I wouldn't change a word of it," she said, and he thanked her.

"Jasper," said Laz, "I didn't know you could write."

"Wall," the old man drawled, "I kain't write as putty as the county clerk, but I kin write as big. So you like it, ma'm?"

"Yes, Uncle Jasper."

"Wall," said he, looking at his work, "it's the truth, an' thar ain't nuthin' skeercer than truth on grave-yard rocks."

Margaret came out of the house. "Howdy, Laz."

"Ain't runnin' no foot races, but so as to be about."

"Folks all as well as usual?"

"Ain't hearn no loud complaint."

"Miz Mayfield," said Margaret, "Kintchin fotch me a letter from the post-office this mornin' an' as my eyes ain't right good to-day, I wish you'd come in an' read it to me."

"Yes, gladly."

"Thank you—'specially as my eyes ain't right good this mornin'. Skuze us, Laz," she said, turning to go into the house.

"Help yo'se'f," Laz replied, again wiping his jews-harp; and when the two women had gone into the house, he began to play, and the old man, sitting now upon the wood-pile, looking over his epitaph, nodded time. Suddenly the musician left off.

"Say, Peters has got his app'intment."

The old man's arms dropped. "Air you shore?"

"I'm a tellin' you. He's got it writ out on a piece of paper that looks like white luther."

"Wall," said Jasper, getting up. "I don't know of any man that's a goin' to w'ar out his shoes a runnin'. But I'm sorry. Was in hopes that he couldn't git it. An' yit, I didn't put the strings back into my shoes."

"I understand. You don't want to die with 'em on. But I wouldn't give him any of the advantage."

"No, Laz, fur the man that gives the mad dog any of the advantage is almost shore to git bit. An' I don't want Jim to know any mo' about this comin' trouble than he kin help."

"I reckon not, Jasper. It's sorter noised about that he's a pinin' for the lady from off yander."

"Yes, caliker is got him at last. It's all right, though. The Lord has lit up brown jeans with a smile. Now, here's what I want cut on that rock," he added, handing the paper to Laz, but suddenly withdrawing it, remarked: "Remember, I ain't lendin' you this."

He gave the paper to the borrower, who, looking at it, turning it over and over, replied: "All right. Don't need it—yit."

"Say, Laz, come over with me to the mill. There's suthin' I want to put away."

As they were going out through the gap, Lou came running into the yard.



CHAPTER XVII.

NOT TO TELL HER A LIE.

The girl ran to the rocking-chair, sat down and covering her face with her hands, uttered what to her must have been a sad lament: "Oh, she has made a coward out of me." A moment later Tom came, walking briskly.

"Miss Lou," he said, slowly approaching, "what made you run away from me? I wanted to tell you—"

She sprang to her feet and with snapping eyes exclaimed: "What do you want to tell me? Somethin' that ain't true. Do you want to look a lie at me?"

"No, I want to tell you something that is true. Do you know why I let that scoundrel Peters insult me?"

And looking down she replied: "You told me not to ask and I haven't?"

"Was it because you didn't want to know?"

"Mebby I was almost dyin' to know, but you told me not to ask."

"I didn't kill him because—"

"Not because you were afraid to try," she broke in.

"No. It was because they told me that—that you loved him."

"What!" she cried, blazing at him, "I love that—that skeer crow! Oh, how could they tell you such a thing; and if you believed it I am mad at you."

This greatly distressed him and he was quick to reply, "Oh, I didn't believe it much, you know."

"But you believed it strong enough not to—"

"Oh," he pleaded, "don't play me like a fish. Take the hook out of my mouth and don't make me flop. How did I know you didn't love him? Why, the prettiest girl I ever saw loved a—a scarecrow. And I wouldn't harm a scarecrow that you loved. I may be a scarecrow myself—I feel like one, and I know I must act like one, but I love you and I want you to be my wife."

And now she was all of a flutter. "Oh, you love me? Do you—do you?" She clasped her hands and he took them and drew her toward him.

"Do I? Why, I love you till I haven't got any sense. Didn't you see me out there in the rain yesterday?" She shook her head, looking down, hiding her eyes from him. "Didn't you see me there? I didn't have sense enough to come in."

She snatched away her hands and stood looking at him. "Would you live a lie, like the man that married your aunt? Would you?"

"Oh, he was a sport."

"A 'sport!'" she gasped. "What's that?"

"A fool that thinks he's got a sure thing when he hasn't. A man who might risk his home on the turn of a card. I'm not that sort of a fellow. I never loved any girl but you, and I never can love any other."

"Oh, can it be true?" she cried, gazing at him; and neither of them saw Old Jasper, who at this moment came through the gap. He halted and stood perfectly still looking at them.

"You know it is true," said Tom. He put his hands upon his breast. "Why, when I first saw you it seemed—seemed that they were lighting candles all around in here. And Lou, you must be my wife. Don't you know it is true?"

"Yes, I know," she replied, with her hand upon her heart, as if to calm it; "yes, I know, but there is somethin' a flutterin' here and I'm afraid it will fly away. But—but I love you so!"

In his arms he seized her and slowly Old Jasper came to them as they stood, lost to all earth, and about them he put his brown arms. They sprang apart and he took his daughter to his breast; and the boy stood there waiting, striving to say something.

"Mr. Starbuck, I—"

"Looks like everythin' has been said," Jasper broke in; and then upon the young fellow he cast a kindly look. "She couldn't hide that she loved you, sir."

"I am thankful for that. But everything has not been said, Mr. Starbuck—two more words are necessary, one from you and one from her mother."

"I didn't know how to try to hide that I loved him," said Lou. "I didn't want to try." She went over to Tom and he put his arm about her.

"Do you think her mother will object, sir?"

Jasper looked away to hide the laughter that had jumped into his countenance. "Oh," said he, "I reckon she can be persuaded, and here she is."

Margaret and Mrs. Mayfield came out of the house. "Margaret," said the old man, "I reckon these young folks air goin' to git married."

Margaret held out her arms and Lou ran to her, and with her head on her mother's bosom, she declared that she never could have thought it so sweet to be ashamed.

"Suthin' called me back from the mill, and it was to see this," said the old man.

Lou turned to Tom. "You won't love me any the less because I couldn't hide that I loved you, will you?"

"Oh, there couldn't be any less, and in the whole world there isn't room for more," Tom replied; his aunt standing near, looking with misty eyes upon him.



"Well," Margaret exclaimed, "I never was so surprised."

Jasper ducked his head and with his hands behind him walked off. But soon he came back and replied: "No, but I reckon if it hadn't happened you'd a been a leetle mo' surprised."

She flouted at him and said to Tom: "Goin' to git married?"

"Yes, madam, not next year, month, week—but now."

"Now!" exclaimed Jasper, with a clap of hands.

"My dear," Mrs. Mayfield said to Lou, "you need not be afraid to trust him. He won't live a lie."

Tom took the girl by the hand. "Come with me now, please. Let us go where the spirit boy used to play with you."

"Yes. And now I know that all the time it was you—you lived under the rock. Come on. We will go up among the hills an' make like we are lost."

And as they were walking away, Jasper said to his wife: "Margaret, that reminds me of a Sunday, a long time ago."

"Yes, Jasper;" and then she said to Mrs. Mayfield: "But law me, it don't take 'em long to fall in love an' git married these days."

"No," Jasper replied, "not with the help of a right peart woman."

"Now, Jasper," she said, "you air shorely enough to provoke a saint, bein' a man. But, Miz Mayfield, this has all come about so sudden that—"

Jasper snorted and she scowled at him. "Don't pay no attention to him, Miz Mayfield. Yes, so sudden that I don't hardly know what to say. But Lou is a good child an' thar ain't but one pity about her, an' that is she hain't got much l'arnin', though she did go to school fur two year over at Dry Fork."

"She will learn, Mrs. Starbuck, and he will be proud of her."

"I'm so glad to hear you say that, Miz Mayfield. An' you ain't disapp'inted at yo' nephew's choice?"

"It was for him and her to choose, Mrs. Starbuck, and all the rest of the world should be silent."

"But," Margaret persisted, "his father, the Jedge. What about him?"

"When he knows that all her people have been brave soldiers, he will call her his daughter."

"So glad," said Margaret, and then Jasper broke in.

"But what's the use of canvassin' now that all the returns air in. We all seed how the thing was a driftin' an' thar wan't no way to stop it even if we wanted to. That young feller is a man. I am proud of him, an' as Miz Mayfield says, he'll be proud of her."

Still Margaret was loth to leave off. "I'm so glad to know that you ain't disapp'inted."

"No one could be disappointed in her, Mrs. Starbuck. She has a strong character."

"So glad to have sich a estimate from one that knows the world."

"It is knowing something of the world that causes me to place so high a value upon her."

"Thar," said Jasper, "thank her ag'in an' then we'll begin at suthin' else."

Margaret begged of Mrs. Mayfield that she would pay no attention to Jasper, who was always so full of his pranks, and then to the old man she whispered: "Old Miz Barker was a passin' this mornin' an' she 'lows that the app'intment has come. Have you fixed everythin' at the mill?"

"No. Laz is there a waitin' for me now."

"Well, I'll go over with you."

They went away, looking back and begging to be "excused," and Mrs. Mayfield stood looking down the road. After a time she went over by the fence, sat down on a stump and began to pluck flowers from the vines that ran along the rails. Into the yard Kintchin came, singing; but when he discovered Mrs. Mayfield he left off his half-dancing walk, began to limp, and approaching her he said: "Ol' steer dun kicked me on de hip."

"I am sorry, Kintchin."

"Yas'm. But you ain't ha'f ez sorry ez I is. Never wuz kicked by er steer, wuz you?"

"No, that's an experience that hasn't fallen to me."

"Wall, w'en it do fall you ain't gwine furgit it. Jest thought I'd drap in an' rest er while," he continued, going over and seating himself on the wood pile. "Dat dear ole mammy lef' me twenty dollars."

"Kind old soul, wasn't she?"

"Yas'm. An' dar ain't many folks dat lef' me twenty dollars w'en da died. I's had er good many wives fust an' last, but I ain't neber married no sich er 'oman ez dat."

"Then you have been married several times, have you, Kintchin?"

"Yas'm. Dar wuz my fust wife an' my fust step-wife, an'—"

"Your first step-wife?"

"Yas'm—stepped inter de place o' my fust wife. My fust wife wuz Sue, an' she wuz er good 'oman, I tell you. But she liked music too well. Dar come up yere one dem yaller barbers, an' he pick er thing at her dat looked sorter like er banjo, an' she cl'ared out wid him."

"That was sad."

"Yas'm. An' den dar wuz Tildy. She wuz monst'us fine. Jest about de color o' er new saddle. I lubbed dat lady."

"What became of her?"

"Who, Tildy? Wall, er white lady come up yere an' she had er silk shawl an' da fooled roun' till da 'cuzed Tildy o' stealin' it an' da sont her ter de pennytenchy."

"What, on an accusation?"

"Wall, da keep er pesterin' roun' till da proved it on her. Yas'm." He got up and slowly limped over toward her. "An' ain't you got fifty cents you could give me fur all dis inflamation? I needs it might'ly."

"Why, didn't you just tell me that mammy left you twenty dollars?"

"Ur—yes'm—in her will. But I got ter go an' sign de will an' dat'll cost me fifty cents."

"That's a peculiar sort of law."

"Yas'm. I didn't like dat law myse'f an' I told 'em ter 'peal it, but da wouldn't."

"Well," she said, arising and starting toward the house, "as you are so honest and industrious, I'll get it for you."

He looked after her and mused. "No matter whar er 'oman is when you ax her fur money, she got ter go some whar else ter git it. Huh, but deze innercent ladies is de sort dat suits me. I doan like deze ladies dat doan blebe nuthin' you say."

Mrs. Mayfield came out of the house. "Here it is," she said, giving him a piece of silver.

"Thankee, ma'm. I's gwine pray fur you de fust chance I gits, an' it won't be long now dat my rush is sorter ober fo' I does git er chance. But ef you'll jest gib me er quarter mo' I'll leave off ever'thin' an' pray fur you right now."

"No, that's enough."

"Doan blebe much in pra'r, does you? Wall, I hatter make dis do."

Mrs. Mayfield stood at the gap, gazing down the road, and the old negro remarked to himself: "Dat's de way er lady looks w'en she's expectin' er man. Things is er gwine on roun' dis place. Dar ain't been all dis light steppin' fur nuthin'. Wush I could go somewhar an' pick me up er chunk o' er wife. It's er gittin' erbout time fur me ter marry ag'in."

Mrs. Mayfield walked down the road, and Kintchin with an improvised tune took up the axe which Jasper had stuck into the log. But just as he was about to begin the work of grinding it, Mose Blake, shoving a wheelbarrow, came into the yard.

"Whar's S—S—S—S—Star—"

"Talkin' ter me?"

"Ye—y—y—y—yes."

"Den why don't you?"

"I a—a—a—am."

"You ain't said so."

"Shut yo' b—b—b—black mouth."

"Huh, I could do dat an' den talk better den you does."

"I can b—b—b—beat you t—t—t—talkin'."

"Yas, you kin beat any pusson I eber seed."

"Don't y—y—y—you furgit you a—a—a—ain't nuthin' but a n—n—n—n—nigger."



"Huh, da kin tell dat by lookin' at me; but atter lookin' at you da kain't tell whut you is. Why, you ain't nuthin'. Go on erway an' let me talk ter myse'f. You kain't talk."

"Talk better t—t—t—t—than you k—k—kin. I could p—p—preach."

"Yes, ter deef folks. Say, you puts me in mind o' er chicken with de gapes."

"You air a f—f—f—f—"

"You needn't try ter tell me. I knows it."

"That's a—a—a—about all you d—d—d—d—do know. Mother sent me atter the wash k—k—k—kittle."

"She don't need it much den. Go on erway."

"I'm goin' t—t—t—to git a g—g—gun an' come atter you."

"If you kain't shoot it off no better'n you does yo' mouf you kain't hurt me much."

From a corner of the fence Mose took up a wash-kettle and put it upon the wheelbarrow. "You'll b—b—b—be dead b—b—before night. Be easier t—t—to take what I come atter than to try t—t—to tell 'em w—w—what I want." As he turned his wheelbarrow about he saw Lije Peters standing in the gap. "L—l—l—look out, I'll r—r—run over you," and he lunged forward with his load, just missing Peters, who jumping to one side cried out:

"Yes, you stuttering pig, if you can't wheel no strai'ter than you can talk."

When Mose was gone Peters inquired of Kintchin: "Whar's Starbuck?"

"He wuz out yander jest now an' he'll come ez soon as he know you yere. Whut I tell you?" he added as Jasper made his sudden appearance.

"Here, nigger," said Peters, "go on away; I want to talk to Starbuck."

Jasper told the negro to go and then he stood looking at Peters.

"I didn't expect to see you here ag'in after what passed the other day. Didn't I tell you—"

Peters held up his hand. "Ricolleck I ain't in yo' house. You told me not to darken yo' door ag'in, and I hain't. Don't overlook that fact. And I wouldn't be here, but my app'intment has come."

"Wall."

"An' I go on duty day atter to-morrer. Do you know what that means?"

"I told you not long ago what it mout mean."

"But it mout not turn out that way."

"Shot fo' an' stobbed three," muttered the old man, his mind reverting to the story paper.

"Starbuck, is that young feller Elliott any kin to Jedge Elliott in Nashville?"

"That's for you to fin' out."

"Wall, I didn't know, an' I come mighty nigh havin' trouble with him not long ago."

"Yes, an' I reckon he come mighty nigh a robbin' me of a pleasure—when the time comes."

"It was about Lou."

"Miss Lou, you viper."

"Oh, that's all right. Starbuck, you ricolleck I told you I had that old-fashioned, single-barrel cap-an'-ball pistol. Here it is." He drew forth an old pistol.

"Peters, I'd advise you to come after me with a mo' improved weepin."

"Oh, I'll do that an' with help from off yander, when the time comes. I ain't atter you yit. I jest wanted to give you one mo' chance. An' when I come shore enough, I'll fetch improved weepins. I ain't quite in my official capacity now."

"Yo' app'intment has teached you big words."

"Yes," said Peters, tapping the barrel of the pistol, "as big as the slug this thing is loaded with. My daddy told me that this here slug went through his brother's heart an' was buried in a tree. It was dug out an' now it's here—in this pistol ag'in. Jest fetched it along to remind you of the past."

"Oh, my ricolliction is good, Peters. But I don't ricolleck how you come by that old pistol. None of yo' folks ever tuck it away from any of mine. I reckon some of yo' folks stold it outen the cou't house."

"That's all right, Starbuck. No matter how it come, it is here. But I don't want no trouble with you, an' won't have none if you do the right an' easy thing. Raise that thousand dollars fur me. You've got it hid somewhar."

"If I had a million I wouldn't give you a cent."

"Mout change yo' tune befo' this thing is over with."

"Yes," said Jasper, "I mout whistle a dead march."

"Not over me," Peters replied.

"Yes, over you."

"You're a liar."

Starbuck slapped him in the face, and springing back, Lije cocked the pistol and raised it to shoot.

"Hold on a minute—just one minute," said Starbuck, and with the pistol leveled, Peters stood looking at him.

"Yes, I'll give you one minute, Starbuck, an' that is all. If you move I'll kill you."

"If I do move, you scoundrel, it will be to kill you. Why, you po' fool—"

"Starbuck, any fool can be game—I thought I know'd all about you, but I never know'd befo' that you was so cool."

"Cool," Jasper repeated, "I ain't half as cool as you air keerless. I could kill you with that axe an' you couldn't help yo'se'f. That pistol won't shoot. Look! When you cocked it the cap fell off."



CHAPTER XVIII.

DOWN THE ROAD.

With his old pistol useless in his hand the ruffian walked away, shaking his head and muttering that a time was coming soon. "And with help from off yander," Jasper heard him shout from the road. "I have cut down the tree whar that bullet lodged and burnt it with a slow fire, and the fire that's to burn another tree, a scrub oak, may be slow but it is a comin'. Do you hear me over thar?"

"A man has to be mighty deaf not to hear a wolf howl," Jasper replied, and took his way back to the mill where Laz and Margaret were waiting for him.

"Was it Peters you saw goin' into the yard?" Margaret inquired, and the old fellow answered: "Looked mighty like him—fur a time I thought it was, but my eyes ain't as good as they was."

In the meantime Jim was fighting his way through the briars and over the rough ground of the short cut from the little county town. And when he reached the road he saw Mrs. Mayfield coming to meet him. "The preacher wasn't at home," he said, as he came near to her, "but I left word for him and he will be here soon. Do the folks know anything about it yet?"

"I told your uncle, but he seemed already to know." She gave a tender account of the scene in the yard, of Tom and Lou, and he said that like his uncle he had already known. "Fate got out of the wagon when you drove up to the gate, ma'm—honey," he said; "and I am thankful to the Lord that in no wise was it cruel onesidedness. I couldn't tell that Tom loved Lou, but I knew she loved him."

"There is no need now of walking so fast," she playfully remarked, and he checked his haste. "No, for I am not walking toward you, but with you. I left time back yonder where I met you and after this there can't be any time, just a rising and a setting of the sun with time in a sweet dream between."

"Jim, I ought to tell you something about my married life; and when I have told you the truth, you may not hold me so blameless."

"Mary, I don't date you back beyond the time when you drove up to the gate. I don't want to know anything about your past. It didn't include me."

"Your faith is simple and beautiful now, Jim, but may there not come a time when it will begin to inquire—when perhaps I might fret you? Weariness is a close critic, Jim."

"You may teach me many things, Mary, but not to find fault. Look back to your home in the town and think of what you are giving up for me—for a life of toil among the hills."

She took hold of his arm and drew him close to her. "I am giving up cold glitter for warm glow."

They turned aside to sit in the cool shade at the water-fall, and there they found Tom and Lou, dreaming with their heads together. High above there had been a heavy rain and the falls were pouring with such a roar that there was no talk; but the four of them sat there on a great rock, gazing at the rainbow hanging above the yellowish water. But when they withdrew to a cove where it was quiet, Tom told Jim that he had put a boy on a horse and sent him after a marriage license.

"When we come to think," said Mrs. Mayfield, "it is all very hasty. It might look better to wait."

"That's what I wanted to say," Lou replied. "I always thought that folks had to make up some new clothes when they were married—or befo'. But here I am with hardly any clothes at all."

"You can make clothes afterward just as well as before," said Tom. "I feel that as long as I'm not married I belong to the Governor—I mean my father," he explained to Lou; "but as soon as I am married I'll be my own—well, I might say my own boss." Archly Lou looked at him and he added: "Unless you are to be my boss. And you can, I tell you that."

"I have devised a charming plan," said Mrs. Mayfield. "We'll all be married up there on the top of the hill among the vines. Won't that be romantic? No church, no hot house flowers, but blossoms still alive, with humming birds sipping their honey. We'll make of it a marriage May day, to be lived over in after years; and we'll have a picture painted of the scene, nature's altar; and in the twilight of many a summer's day we'll muse over it, growing old."

"Auntie, I accept your romance now," Tom replied. "You have infected us all and make us almost unnatural with happiness."

"But now we'd better go to the house," Jim suggested. "It is about time for the preacher to come and we don't want to keep him waiting. Ma'm, I—"

"Are you calling me ma'm, again?"

"It was to remind myself of a time when I wasn't so happy and to make myself doubly happy now by the reminder."

Coupling off and hand in hand they walked toward the house, ceremonious beyond naturalness in acting out the spirit summoned by a woman steeped in the essences of high-flown books. "The trumpet," she said when they heard Margaret's dinner horn, and not even Tom, who could have recalled many a rakish bout of a Saturday night and many an unholy laugh in church of a Sunday, dared to smile at her. "You've caught me all right, auntie, and I'm strutting like a bantam cock in the spring of the year."

"But don't destroy it all by saying so," she replied, pressing close to Jim and peering round into his face.

Jasper and Margaret were waiting for them, at the table; and again Margaret was never so surprised as when she heard that they were at that moment expecting the arrival of the preacher. She did not quite approve of the hill-top marriage plan. Better would it have suited her purpose to parade the double wedding at Dry Fork, to shine in the presence of neighbors. But Jasper, expecting trouble, was in favor of the speediest method. "Miz Mayfield is the manager of the whole affair," said he. "Ma'm, have some of these here snap beans, b'iled with as brown a piece of bacon as you ever seed. What, Margaret, ain't a cryin'?"

"Of course a man would never cry on an occasion of this here sort," she whimpered. "You don't stop to think that our daughter is a goin' to leave us—it don't seem to make no diffunce to you."

"Wall, not as much diffunce as if she had loved him an' he hadn't loved her. Jim, I reckon here's about as fine a piece of co'n bread as you ever smacked yo' mouth on, white meal ground slow."

Margaret's keen ears heard a halloa at the gate. "Thar's the preacher," she said. "An' goodness me, we ain't got a bite fitten for a preacher to eat." Jasper got up to meet the minister. "Fetch him in anyhow, Jasper. 'Pears like we ain't never fixed for nuthin'."

Jasper went out and into the dining-room conducted the horse-trading preacher. He shook hands with everyone, sat down, and, hungry from his ride, began to help himself. "Just married a couple over in the Spice Bush neighborhood," said he, receiving from Jasper a slab of the brown bacon. "Yes, the widow Doxey and old John Towson. This is good meat, brother Starbuck—smoked with hickory wood, I reckon."

"Yes, hick'ry an' sass'frass. I reckon you pick up a good many weddin's along about this time of the year."

"Well, a pretty fair sprinkling."

"So Miz Doxey finally cotch old John," said Jasper and his wife declared she wouldn't make light of it. "Light of it? She weighs two forty if she weighs a ounce. Oh, I knowd John would git her as soon as I seed him a puttin' them green blinds on his house. Ma'm, nothin' round here ketches a widow woman like green blinds. Swoppin' any hosses lately, Brother Fetterson?"

"Traded off a nag yesterday. Didn't know but I might strike a swop with you to-day."

"Why," Margaret spoke up, knowing that in the combat of a horse trade, time would sail like a summer's cloud over the heads of the two men, "you haven't come to trade stock, but to marry these folks."

"Oh, that won't take long," Brother Fetterson replied. "Have you got that sorrel yet, Brother Starbuck?"

"She's out thar in the lot now, as slick as a mole."

"This is to be a double wedding," said Mrs. Mayfield, "and on the hill-top, among the vines."

"A right pretty idea, Miss. Now this hoss I'm a riding, Brother Starbuck, is a single footer, in fine condition and can run a quarter with the best of them."

"I hearn that you swopped tuther day with Dave Somer's an' the hoss died durin' of the night," said Jasper. "Is that so?"

"Brother Starbuck," the preacher replied, looking grave, "life is just as uncertain among hosses as among men. We know not the day nor the hour when the healthiest hoss may be called, as it were; and I could not of course foresee the death of the hoss I swopped to Dave. I regretted his—I might say demise, but it was no fault of mine."

Mrs. Mayfield, feeling that the preacher was not attaching enough importance to the coming marriages, ventured to remark that her brother, who was a United States Judge at Nashville, had ever been regarded as a keen appraiser of a horse. But the fact that she was the sister of so distinguished a man did not at all startle the preacher. "Glad to know it, Miss. I'll go out and look at your hoss, Jasper."

"After the wedding," Margaret suggested.

"And then you can swop hosses all day," said Jim.

"A good idea no doubt, Brother Jim Starbuck. And how are the people over in your highland district?"

"In need of the gospel as they are here," Jim replied.

"Yes, here and everywhere, Brother Jim Starbuck. Your breed of hosses up there are very sure-footed. I had one that could climb a hill-side like a goat. Many professions resultant from the revivals last fall, Brother Jim Starbuck?"

"Yes, and a number of additions to the church."

"That is indeed encouraging. I preached just beyond there one conference year, and aside from the death of a very valuable hoss, I was quite successful. Do you know a good brother named Adsit, big double log house on the left bank of the creek?"

"Yes, I am acquainted with him."

"A fair minded man, is he, Brother Jim. Let me have a colt very reasonable once."

"Shall we now go to the hill-top," Jim suggested.

"Yes, Brother Jim. But I should think that the ceremony could as well be performed here in the house."

"That was not our plan," said Mrs. Mayfield. "We are going to be married among the vines, and if such a temple is distasteful to you, sir—"

"Oh, not at all, Miss, I assure you."

"And we are going dressed just as we are," she continued.

"Oh, the dressing, Miss, makes no difference to me. Well, if everything's ready we might as well go on."

Among the vines they stood. In the leaves above them the birds were twittering. The sweet air came cool from up the creek. In the short grass, stirred by a breeze, a harebell seemed tinily ringing. And down the hill they went, brides and bridegrooms, all wound about with a rope of white clover.



CHAPTER XIX.

OLD FOLKS LEFT ALONE.

Early the next morning a wagon drew up at the gate. It was to convey the bridal party to a little village high up among the mountains. Margaret was tearful and Jasper was sad, hiding his countenance as he fussed with the harness. Tom insisted that it was no time for sorrow. "We'll be back in a week's time," said he. "And even after I take her down to town I'll bring her back here every month." But Margaret continued to sorrow. "I don't never expect to see you ag'in," she said and Lou laughed with tears in her eyes. "Why, it's nothin' to be away from home a week, mother. And just think how happy I am." But there were more tears; and Jasper stormed at a dog and shook the wagon wheel to satisfy himself that it was sound. The driver, as lank a lout as ever slept in a stable, sat upon a board seat, stuffing his greedy mouth with ginger cake. He took up the lines and clucked to the horses, but it was discovered that something more remained to be said and he was commanded to wait.

"Jest hold on a minit till I git sorter uster the idee," said Margaret. "I want to say somethin' an' I don't know what."

Old Jasper put his arm about her. "It's in the way of nature, my dear," he said and upon his shoulder she wept, the wagon waiting, the driver munching; and on the fence and in the trees the birds that had been wedding guests were singing, having come down from the vine-knob to carrol them a good-bye. At last there was nothing more to be said and the driver popped his hickory bark whip and the wagon rolled away. Jasper went into the house and sat down, deep in thought, but for a long time Margaret stood at the gate, and the old man saw her sobbing in her apron. She came into the room when no longer could she hear the wagon rattling over the stones, high up the hill, and he said to her: "In the way of nature, my dear, and you mustn't grieve. I count her a very lucky girl. That young feller will make her a good livin' and—"

"Well," Margaret broke in, "she deserves it. You talk as if he wan't lucky too. But I jest want to tell you he is and you needn't say he ain't. You ought to be ashamed of yo'se'f to belittle yo' own daughter thatter way. Well, I never. Never did I expect to see the day when you'd say yo' child wan't worthy of a young man, even if he is a jedge's son."

"Air you about through?"

"Oh, don't talk to me. I'm out of all patience with you. Great goodness alive, is it all to his credit that he is a jedge's son? You talk like if she hadn't found him nobody else would a had her. And thar ain't a puttier girl in all this here section, although she hain't got as many clothes as she ought to have, a goin' a way off on a bridal tower."

"Gittin' putty nigh the eend."

"Laws a massy. Time was when I never dreamed that you'd slander yo' own kith an' kin. An' come right from yo' daughter's weddin' an' swopped hosses with a preacher. It was a sin and a shame. I never was so mortified in my life. And then at supper he prayed. Just think of it. I'll bet anything he cheated you."

"Wall let us believe not. The next mornin' after standin' all night, the hoss I let him have will show his true worth. He's got a spavin, as you know, an' when he leads him out of the stable a j'int in his right leg'll pop like a pipe stem broke."

"Now Jasper Starbuck, is it possible that you put off that spavined hoss on Brother Fetterson? You ought to be ashamed of yo'se'f. Ain't you got no respect at all for the gospel?"

"Wall, not so powerful much respect for a gospel that always wants to ride a fine hoss at another's expense. Jest thought I'd l'arn him a lesson. Come out an' let's look at my new hoss."

They went out to the stable, and when Jasper attempted to lead forth the horse, the animal cringed and held back, and in his eye there was an expression of pain, for in truth he was so badly spavined that he had to hobble on three legs.

"Ah, hah, that's what you git for tryin' to cheat the gospel," said Margaret. "And you ought to be ashamed of yo'se'f, an' he a preacher at that—preached the loveliest funeral sermon over old Aunt Polly Myer I ever heard in my life."

For a time old Jasper was silent. His wife asked him what he intended to do. "Wall," said he, "believe I'll knock this critter in the head, skin him, take a hindquarter over to that preacher's house and make him eat it raw."

"You'll do nothin' of the sort, an' yo' daughter jest married, too. I'm sorry, Jasper, that I said what I did a while ago. Yes, Lou is lucky—almost as lucky, Jasper, as I was when you asked me to be yo' wife."

"I'd ruther you'd scold me than to talk thatter way, Margaret. You know I can't stand it, an' please don't. Helloa, who's this a comin'?"

It was the post-master, who, ripping open many a man's letter could read it off just like print. He shook hands with Jasper and Margaret and said that he had several letters for the young fellow and the good-looking woman from away off. When Jasper gave him an account of the wedding and told him that the brides and the bridegrooms were gone, he said: "Wall, we jest as wall open the letters an' see if we kin find out what's in 'em."

Margaret fluttered at him. "You'll do nothin' of the sort. Jest leave 'em with me and I'll see that they air give over all right."

"Wall, ma'm, no harm did," he said handing her the letters; and then to Jasper he said: "Brother Fetterson come a ridin' by my house late yistidy an' wanted to swop hosses with me. Had a five year old that I raised myse'f, a little under size but as tough as dried beef; so I swopped for a mighty likely nag."

"Have you looked at yo' swop to-day?"

"Yes, seed him a standin' out in the lot."

"Didn't see him walk, I reckon."

"No, was a tradin' licker for hounds at the time an' didn't stir him up; an' when I come away jest now he was off in the pasture somewhar. Didn't know but you mout want him."

"Ah, hah, an' in the hope that I do I reckon you've got a nigger astradle of him stirrin' the spavin outen his j'int, hain't you?"

"Wall, reckon I better bid you good day," said the post-master, turning to go, and as he did old Jasper's laughter and Margaret's contempt followed him. "Got cheated hisse'f an' now he wants to come over an' cheat you," she said.

"Yes," the old man replied, "but tain't no mo' than natral. I don't hold it much ag'in a man when he tries to cheat me. It's the old Adam a b'ilin' up in him."

"It didn't uster be thatter way in the good old times," she remarked, and scratching his head he replied: "Yes, it did, or worse. Away back they'd knock you on the head or stick a knife in you an' take what you had. Now they cheat you without knockin' you down, an' that is a improvement."

He was becoming too philosophical to suit Margaret, and she told him that he did not seem to realize the loss of his daughter. "Don't I? Wall, jest say the word an' I'll set down on a stump an' cry."

"Yes, but you wouldn't cry if it was me that was gone. Oh, anybody's goin' would put you out mo' than mine, an' you was jest achin' for a chance to show me."

"Then if you have give me the chance I must thank you for bein' so accommodatin'. But I wish you wouldn't worry me now, Margaret. In one respeck the goin' away of the folks was a blessin' fur the trouble that has been a threatenin' for some time is shorely a comin.' Don't nag me."

"Do I bother you, Jasper, an' trouble a comin' too? Well, I won't. I wonder if I ain't as mean as I can be."

"No, you're all right. An' it must be me that's as mean as a old dog a layin' in the corner of the fence with a bone. If I know'd how I'd go an' meet that trouble. Thar ain't nuthin' much wuss then to set down an' wait fur it to come sore-footed along the road, a lookin' fur you."

"But you won't do nuthun' outen the way, will you Jasper?"

"Nuthin'. I've shown all along that I was tryin' to keep out of a diffikilty. Wall, I'll walk on around the place—by myse'f, Margaret, fur I want to think."

He went slowly away, changing his course from time to time as he looked back and saw that she was watching him; and when she went into the house he walked briskly toward a tree down beneath a hill, and here he sat down, with his hat off. At his feet was a grave, trimmed with muscle shells brought from the creek, and shading the stone at the head was a rose-bush, in bloom.



CHAPTER XX.

MET IT IN THE ROAD.

Long he sat there meditating over something precious as one does expecting trouble; and arising he walked rapidly to the gulch leading to his still house. But, reaching there, no moss-covered logs greeted his eye. There was a smoldering fire, with diminutive whirlpools of white ashes. He wiped his brow and upon a stone he sat down. The law had come with its torch, and for a long time his face was hard and grim. An hour must have passed, and then with an air of gentleness as one resigned to punishment, he went to a rock, the rock under which the spirit boy had dwelt, and reaching beneath it drew forth a Winchester rifle.

"I'll pump out these here brass temptations," he said, throwing out the cartridges and slowly, one by one, dropped them into the rivulet. Then, breaking the gun across the rock, he slowly started toward home.

Reaching the road, he stood looking up and down the rugged highway over which Old Jackson's carriage had bumped and rattled, over which long before the days of the railroad dry-goods and hardware had been transported from Philadelphia to Nashville. He did not stand there long alone. From the bushes came a loud command—"Throw up your hands"—and the government's guns were pointed at his breast. He obeyed and three men came forward to search him, and just then came the roar of Peters. "Why didn't you shoot the scoundrel!" Past the men he rushed with a knife, and Old Jasper, leaping in the air, struck him in the face with his iron fist and he lay senseless and bleeding on the ground.

One of the deputies threw up his gun to shoot, but the officer in command seized the weapon and wrested it from his hands.

"You wolf, would you shoot a brave old man? He respects the law more than you—and a hundred per cent. more than this villain. I wish he had broken his neck. Here, Nick," he added, speaking to his other attendant, "go up the hill to where Pagett has the wagon, bring it here and take this half-dead hulk to his home. Then drive over to Starbuck's, and I will be there with the prisoner. You go with me," he continued, speaking to the deputy whom he had disarmed. "Here, take your gun and remember that Uncle Sam isn't a murderer. Bring the hand-cuffs."

Old Starbuck's face broke into many a seam and then grew tight. "Mister," he pleaded, "as an old soldier let me beg of you not to put them criminal things on me. If you must, wait till we drive away from the house. My wife mustn't see them. Let me tell you suthin'. Down the hill yander under a tree there's a grave an' in it the most precious dust human flesh ever withered into. Drag me there an' I will put my hand on that grave an' sw'ar that I won't attempt to git away."

"Nick," said the commandant, "take the hand-cuffs along and throw them under the wagon seat. We won't need them."

"I thank you, sir," replied Jasper. "Now we will go to the house, an' what I say to that po' woman down there you must stand to. This way, please."

Margaret was hanging out clothes when into the yard the two officers came, Jasper walking between them. Upon the ground she dropped a sheet and came running toward them.

"There now, dear," said Jasper, "don't be skeered. These men only want me to go down to Nashville with them to give testimony at a investigation. I ain't a prisoner—don't you see I ain't got no hand-cuffs on? Gentlemen, come in an' we'll have a bite to eat ag'in the wagon comes. Don't put yo'se'f to no trouble, Margaret. 'Most anythin' will do."

"Oh," she began to moan, wringing her hands, "they air goin' to hang you. It's all Lije Peters' work, an' you ought to have killed him, for the Lord knows he's give you plenty cause. Where is the scoundrel?"

"Who, Lije? Why, he went over home; don't think he's a goin' down with us—we don't need him. Now, jest set us out some of them cold snap beans an' a hunk of co'n bread, fur the wagon will be here putty soon."

"Jasper," she said, blocking the way into the house, "your air deceivin' of me."

He laughed and replied: "But even that wouldn't be half as bad as for folks to go away an' tell it about that you wouldn't give a couple of strangers nuthin' to eat."

"That's true," she admitted, leading the way into the house. "I'll fry a couple of chickens."

"Madam," said the commanding officer, "we are much obliged, but we'll not have time."

"Yes, you will," she insisted. "I'm not goin' to have you go down there among all them gover'ment folks a tellin' that I didn't know how to treat anybody in my house. You air jest achin' fur that opportunity, but I'll see that you don't git it. Now you set down here an' wait."

"You may riprisent the law," said Jasper to the officers, "but she stands for suthin' that's higher than all law—woman, an' I reckon you'll have to knock under."

And they did, waiting patiently for Margaret as she bestirred herself in the kitchen; and when they went in and viewed the neatness of the meal, they thanked her and fell to with the appetite of soldiers. They had eaten and were thanking her when they heard the wagon rumbling down the hill. Margaret began to whimper, but the old man laughed at her; and when the two men respectfully turned away to give the prisoner and his wife a word together, he said to her:

"For a long time, as you know, this thing has been a hangin' over me, like a cloud ready to shoot out its lightenin', an' I am thankful that it's about over with. You stay here an' be brave, an' I'll be back all right. Send word by somebody to Old Miz Barker, an' she'll be tickled to come an' stay with you an' talk till she makes you feel that they air goin' to hang me."

"If you was a goin' to be hung, Jasper, you'd fret me with it. I don't believe there's harm in these here men. They didn't hand-cuff you, that's a fact. An' jest see how they eat! I ain't afeared of no man that eats well at my table. So, now you go on an' do the best you kin, an' don't worry about me."

He put his arms about her and kissed her on the forehead, and even when it was announced that the wagon was waiting, she did not waver, but bravely stood to her determination.

The wagon drove off and Margaret lingered in the door, gazing; but Jasper did not look back, and so, over the hill he passed from her sight, as all things else had passed, for in the blindness of her tears it was as if dark night had fallen. She turned about and in her ears his words rang, and again strong-set to be brave, the misty night was winked away. Hearing the hum of the old negro's tuneful spirit, she called him and he came to the door.

"Kintchin, they have taken Jasper."

"Yas'm, an' da've tuck Lije Peters, too."

"Why, Jasper said he wasn't goin'."

"He ain't—he's gone. I was a hidin' in de bushes an' I seed Peters wid his knife, an' I seed er man way up an' den er man way down—wid blood spurtin' up. An' da tuck him home in er wagin; an' de folks dat wan't right well 'quainted wid him befo' ain't gwine know him now, fur he ain't got no mo' count'nence den er stewed punkin. I neber seed sich er lick in my life."

"Oh, I'm glad," she cried, clapping her hands.

"Yas'm, an' I wallered dar like er hot hog in wet leaves, tickled mighty nigh ter death; an' den I run off caze da mout want me ter go ez er witness—an' mo'n dat, da might want ter sen' me ter de pennytenchy caze I grind de co'n."

The last word alarmed her. "Do you think they will send him there? Do you?"

"Oh, no'm, I doan think dat. He'll git out all right caze he's er white man while I's er nigger, an' nuthin' tickel de white folks mo' den ter send er nigger ter de pen."

"Well, I want you to go over an' tell Old Miz Barker to come an' stay with me; an' you better put Laz or Mose on a hoss an' let him go as near as he kin an' lissun for news."

"Oh, dem two boys gwine git all de news da wants, ma'm. Er man dat wuz over ter de Peter's house say da gwine take 'em erlong as witnesses, an' dat's whut skeered me. I's mighty glad ter see you ain't takin' on no wus den you is. I wuz erfeared dat you gwine ter holler like er devil-skeered lady at er camp-meetin'."

"Kintchin, I have put my faith in the Lord."

"Yas'm, dat's whut I done—'bout ha'f my faif in de Lord an' tuther ha'f in my laigs. An' now I gwine pitch in ter work like puttin' out wild fire. Yas'm, I is. Dat's de way I gwine 'spress my sympathy."



CHAPTER XXI.

INTO THE WORLD BEYOND THE HILLS.

"You are a wise man," said the commanding officer as the wagon toiled along. "You don't begin to plead your innocence."

"Maybe I haven't any. What is your name?"

"Foster."

"It may come my way to do you a favor, Mr. Foster. You have been kind to me. But why do we turn up here?"

"To pick up one Laz Spencer, witness."

"One Laz Spencer," mused the old man. "It would be a tug of nature to have two. But I'm sorry you are goin' to take him. Let him go and I'll agree to deliver the testimony expected of him."

"No, that can't be. We have our orders."

Out by the fence and with laborious stroke Laz was cutting wood. Leaving off his work as the wagon drew near he gazed with hand-shaded eye, and recognizing Jasper, threw down his axe and began to scramble over the fence, but one of the men fired a shot to scare him and he dropped back, took off his hat, scratched his head and remarked: "Sorter 'pears like you got me. Helloa, Jasper. Didn't know folks war a comin' around a takin' you a ridin'."

"Get up into the wagon," Foster commanded.

"Yes, that's what I 'lowed I'd do. But let me go into the house an' put on some more duds if you air goin' to take me down into society."

"Go with him, Nick," said Foster, and the deputy leaped to the ground.

Old Mrs. Spencer came to the door and with her tangish tongue larrupped the men, called them cowards, dogs; and appealing to Jasper asked why he didn't kill them as his forefathers would have done. She swore that all spirit had gone out of the country.

"I've moulded bullets to kill better men than you," she exclaimed. "Not one of you is worth an ounce of lead; an' you tell them government fellers down there that thinks themselves so smart that if they tetch a hair on my boy's head, I'll come down there and murder the whole kit an' b'ilin' of them. Go on now, Laz, an' show 'em that you ain't afeared."

"Got rid of her easy," said Foster, when the old woman turned back into the house; and Laz, overhearing him as he climbed into the wagon drawled out a reply:

"Don't take long for anybody to git rid of her."

She waved him a good-bye from the window, and humped upon a seat beside Jasper, Laz was silent for some time, and then he inquired if there were any news stirring.

"No. Anythin' goin' on round here?"

"Nothin' wu'th dividin' 'cept Mose Blake fell into the river yistidy an' was drownded."

"What, you don't tell me so?" the old man exclaimed.

"Yes, couldn't swim a lick atter he struck the water an thar wan't no use in tryin' befo' he struck."

"Powerful sorry to hear it," said Jasper. "Good feller—worst habit of his was always tryin' to talk when he couldn't."

"Yep. But he ain't tryin' of it now."

"I am also sorry he's dead," said Foster. "We were going to take him down to town with us."

"No use to take him now," Laz replied; and a silence fell, broken only when they turned back into the highway, when the lout of a driver, impressed in the neighborhood, remarked to Laz:

"I reckon you air as about as big a liar as they kin set up. Here comes Mose Blake now."

"Hah!" exclaimed Foster. "A good backwoods trick. Round him up, boys."

The stutterer was dressed in his best, on his way to pay stammering court to a girl. He strove to explain that he couldn't go with them, but the officers laughed at his attempts to talk, compelled him to get in, and drove on.

At night they camped near a spring, beneath a walnut tree, the officers standing turn about while the prisoners slept; and early the next morning they resumed their rumbling journey.

As they were now out of the neighborhood range of the two boys, everything began to possess a keen interest for them, the houses, cattle and even the dogs that ran along the yard fences to bark at the wagon. Just before sunset they saw from afar the capitol dome, the mausoleum of Stricklin, who built many state houses, constructing in each one a tomb for himself. Years had passed since Jasper, a battle-smoked and bleeding soldier, had trod up to that lofty pile of rock to receive his discharge from the ranks; and desolate, with no drum and no fife to march back to his wretched home. To him the scene was heart-heavy with memories, but to the boys it was the first glimpse of that great and mysterious life lying far beyond their native hills.

"I reckon the man that lives in thar could go to a sale up whar we live an' buy every wagin an' team on the place," said Laz, pointing toward the fading state-house, and Mose replied:

"Reckon h—h—h—he could t—t—t—talk all day without a h—h—hitch."

"Whar do we sleep to-night, with some of the neighbors?" Laz inquired, and Foster laughed.

"You sleep," said he, with an old joke, "in a house that will keep the dogs from coming in and biting you."

"You mean the jail?"

"Yes, that's what I mean. We'll have to keep you close till we get through with you."

"Is that the law?"

"Yes, as we understand it."

"Wall, then, I may not have to shoot you the fust time I meet you in the big road. Got a good artickle of pie thar in the kitchin?"

"You shall have all the pie you want."

Then Mose began: "Ef t—t—t—that's the case you m—m—m—mout drive a l—l—little faster. An' p—p—p—pound cake?"

"Yes, you may have some of that, too."

"Then I'm g—g—g—glad I c—c—come. Never had as m—m—much p—p—pound cake as I co—could eat b—b—but once, an' then I staid all night with a feller w—w—w—when his mammy w—w—wan't at home."

"Am I to be locked up?" the old man asked.

"Yes, Mr. Starbuck."

The old fellow groaned and in the dusk shrank down, little in his humiliation.

"Sometimes," he said, "folks have to stay in there a good while before they air fotch to trial. Do you think you kin fix it so they kin have it over with my case as soon as possible?"

"Yes, we'll try to rush you through."

"Through to where—to where?" the old man muttered to himself.

They passed a theatre as the audience was pouring out, from under the Hamlet spell of Booth, and Laz remarked: "Feller that preached in thar to-night must be as long-winded as our man Fetterson; but I'll bet Old Fetter could outswop him in a hoss trade."

"That's a theatre," Foster informed him, and after musing for a time he said:

"Place whar they swollow knives, I reckon. Seed a feller do that at a school-house one night, an' I thought he'd killed hisse'f, but he spit it out jest like a stick of molasses candy. Wall, suh, I never seed as many lanterns hung up befo'. An' I want to tell you they've got good roads through this place. What's that feller doin' over thar with that crowd about him?"

"Preaching," Foster answered.

"Wall, he couldn't call up mourners—the wagins would run over 'em. What do you think of all this, Jasper?"

"Who, me?" the old man replied as if startled out of a dream, "I wasn't thinkin' of it—didn't see it."

"I don't reckon," said Laz, "that all these folks knows we air goin' to jail."

Old Jasper shook as if with a chill. "We know it, an' that's enough," he replied.

The wagon, directed by Foster, turned into a darker street, into an alley, and drew up in front of a building black in the dusk. The old man's legs were so stiffened that they had to help him out and rheumatically he walked through the portals of stone-walled disgrace. Into a cell they turned him, and when the bolt grated, he leaped from the rock beneath his feet, leaped as he had when he struck Peters; and then into a corner he sank with a groan.

The two boys were given the liberty of a long corridor, and up and down they walked, light of foot, in reverence for the dejected man behind the bars.



CHAPTER XXII.

CAME TO WEEP.

Old Mrs. Barker, true to instinct, hastened to put on her saddest bonnet, kept in an old chest at the demand of funerals, and with all speed set out for the afflicted home. Margaret was feeding the chickens when this consoling stimulator of grief arrived, and what little sun was left, immediately went down.

Beneath the mantle-piece there was no blaze, the weather being hot, so they could not sit down "and weep the fire out," but they could hover over old ashes and weep them wet. The real griefs in old Mrs. Barker's life had been but few. It was a mercy-shaft that had shot Old Barker down; rheumatic cripple, he had beaten her with his crutch, and at his death she could not from her rebellious eye wring out a tear. No offspring had she over whose death to mourn, and now she was put to for a companion piece to sorrow. But her mind flew back to a time when there died a man whom she could have loved, and her tears came full with the memory of a blissful morning when at church he had tied her horse and walked with her to the door. She had forgotten his name, if indeed she had ever been possessed of it, but she spoke of him as "he" as fast as her tears were falling.

"Ah, Lord, Sister Starbuck, I don't want to question the ways of Providence, but it do appear that we have staid here too long. I ought to have been taken when he left."

"You mean Barker, Sister?"

"Oh, no, I mean 'he'. I can remember how his hair waved, though I wasn't but sixteen at the time; and the day when he hitched my hoss for me, all the girls looked down-trod. It was more than fifty year ago."

"Of course I am a much younger woman," replied Sister Starbuck, "and I can't look back an' see no man but J—J—Jasper."

They returned to their silent weeping, and after a time a cup of coffee was suggested. Sister Barker objected. Her mind was so full of the past that she had no heart to swallow the devices of the present, but upon persuasion she yielded; and when the coffee was drunk, pipes were lighted and comfortably back they sat and talked about the neighbors. After a while an old carryall wobbled up to the gate and out got Mrs. Spencer. By the time she reached the door-step fresh tears were falling.

"Come right in," said Margaret. "I am so glad to see you at this time."

"And what do you want with me—to set down an' help you cry? Wall, I ain't of the cryin' sort. I put my cryin' aside when I got outen the cradle." She sat down and with a palm-leaf fanned herself. "It's a plum outrage," she said. "An' what's the matter with you, Miz Barker? Ain't lost a cow, have you? Why, yo' face looks like a old rock atter a heavy dew."

Mrs. Barker—they were not sisters now—wiped away her yellowish tears. "I have the right to cry if I feel like it," she replied. "I was a thinkin' of he."

"A thinkin' of the cat's foot," the old "heroic" snapped. "You mean that journeyman hatter that you've talked about so much? He was drunk half the time an' wan't worth the attention it would take to shove him into the river. Conscience alive, you have shed enough tears over him to drown him. Now quit it an' let's talk business. They've got our folks in jail an' they air goin' to keep 'em there the Lord knows how long. An' if the law didn't have some little jestice on its side I'd take an axe an' go down there an' break down that jail door. But you know that Jasper has laid himse'f liable an' so has my boy, for knowin' of the fact—an' so have we all, for that matter. Hah, I was jest a thinkin' when Spencer had the fight at Pettigrew's mill. Them Sarver boys—ez triflin' a lot ez ever lived—had him down when I rid up on a hoss. An' the fust thing they know'd I stobbed one of 'em between the shoulder blades—an' they thought he never would git well."

"An' they killed Spencer right there," said Margaret.

"That's true enough, but they'd a killed him quicker if I hadn't got there. Ah, laws a massy, the meanness of this world. An' what did they try to do with me? Hauled me up befo' cou't, an' thar I went with little Laz in my arms, an' they tried me fur—'sault, I think them fetch-taked lawyers called it. An' I says 'salt or sugar, I'm here, an' what air you goin' to do about it?' They fotch money again' me, an' the lawyers they jawed an' they palarvered; an' finally I got a chance to speak to that weak-kneed jedge, I did, an' I says, 'Look here, I've a longer knife, an' if you tell this jury to convict me, I'll put about a foot an' a half of it under yo' rusty ribs.' An' you better believe he smiled on me. Margaret, there ain't no use to set around here an' grieve. In this here world grief never counted fur nuthin' yit. Stir about an' take care of yo' stock an' you'll feel better. Miz Barker, I seed you a comin' an' I know'd you'd make things worse, so I come to off-set you. An' now, if we air goin' to be good friends, let's talk of somethin' pleasant. Anybody dead over yo' way, Miz Barker—I mean anybody that ought to be?"

This interested Mrs. Barker, and upon the head she tapped into sloth her rising resentment. "Nobody dead," she said, with a smack of the mouth, "but Liza Pruitt ain't expected to git well."

"Oh, is that the one they had the talk about consarnin' of the preacher?"

"Yes, Brother Lane."

"Brother Fool. But atter all, not half as big a fool as she was. I do think of all the fools in the world the woman that gives the opportunity for 'em to hitch up her name with a preacher's—she's the biggest. Why, don't a woman know that everybody is a watchin' of a preacher? But he feels himself safer than any man in the world. Befo' I was married there was a preacher named Collier used to come to see me. I 'lowed he was a single man, an' when I found he wan't I handed him his hat an' I says, I does, 'Here, put this on an' see if it'll fit you.' He declared that it was a past'ral call, an' I says, 'Well, then, go out in the pasture.' Now let's put things in order for I'm goin' to stay all night."

She was imperious, but not without generosity, for she granted to Margaret the right to look sad. But she would brook no demonstration, and when Mrs. Barker sought to lead Margaret back for a hiccoughey stroll along the dew-dripping path, she turned upon her with a snap. "Miz Barker, putty soon you'll force me to wring you an' hang you out to dry."