In the Clouds

III.

THE iterative echoes of the shooting-match, sharply jarring from mountain to mountain, from crag to crag, evoked a faint reverberation even in the distant recesses of Wild-Cat Hollow. Alethea Sayles, sitting at her loom on the porch of the little log cabin, paused, the shuttle motionless in her deft hand, to listen.

All aloof from the world was WildCat Hollow, a limited depression, high up on the vast slope of the Great Smoky. It might have seemed some secret nook, some guarded fastness, so closely did the primeval wilderness encompass it, so jealously did the ridgy steeps rise about it on every hand. It was invisible from the valley below, perhaps too from the heights above. And only a glimpse was vouchsafed to it of the world from which it was sequestered: beyond a field, in a gap of the minor ridges superimposed upon the mountain, where the dead and girdled trees stood in spectral ranks among the waving corn, might be seen a strip of woods in the cove below, a glint of water, a stately file of lofty peaks vanishing along the narrow skyey vista. Sunrise and sunset, — the Hollow knew them not: a distant mountain might flare with a fantasy of color, a star of abnormal glister might palpitate with some fine supernal thrill of dawn ; but for all else, it only knew that the night came early and the day broke late, and in many ways it had meagre part in the common lot.

The little log cabin, set among its scanty fields, its weed-grown “ gyarden spot,” and its few fruit trees, was poor of its kind. The clapboards of its roof were held in place by poles laid athwart them, with large stones piled between to weight them down. The chimney was of clay and sticks, and leaned away from the wall. In a corner of the rickety rail fence a gaunt, razor-backed hog lay grunting drowsily. Upon a rude scaffold tobacco leaves were suspended to dry. Even the martin-house was humble and primitive : merely a post with a crossbar, from which hung a few large gourds with a cavity in each, whence the birds were continually fluttering. Behind it all, the woods of the steep ascent seemed to touch the sky. The place might give a new meaning to exile, a new sentiment to loneliness.

Seldom it heard from the world, — so seldom that when the faint rifle-shots sounded in the distance a voice from within demanded eagerly, “ What on yearth be that, Lethe ? ”

“ Shootin’ fur beef, down in the cove, I reckon, from thar firin’ so constant,” drawled Alethea.

“ Ye dunno,” said the unseen, unexpectedly, derisive of this conjecture. “ They mought be a-firin’ thar bullets inter each other. Nobody kin count on a man by hisself, but a man in company with a rifle air jes’ a outdacious, jubious critter.”

Alethea looked speculatively down at the limited section of the cove visible from the Hollow above. Her hazel eyes were bright, but singularly grave. The soft sheen of her yellow hair served to definitely outline the shape of her head against the brown logs of the wall. The locks lay not in ripples, but in massive undulations, densely growing above her forehead, and drawn in heavy folds into a knot at the back of her head. She had the delicate complexion and the straight, refined lineaments so incongruous with the poverty - stricken mountaineer, so commonly seen among the class. Her homespun dress was of a dull brown. About her throat, of exquisite whiteness, was knotted a kerchief of the deepest saffron tint. Her hands and arms — for her sleeves were rolled back — were shapely, but rough aud sun-embrowned. She had a deliberate, serious manner that very nearly approached dignity.

“ I hopes they ain’t,” she said, still listening. “ I hopes they ain’t a-shootin’ of one another.”

“ Waal, I’m a - thinkin’ the lead would n’t be wasted on some of ’em,” said the acrid voice. “ Piomingo Cove could make out mighty well ’thout some o’ them boys ez rip an’ rear aroun’ down thar ez a constancy. I dunno ez I’d feel called on ter mourn fur Mink Lorey enny. An’ I reckon the cove could spare him.”

Looking through the window close by the bench of the loom, Alethea could see the interior of the room, rudely furnished and with the perennial fire of the wide chimney-place slowly smouldering in a bed of ashes. A half-grown Shanghai pullet was pecking about the big flat stones of the hearth in a premature and unprescient proximity to the pot. There were two bedsteads of a lofty build, the thick feather beds draped with quilts of such astounding variety of color as might have abashed the designers of Joseph’s coat. The scrupulous cleanliness and orderliness of the place were as marked a characteristic as its poverty. A sharp-featured woman of fifty sat in a low chair by the fire, wearing a blue-checked homespun dress, a pink calico sun-bonnet, and a cob-pipe, — the last was so constantly sported that it might be reckoned an article of attire. She was not so old as she seemed, but the loss of her teeth and her habit of crouching over the fire gave her the cronish aspect common to the elderly women of the region.

Alethea hesitated. Then, with a deprecatory manner, she said in her soft contralto drawl, “ He ain’t down ’mongst the boys in Piomingo Cove none.”

Mrs. Sayles sneered. “ Ye b’lieve that ? ”

“ He be a-herdin’ cattle along o’ Ben Doaks on Piomingo Bald.”

Mrs. Sayles looked at her step-daughter and puffed a copious wreath of smoke for reply.

“ Reuben tole me that hisself, — an’ so did Ben Doaks,” persisted Alethea.

“ Mink, I calls him, an’ nothin’ shorter,” said Mrs. Sayles, obdurately, — as if anything could be shorter. “ But ef Ben Doaks gin the same word, it mus’ be a true one.”

Alethea flushed. “ I know ye air sot agin Reuben, but I ’d believe his word agin enny other critter’s in the mountings.”

“ Set a heap o’ store on him, don’t ye ? ” said Mrs. Sayles, sarcastically. “An’ when he kem a-courtin’ ye, an’ ‘peared crazy ’bout’n ye, an’ ye an’ him war promised ter marry, ye could n’t quit jowin’ at him fur one minit. Ye plumb beset him ter do like ye thought war right,—ez ef he hed no mo’ conscience o’ his own ’n that pullet thar, an’ hed n’t never hearn on salvation. An’ ye’d beg an’ beg him ter quit consortin’ with the moonshiners ; an’ a-drinkin’ o’ apple-jack an’ sech; an’ a-rollickin’ round the kentry ; an’ layin’ folkses fences down on the groun’; an’ liftin’ that gates off’n the hinges ; an’ ketchin’ thar geese, an’ pickin’ ’em, an’ scatterin’ thar feathers in the wind, an’ sendin’ ’em squawkin’ home; an’ a-playin’ kyerds ; an’ a-whoopin’, an’ ridin’, an’ racin’. An’ ye war always a-preachin’ at him, an’ tryin’ ter straighten him out, an’ make him suthin’ he war never born ter be.”

Her pipe was smoked out. She drew from her pocket a fragment of tobacco leaf, which was apparently not sufficiently cured for satisfactory smoking, for she laid it on the hot ashes on the hearth and watched it as it dried, her meditative eyes shaded by her pink calico sunbonnet.

“ Naw, sir ! ” she continued, as she crumpled the bit of leaf with her fingers and crowded it into the bowl of her pipe, “ I hev never liked Mink. I ain’t denyin’ it, nuther. I ain’t gamesome enough ter git tuk up with sech ways ez his’n. Mighty few folks air! But I could see reason in the critter when he ’lowed one day, right hyar by this very chimbly-place. — he sez, sez he, ‘ Lethe, ye don’t like nuthin’ I do or say, an’ I ’m durned ef I kin see how ye like me ! ’ ”

Alethea’s serious, lustrous eyes, looking in at the window, saw not the uncouth interior of her home, — no ! As in a vision, irradiated by some enchantment, she beheld the glamours of the idyllic past, fluctuating, waning, as she met her step-mother’s light gray eye.

Even to Alethea, herself, it sometimes seemed that she might be content more lightly. Her imbuement with those practical ideas of right and wrong, the religion of deeds rather than the futilely pious fervors of the ignorant mountaineers, in which creed and act were often widely at variance, was as mysterious an endowment as the polarity of the loadstone. She was not introspective, however ; she never even wondered that she should speak openly, without fear or favor, as she felt impelled. Had she lived in an age when every inward monition was esteemed the voice of the Lord, she might have fancied that she was called to warn the world of the errors of its ways. Her sedulous conscience, the austere gravity of her spirit, her courage, her steadfastness, her fine intelligence, even her obdurate self-will, might all have had assertive values in those long bygone days. As an historic woman, she might have founded an order, or juggled with state-craft, or perished a martyr, or rode, enthusiast, iu the ranks of battle. By centuries belated in Wild-Cat Hollow, she was known as a “ perverted, cross-grained gal ” and “ a meddlin’ body,” and the “ widder Jessup ” had much sympathy for having in a misguided moment married Alethea’s father. Sometimes the Hollow, distorted though its conscience was, experienced a sort of affright to recognize its misdeeds in her curt phrase. It could only ask in retort who set her up to judge of her elders, and regain its wonted self-complacency as best it might. Even her own ascetic rectitude lacked some quality to commend it,

“ I can’t find no reg’lar fault with Lethe,” her step-mother was wont to say, “ ’ceptin’ she’s jes’ — Lethe.”

Mrs. Sayles’s voice, pursuing the subject, recalled the girl’s attention : —

“ An’ ye tired his patience out, — the critter hed mo’ ’n I gin him credit fur, — an’ druv him off at last through wantin’ him ter be otherwise. An’ now folks ’low ez him an’ Elviry Crosby air a-goin’ ter marry. I ’ll be bound she don’t harry him none ’bout’n his ways, kase her mother tole me ez she air mighty nigh a idjit ’bout’n him, an’hev turned off Peter Rood, who she hed promised ter marry, though the weddin’ day hed been set, an’ Pete air wuth forty sech ez Mink.”

Alethea turned away abruptly to her work, and as she lightly tossed the shuttle to and fro she heard, amidst the creaking of the treadle and the thumping of the batten, her step-mother’s persistent voice droning on : —

“ An’ so ye hed yer say, an’ done yer preachin’, an’ he profited by it. I reckon he ’lowed ef ye jawed that-away afore ye war married, thar war no yearthly tellin’ what ye could say arterward. An’ now,” rising to the dramatic, “ hyar kems along Ben Doaks, powerful peart an’ good enough ter sati’fy ennybody; perlite, an’ saaft-spoken, an’ good-lookin’, an’ respected by all, an’ ready ter marry ye ter-morrer, ef ye ’ll say the word. He owns cattle - critters ” —

“ An’ sheep,” put in an unexpected voice. A dawdling young woman, with an opaque blue eye and a pretty, inane soft face, had stepped into the back door, and heard the last words of the monologue which apparently had been often enough repeated to admit of no doubt as to its tenor. She had a slatternly, illadjusted look, and a snuff-brush in the corner of her mouth.

“ An’ herds cattle in the summer season,” said Mrs. Sayles.

“ He hev a good name ’mongst the cattle - owners,” observed the young woman.

“ An’ hev bought him right smart land,” added Mrs. Sayles.

“ Down in Piomingo Cove ! not h’isted up on the side o’ the mounting, like we-uns ! ” exclaimed the young woman, with more enthusiasm than one would have believed possible from the flaccid indifference of her manner.

“ An’ he put in all the fair weather las’ winter a-raisin’ him a house,” Mrs. Sayles pursued.

“ An’ he ’lowed ter me ez every log war hefted, an’ every pat o’ clay war daubed on the chinkin’, with the thought o’ Lethe ! ” cried the other.

“ He hev been plantin’ round thar some, a’ready,” said the old woman.

“ Corn, pumpkins, wheat, an’ terbacco,” supplemented the daughter-inlaw.

“ An’ he hev got him some bee-gums, — I never hearn how many bees,” said Mrs. Sayles.

“ Down in Piomingo Cove! ” the climax of worldly prosperity.

“ Laws -amassy ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Sayles, with a freshened realization of despair. “ Lethe ain’t never goin’ ter live in it! I dunno what ails the gal ! She takes a notion ez she likes a man with sech ways ez she can’t abide, an’ she quar’ls with him mornin’ an’ evenin’. An’ then when a feller kems along, with all sort’n good ways ez she likes, she don’t like him ! Gals never acted similar whenst I war young. I ’low it mus’ be the wiles o’ Satan on the onruly generation.”

“ Lethe ’pears ter think the Lord hev app’inted the rocky way,” said the other. “ She be always a-doin’ of what’s the hardest. An’ she can’t quit nowhar this side o’ nuthin’! Ef ever she’s condemned ter Torment she ’ll kerry a leetle kindlin’ along, fur fear the fire won’t be het up hot enough ter burn her fur her sins.”

She was silent during a momentary activity of the snuff-brush.

“ But ef I war you-uns, Lethe, an’ hed the chance o’ livin’ in my own house all ter myself ” — she began anew.

“ Plenty o’ elbow-room,” interrupted Mrs. Sayles; “ not all jammed tergether, like we-uns hyar.”

Alethea, aware of her lack of logic, made an effort to effect a diversion.

“ I never hearn o’ folks a-grudgin’ a gal house-room, an’ wantin’ her ter go off an’ marry fur a place ter bide,” she said, pausing in her weaving.

Mrs. Sayles, who piqued herself, not without some reason, on her kindness to her step-daughter, having her prosaic welfare, at least, at heart, retorted in righteous wrath. “ An’ nobody ain’t never said no sech word,” she declared, with amplest negation. “ Grudgin’ ye house-room, — shucks ! ”

“ One less would n’t be no improvemint ter we-uns, Lethe,” said the amiable daughter-in-law. “ We air jes’ like a hen settin’ on forty aigs : she kin kiver ’em ez well ez thirty-nine.”

“ But I ain’t got no medjure o’ patience with this latter-day foolishness!” said Mrs. Sayles, tartly. “ Whenst I war young, gals married thar fust chance, — mought hev been afeard they’d never git another,” she added, impersonally, that others might profit by this contingency. “ An’ I don’t keer much nohow fur these hyar lonesome single wimmen. Ye never kin git folks ter b’lieve ez they ever hed enny chance.”

“ Laws-a-massy, Lethe,” the daughterin-law reassured her, still vaguely serene, “ I ain’t wantin’ ter git shet o’ ye, nohow. Ye hev tuk mo’ keer o’ my chill’n than I hev, an’ holped me powerful. It’s well ye done it, too, fur Jacob Jessup ain’t sech ez kin content me with Wild-Cat Hollow. I war raised in the cove ! ”

“ Thar’s L’onidas now, axin’ fur suthin’ ter eat,” said the uncompromising Alethea, whose voice was the slogan of duty.

The loom occupied a full third of the space on the little porch; two or three rickety chairs stood there, besides ; a yoke hung against the wall ; the spinning-wheel was shadowed by the jackbean vines, whose delicate lilac blooms embellished the little cabin, clambering to its roof; on the floor were several splint baskets. A man was languidly filling them with peaches, which he brought in a wheel - barrow from the trees farther down on the slope. He was tall and stalwart, but his beard was gray, and he had assumed the manner and all the exemptions of extreme age ; occasionally he did a little job like this with an air of laborious precision. He was accompanied both in going and coming by his step-son’s daughter, a tow-headed, six-year-old girl, and a gaunt yellow dog. The little girl’s voice, dictatorial and shrill, was on the air continuously, broken only by the low, acquiescent refrain of the old man’s replies, carefully adjusted to meet her propositions. The dog paced silently and discreetly along, his appreciation of the placid pleasure of the occasion plainly manifested in his quiet demeanor and his slightly wagging tail. His decorum suffered a lapse when, as they came close to the porch, he observed Leonidas issue from the door, — a small boy of four, a plump little caricature of a man, in blue cotton trousers, an unbleached cotton shirt, and a laughably small pair of knitted suspenders. He held in his hand a piece of fat meat several inches square, considered in the mountains peculiarly wholesome for small boys, and a reliable assistant in “ gatin’ yer growth.”

Tige paused not for reflection. He sprang upon the porch, capering gleefully about, and uttering shrill yelps of discovery with much his triumphant manner in treeing a coon. Leonidas shared the common human weakness of overestimating one’s own size. He thought to hold the booty out of Tige’s reach, and extended his arm at full length, whereupon the dog, with an elastic bound and extreme nicety of aim, caught it and swallowed it at a single gulp. Leonidas winked very fast; then, realizing his bereavement, burst into noisy tears. Tige’s facetiousness had a discordantly sudden contrast in the serious howl he emitted as he was kicked off the porch by the child’s father. This was an unkempt young fellow just emerging from the shed-room. He had a red face and swollen eyes, and there were various drowsy intimations in his manner that he was just roused from sleep. No natural slumber, one might have judged ; the odor of whiskey still hung about him, and he walked with an unsteady gait to the end of the porch and sat down on the edge of the floor, his feet dangling over the ground. Tige, who had sought refuge beneath the house, and was giving vent to sundry sobbing wheezes, thrust his head out to lick his master’s boots. Upon this mollifying demonstration, the man looked down with the lenient expression of one who loves dogs. “ What ails ye, then,” he reasoned, “ ter be sech a fool as ter ’low ye kin be let ter rob a child the size o’ L’onidas thar ? ”

And forthwith the mercurial Tige came out, cheerful as before.

In the limited interval when Leonidas — who had been supplied with another piece of meat, but still howled with callow persistence because of the affronts offered by Tige — was fain to pause for breath, and between the alternate creaking of the treadle of the loom and the thumping of the batten, the man’s ear caught, too, that unwonted stir in the air, the sound of consecutive rifle-shots.

“ Look-a-hyar,” he cried, springing to his feet, “ what ’s that a-goin’ on down in the cove ? Lethe, stop trompin’ on that thar n’isy treadle, so ez I kin listen! Quit yellin’, ye catamount!” with a vengeful glance at the small boy.

But the grief of Leonidas was imperative, and he abated nothing.

Jacob Jessup stood for an instant baffled. Then suddenly he put both hands to his mouth, and roused all the echoes of Wild-Cat Hollow with a ringing halloo.

“ Who be ye a-hollerin’ at?” asked his mother from her nook in the chimney corner.

“ I ’lowed I viewed a man up yander ’mongst them woods, — mought be one o’ the herders.”

Alethea’s foot paused on the treadle. Her uplifted hand stayed the batten, the other held the shuttle motionless. She turned her head, and with a sudden rich flush on her cheek and a deep light in her lifted eyes looked up toward the forests that rose in vast array upon the steep slopes of the ridge until they touched the sky. Accustomed to the dusky shadows of their long avenues, she discerned a mounted figure in their midst. There was a tense moment of suspense. The man had wheeled his horse on hearing the halloo. He seemed to hesitate; then in lieu of response he took his way down the hill toward the cabin. The trees were fewer on the edge of the clearing. Before he drew rein by the rail fence she had turned back to the loom, and once more the shuttle winged its short, clumsy flights, like a fledgeling bird, from one side to the other, and the treadle creaked, and the batten thumped, and she spared not an instant from her work.

For it was only Ben Doaks dismounting, glad of a pretext, throwing the reins over a projecting rail of the fence, and tramping up to the house.

“ Howdy,” he observed comprehensively. And the family, meditatively eying him, responded, “ Howdy.”

“ Keep yer health, Ben ? ” the old woman demanded. She had come to the door, taking a gourd of water from a pail which was on a shelf without. She drank leisurely, and tossed the surplus water from the gourd across the porch, where it spattered the half-grown pullet, which shunted off suddenly with a loud, shocked exclamation, as if it sported half a score of ruffled petticoats.

“ Yes m’,” drawled Ben, seating himself on the floor of the porch, near Jacob, “ I keeps toler’ble well.”

“ I dunno how ye do it, — livin’ off’n what ye cooks yerse’f.” She manifested a truly mundane interest in the eligible young man. She did not return to her chair by the fireside, but sat down on the doorstep. “ I’d look ter be p’isoned ef I bed ter live on yer cookin’.”

“ Waal, I reckon ye could n’t put up with it right handy, seein’ the sorter table ye set out hyar.”

Was the old woman more than human, to be untouched by this sincere tribute ?

“ Ye oughter kem down hyar oftener ye do, Ben, an’ bide ter meals,” she said, her spectacles turned upon him with a certain grave luminosity. “ We ‘ll make ye powerful welcome ter sech vittles ez we hev got. Ye ain’t been hyar fur a right smart time.”

“ I know that, but somehows I never kin feel right welcome comin’ so often,” said Ben. He had leaned back against the post of the porch. He could look, without moving, into Alethea’s grave, absorbed face as she worked.

“ Count o’ Lethe ? Shucks ! thar ain’t but one fool hyar. Mought kem ter see the rest o’ we-uns.”

Alethea’s face flushed to the roots of her hair. Ben Doaks, dismayed to be the indirect occasion of her anger, and secretly affronted by the breach of decorum which he considered involved in this open mention of his bootless suit, hastened to change the subject. “ Did ye hev a word ter say ter me, Jacob ? ” he asked. “ Ye ’lowed, day ’fore yistiddy, ye wanted ter sell yer steer.”

There was now no sound from the cove. The burnished glisters of the sunshine hung above it almost materially visible, holding in suspension a gauzy haze, through which the purple mountains were glamourous and darkly vague. Jacob, his senses yet in thrall, could hardly recall the question he had desired to ask concerning the rifle-shots that had trivially jarred its perfect serenity.

“ Yes, yes,” he said, hastily. “ Buck, ye know,” with the manner of introduction. “ Yander he be.” He pointed to a gaunt dun-colored ox, with long horns and a joyless mien, standing within a few feet of a rude trough which the spring branch kept supplied.

“ Jacob,” said Alethea, turning her head with a knitted brow, “ ef ye sell Buck, how air we goin’ ter plough our craps ? How air we goin’ ter live along ? ”

“ Laws-a-massy ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Sayles. “ I ain’t s’prised none ef the man ez marries Lethe at last will find out he hev got more ’n he bargains fur. She jes’ ups an’ puts inter her elders’ affairs ez brash ez ef hern war the only brains in the fambly. Jacob’s a-savin’ ter buy a horse, child. Yer dad lowed Jacob mought use his jedgmint ’bout all the crappin’, bein’ ez yer dad’s old an’ ain’t long fur this worl’. So Jacob hev determinated ter buy a horse. Who wants ter work a steer when they kin hev a horse ? ”

Doaks looked intently at Alethea, loyally eager to range himself on her side. She was oblivious of his presence now ; every faculty was on the alert in her single-handed contest against the family.

“ Whar’s the money he hev saved ? ” she demanded.

Her step-brother seemed frowzier than ever, as he lifted his eyebrows in vain cogitation for an answer.

“ Ye shet up,” he said, in triumphant substitution; “ ye ain’t no kin ter me.”

Alethea, all lacking in the bland and mollifying feminine influences that subtly work their ends in seeming submission, bluntly spoke her inmost thought:

“ Ez long ez thar’s a moonshine still a-runnin’ somewhar round Piomingo Cove Jacob ain’t goin’ ter save no money.”

“ Thar ain’t no still round hyar ez I knows on,” said Doaks, in surprise. “ Over yander in Eskaqua Cove thar air a bonded still, I know.”

“ That bonded still hev ter sell wholesale, hevin’ no license otherwise,” she retorted, “ an’ Jacob hain’t saved enough yit ter buy by the five gallon. An’ though he may ’pear sober ter you-uns, he don’t ter me.”

Jacob bore her scathing glance with an admirable equanimity.

“ Ye shet up, Lethe ; ye dunno nuthin’ ’bout stills, bonded or no. Look-ahyar, Ben, don’t ye want ter buy Buck? See him thar ? ”

“ I don’t want him,” said Ben.

Jacob turned fiercely on Alethea. “ Why n’t ye hold yer jaw, ef ye know how; ye have done spiled my trade. Look-a-hyar, Ben,” he said alluringly, “ it’s this hyar steer,”—there was but one, — “ this hyar steer; he ’s wuth money. I tell ye,” he vociferated, with a drunken wag of his head, “ Buck’s a good steer. I dunno ef I kin git my cornsent ter trade Buck off, no-ways. Buck ’s plumb like a member o’ the fambly. I tell ye we-uns fairly dote on Buck.”

“ Waal, I don’t want him. Older’n enny of ye, ain’t he?” drawled Ben. He was not a dull fellow, and he had taken his cue. He would decry the ox and forego his bargain, a consciously hopeless sacrifice to his affection.

Jacob straightened himself with an effort, and stared at his interlocutor.

“ Who ? Buck ? Why, Buck ain’t much older than L’onidas thar.” He waved his hand toward the boy, who had perched on the bench of the loom beside Alethea. Now and then she patted his shoulder, which effort at consolation he received with a distinct crescendo ; he had begun to relish the sound of his vocal performance, evidently attempting new and bizarre effects.

“ L’onidas air about four year old, ain’t he, Mrs. Jessup ? ” Doaks asked of the young matron, who seemed placidly regardless how the negotiation should terminate.

“ I b’lieve he’s ’bout four,” she said, without animation.

“ Waal, he be toler’ble bouncin’ fur that,” said Doaks, looking with the eye of speculation at the boy, as if he were about to offer a bid for Leonidas, but I kin see a heap o’ diff’unce ’twixt his size an’ Buck’s.”

The drunken man turned and stared at the diminutive person on the bench. “ Waal,” he said in a low-spirited way, as if he must yield the point, “ I never knowed ye wanted a steer o’ that size. Would n’t be much use ter ye. Our’n ain’t.”

“ He ’pears sorter jubious in his temper. Does he hook ? ”

“ Who ? Buck ? ” — with an air of infinite amazement. " Why, Buck’s ez saaft ez L’onidas thar.”

As Leonidas was just now extremely loud, the comparison was hardly felicitous.

“ I don’t want no work-ox, nohow,” said Doaks. “ I want cattle ter fatten.”

“ Jes’ try Buck. He ’ll lay on fat fur ev’y ear o’ corn fedded him. Ye dunno Buck. He hain’t laid on much yit, kase, ye see,” — Jessup’s voice took on a confidential intonation, although it was not lowered because of the roaring Leonidas, — “ we-uns ain’t hed much corn ter feed ter Buck, bein’ back’ard las’ year. The drought cotched our late corn, an’ so Buck, though he worked it, he never got none sca’cely. An’ that’s why he ain’t no fatter ’n he be.”

Logical of Buck, but it availed him as little as the logic of misfortunes profits the rest of the world.

Alethea had risen and turned half round, leaning against the great clumsy frame of the loom. Her posture displayed her fine height; her supple figure was slight, as became her age, but with a suggestion of latent strength in every curve. There was something strangely inconsistent in the searching, serious expression of her grave brown eyes and the lavish endowment of her beauty, which seemed as a thing apart from her. Perhaps only Ben Doaks noted, or rather felt in a vague, unconscious way, the fascination of its detail; the glister of her dense yellow hair against the brown wall, where a string of red peppers hung, heightening the effect; the glimpse of her white throat under the saffron kerchief; the lithe grace of her figure, about which her sober-hued dress fell in straight folds. To the homefolks she gave other subjects to contemplate.

“ Naw,” she drawled, in her soft, low voice, whose intonation only suggested sarcasm, “ we did n’t plant much o’ nothin’ this year, — hed no seed sca’cely, an’ nuthin’ ter trade fur ’em. The plenties’ o’ ennythin’ roun’ hyarabouts war bresh whiskey, an’ as Buck don’t drink it he ain’t no fatter ’n he be.”

“ Waal,” said Doaks, feeling all the discomforts incident to witnessing a family row, incompetent to participate by reason of non-membership, “ I ’lowed the mountings hed in an’ about done with moonshinin’, considerin’ the way the raiders kep’ up with ’em. It’s agin’ the law, ye know.”

“ I ain’t a-keerin’ fur the law,” said Alethea loftily. “ The law air jes’the men’s foolishness, an’ they air a-changin’ of it forever till ’t ain’t got no constancy. Ef I war minded ter break it I’d feel no hendrance in the sperit.”

Her eyes met his. He looked vaguely away. Certainly there was no reasoning on this basis.

“ T ain’t right,” she said suddenly. “ Jacob sleeps an’ drinks his time away, an’ don’t do his sheer o’ the work. I done all the plowin’ this year, — me an’ Buck,—an’ I ain’t one o’ the kind ez puts up with sech. I ain’t a Injun woman, like them at Quallatown. Pete Rood, — he hev been over thar, — he ’lows the women do all the crappin’ while the men go huntin’. I ’ll kerry my e-end o’ the log, but when the t’other e-end draps ’pears ter me I oughter drap mine.”

“ What ye goin’ ter do, Lethe ? ” said the old woman. “ Goin’ ter take ter idlin’ an’ drinkin’ bresh whiskey, too?”

She laughed, but she sneered as well.

Alethea, all unmoved by her ridicule, drawled calmly on : “ I don’t know nuthin’ ’bout bresh whiskey, an’ I ain’t idled none, ez the rest o’ you-uns know ; but ef Jacob don’t do his stent, nex’ year thar ’ll be less corn hyar than this.”

It was hard for Doaks to refrain from telling her that there was a home ready for her, and one to share it who would work for both. Only futility restrained him. He flushed to the roots of his light brown hair, and as a resource he drew out a clasp knife and absently whittled a chip as he listened.

“ Waal, wimmen hev ter holp men along with thar work wunst in a while,” said Mrs. Sayles patronizingly. “ Ye ’ll find that out, child, whenst ye git married.”

“ Ef I war married,” said Alethea, severely contemplating the contingency, — and Doaks felt a vague thrill of jealousy, — “ I’d do his work ef he war ailin’ enny wise, but not ter leave him in the enjyement o’ bresh whiskey.”

“ Ye shet up, Lethe,” said Jacob, at last nettled. “ Ye ain’t no kin ter me, — jes’ a step-sister, — an’ ye ain’t got no right ter jow at me. Ye dunno nuthin’ ’bout bresh whiskey. Ye dunno whar it’s made nor who makes it.”

“ Ef I did ” — she began abruptly.

He looked up at her with a sober dismay on his face.

“ Don’t go ter ’lowin’ ye’d gin the word ter the revenuers ? ” he said.

Mrs. Sayles dropped her knitting in her lap.

“ Look-a-hyar, Lethe,” she exclaimed, “ it’s ez much ez yer life’s wuth ter say them words ! ”

“ I ain’t said ’em,” declared Alethea. Yet she was plainly ill at ease afterward. She looked vaguely away with absent eyes, disregarding Jacob’s growling defense of himself, which consisted in good measure of animadversion on people who faulted their elders and gals who could n’t hold their tongues. Suddenly she stepped from the porch.

“ Whar be ye goin’, Lethe ? ” demanded Mrs. Sayles, ruthlessly interrupting Jacob’s monologue.

“ Ter hunt up that thar lam’,” replied Alethea calmly, as if nothing else had been under discussion. “I ain’t seen nuthin’ of it ter-day, an’ some o’ the chill’n—I b’lieve’t war Joe — ’lowed its dam war up yander nigh Boke’s spring yestiddy, actin’ sorter cur’us, an’ I reckon suthin’ ’s happened ter it.”

Doaks looked after her as she went, tempted to follow. She took her way down the path along the zigzag rails of the fence. All the corners were rank with wild flowers, among which her golden head showed from time to time as in a wreath. She was soon without the limits of Wild-Cat Hollow. More than once she paused as she went, holding her hands above her eyes, and looking at the vast array of mountains on every side. A foreign land to her, removed even from vague speculation; she only saw how those august summits lifted themselves into the sky, how the clouds, weary-winged, were fain to rest upon them. There was a vague blurring at the horizon-line, for a shower was succeeded by mist. The woods intervened presently ; the long stretches of the majestic avenues lay before her, all singularly open, cleared of leaves and undergrowth by the fiery besom of the annual conflagration. It was very silent : once only she heard the shrill trilling of a tree-frog ; and once the insistent clamor of a locust broke out close at hand, vibrating louder and louder and dying away, to be caught up antiphonally in the distance. Often she noted the lightning-scathed trees, the fated of the forest, writhen and blanched and spectral among their flourishing kindred. There were presently visible at the end of the long leafy vista other dead trees : their blight was more prosaic ; they stood girdled and white in an abandoned field that lay below the slope on which she had paused. A broken rotting rail fence still encircled it. Blackberry bushes, broom-sedge, a tangle of weeds, were a travesty of its crops. A fox, a swift-scudding tawny streak, sped across it as she looked. Hard by there was a deserted hut: the doors were open, showing the dark voids within ; the batten shutters flapped with every changing whim of the winds. Fine sport they had had, these riotous mountain sprites, screaming down the chimney to affright the loneliness; then falling to sobs and sighs to mock the voices of those who had known sorrow here and perhaps shed tears ; sometimes wrapping themselves in snow as in a garment, and reeling in fantastic whirls through the forlorn and empty place ; sometimes twitting the gaunt timbers with their infirmities, and one wild night wrenching off half a dozen clapboards from the roof and scattering them about the door. Thus the moon might look in, seeing no more those whose eyes had once met its beam, and even the sunlight had melancholy intimations when it shone on the forsaken hearth-stone. A screech-owl had found refuge among the rafters, and Alethea heard its quavering scream ending in a low, sinister chuckle. There was a barn near at hand, — a structure of undaubed, unhewn logs, with a wide open pass-way below the loft to shelter wagons and farm implements ; it seemed in better repair than the house. The amber sky above the dark woods had deepened to orange, to crimson ; the waning light suffused the waters of the spring branch which flowed close by the barn, the willows leaning to it, the ferns laving in it. The place was incredibly solitary and mournful with the persistent spectacle of the deserted home, suggestive of collapsed energies, of the defeated scheme of some simple humanity.

A faint bleat rose suddenly. Alethea turned quickly. Amongst a patch of briers she caught a glimpse of something white; another glance, — it was the ewe, quietly nibbling the grass.

Alethea had no intention of moving softly, but her skirts brushing through the weeds made hardly a sound. Her light, sure step scarcely stirred a leaf. The ewe saw her presently, and paused in feeding. She had been making the best of her woes, remaining near her lamb, which had fallen into a sink-hole, sustained by the débris of loose earth and banks of leaves held in the mouth of the cavity. Its leg was broken, and thus, though the sheep could venture to it, the lamb could not follow to the vantage-ground above. Seeing that succor was at hand, the sheep lost all patience and calmness, and ran about Alethea in a distracting fashion, bleating, till the lamb, roused to a renewed sense of its calamities, bleated piteously too. As it lay down in the cavity upon the dead leaves, it had a strangely important look upon its face, appreciating how much stir it was making in the world for one of its size. Alethea noticed this, albeit she too was self-absorbed at the moment. These treacherous hopper-shaped cavities are of indefinite depth. To reach the lamb she must needs venture half across the sink-hole. She stepped cautiously down upon the débris, holding fast the while to the branches of an elder-bush growing on its verge. She felt the earth sinking beneath her feet. The sheep, which had jumped in too, sprang hastily out. Alethea had a dizzying realization of insecurity. She caught the lamb up in one arm, then stepped upon the sinking mass and struggled up the side of the aperture, as with a great gulp the leaves and earth were swallowed into the cavity. She looked down with that sickening sense of a sheer escape, still holding the lamb in one arm ; the other hand readjusted the heavy masses of her golden hair, and the saffron kerchief about the neck of her sober-hued dress. The sheep, one anxiety removed, was the prey of another, and pressed close to Alethea, with outstretched head and all the fears of kidnapping in her pleading eyes.

Alethea waited for a moment to rest. Then as she glanced over her shoulder her heart seemed to stand still, her brain reeled, and but for her acute consciousness she would have thought she must be dreaming.

The clearing lay there all as it was a moment before : the deserted buildings, the weed-grown fields, the rotting rail fence ; the woods dark about it, the sky red above it. Around and around the old barn, in a silent circuit, three men were solemnly tramping in single file. She stood staring at them with dilated eyes, all the mystic traditions of supernatural manifestations uppermost in her mind. Once more the owl’s scream rent the brooding silence. How far that low, derisive chuckle echoed ! A star, melancholy, solitary, was in the pensive sky. The men’s faces were grave, — once, twice, thrice, they made the round. Then they stood together in the open space beneath the loft, and consulted in whispers.

One suddenly spoke aloud.

“ Oh, Tobe ! ” he called.

“ Tobe ! ” called the echoes.

There was no answer. All three looked up wistfully. Then they again consulted together in a low tone.

“ Oh, Tobias ! ” cried the spokesman in a voice of entreaty.

“ Tobias! ” pleaded the plaintive echoes.

Still there was no answer. The owl screamed suddenly in its weird, shrill tones. It had flown out from among the rafters and perched on the smokeless chimney of the hut. Then its uncanny laughter filled the interval.

Once more the men consulted anxiously together. One of them, a tall, ungainly, red-haired fellow, seemed to have evolved a solution of the problem which had baffled them.

“ Mister Winkeye ! ” he exclaimed, with vociferous confidence.

The echoes were forestalled. A sneeze rang out abruptly from the loft of the deserted old barn, — a sneeze resonant, artificial, grotesque enough to set the blades below to roaring with delighted laughter.

“ He mus’ hev his joke. Mister Winkeye air a mighty jokified old man,” declared the red-haired fellow.

They made no effort to hold any further communication with the sneezer in the loft above. They hastily placed a burly jug in the centre of the space, and laid a silver half-dollar upon the cob that served as stopper. The coin looked extremely small in its juxtaposition. There may be people elsewhere who would be glad of a silver coin of that size capable of filling so disproportionately large a jug. Then they ran off fleetly out of the clearing and into the woods, and Alethea could hear the brush crackling as they dashed through it on the slopes far below.

She was still pale and tremulous, but no longer doubts beset her. She understood the wiles of the illicit distiller, pursued so closely by the artifices of the raiders that he was prone to distrust the very consumers of his brush whiskey. They never saw his face, they knew not even his name. They had no faint suspicion where his still was hid. They were not even dangerous as unwilling witnesses, should they be caught with the illicit liquor in their hands. The story that they left a jug and a half-dollar in a deserted barn, and found the jug filled and the coin vanished, would inculpate no one. From the loft the distiller or his emissary could see and recognize them as they came. Alethea, having crept down the slope amongst the briers in search of the lamb, had been concealed from him. She was seized instantly by the desire to get away before he should appear. She coveted the knowledge of no such dangerous secret. She walked boldly out from the leafy covert, that he might see her in the clearing and delay till she was gone.

The lamb was bleating faintly in her arms ; the sheep pressed close to her side, nudging her elbow with an insistent nozzle. The last flush of the day was on her shining hair and her grave, earnest face. The path led her near the barn. She hesitated, stopped, and drew back hastily. A man was swinging himself alertly down from the loft. He caught up the coin, slipped it into his pocket, and lifted the jug with the other hand. The next moment he dropped it suddenly, with a startled exclamation. His eyes had met her eyes. There was a moment of suspense charged with mutual recognition. Then she ran hastily by, never pausing till she was far away in the deep obscurity of the woods.

IV.

The night came on. The dark summits of the great mountains were heavily defined against the ethereal pallors of the sky. Here and there along those steep slanting lines that mark the ravines a mist hung, vaguely perceived. A point of red light might gleam in the dusky depths of Piomingo Cove where the flare of a hearth-stone flickered out. All the drowsy nocturnal voices joined in an iterative monody, broken only when the marauding wolf of the Great Smoky howled upon the bald. The herders ruefully thought of the roaming yearlings, and presaged calamity. All the world was sunk in gloom, till gradually a rayonnant heralding halo, of a pallid and lustrous green, appeared above the deeply purple summits ; in its midst the yellow moon slowly revealed itself, and with a visible tremulousness rose solemnly into the ascendency of the night.

It was high in the sky when Mink Lorey rode along the wild forest ways. More than once he looked up earnestly at it, not under the spell of lunar splendors, but with a prosaic calculation of the hour. Suddenly he drew up the mare. He lifted his head, listening. Voices sounded in the depths of the woods, — faint, far, hilarious voices; then absolute silence. He struck the mare with his heels. The animal pushed on unwillingly, breaking through the brush, stumbling over the stones, scrambling up and down steep slopes. All at once, with a burst of laughter, there was disclosed an opening in the woods. A glory of pale moonlight suffused the mountains in the distance and the shimmering mists in the valley. In the flecking shadow of the great trees, with hairy moonlit faces and shining eyes, were half a dozen figures seated on logs or stones, or lying upon the ground.

Not fauns nor satyrs; not Bacchus come again with all his giddy rout. Only the malcontents because of the bonded still.

“ Hy ’re. Mink ! ” exclaimed Jerry Price. “ We fund the jug hyar ’cordin’ ter promise, hid in a hollow tree.”

“ I hope,” said Mink with sudden apprehension. as he dismounted, “ thar be some lef’ fur me.”

“ A leetle, I reckon. Hyar, Mink, wet yer whistle.”

Mink sat down on the roots of a tree draped from its summit to its lowest bough with the rank luxuriance of a wild grapevine. The pendent ends swayed in the wind. The dew was upon the bunches of green fruit and the delicate tendrils, and the moonlight slanted on them with a glistening sheen.

Mink took the jug, which gurgled alluringly. He removed the cob that served as stopper, and smelled it with the circumspect air of those who drink from jugs. Then he turned it up to his mouth. A long bubbling sound, and he set it down with a sigh of satisfaction.

“ Ye don’t ’pear ez riled ez ye did when ye rid out’n Piomingo Cove,” suggested Pete Rood.

He had a swaggering, triumphant manner, although he was lying on the ground.

Mink, leaning back against the bole of the tree, the moonlight full on his wild dark eyes, his clear-cut face, and tousled hair, gave no sign of anger or even of attention.

“ Whar ye been all this time ? ” asked Jerry Price.

“ Waal,” said Mink leisurely, " ye know that thar coon ez Tad gin me, — I won it at ‘ five corn : ’ arter I hed rid out’n Piomingo Cove an’ hed started up the mounting, I hearn suthin’ yappin’ arter me, an’ thar war Tad a-fetchin’ his coon. That thar idjit hed run mighty nigh three miles ter fetch me his coon ! Waal, I hed n’t no ’casion fur a cap, an’ the coon war a powerful peart leetle consarn, — smiled mighty nigh ekal ter a possum, — an’ I ’lowed Elviry Crosby mought set store by sech fur a pet, an’ so I rid over thar an’ gin the coon ter her. She war mos’ pleased ter death ter git the critter.”

“ Ye ain’t been thar ever sence ! ” exclaimed Jerry.

“ Yes,” said Mink demurely. “ I bided ter supper along of ’em, — the old folks bein’ powerful perlite an’ gin me an invite.”

Jerry poked him in the ribs. “ Ye air a comical cuss ! Ye hev got all the gals in the mountings crazy ’bout’n ye.”

Mink laughed lightly, and stayed the fleet jug, which was agile considering its bulk, and once more drank deeply. If he had needed zest for his draught, he might have found it in the expression of Pete Rood’s face. He had already revenged himself, but be must needs push the matter further. He laughed with reminiscent relish, as he leaned against the tree.

“ Elviry axed mighty p’inted ef I war a-goin’ right straight up ter the herder’s cabin ter-night, an’ I tole her ez I hed a job on hand with a man named Tobias Winkeye ez I hed ter look arter fust. But she suspicioned suthin’, count o’ the name, I reckon, though she never dreampt’t war jes’ whiskey. She ’lowed she hed never hearn o’ nobody named sech. An’ I tole her she hed: her dad used ter like old Winkeye mightily, though she did n’t know him ez well ez some. She ’lowed I war a-goin’ off a-courtin’ some other gal. It war toler’ble hard ter pacify her,” with a covert glance at Rood. “ I hed ter talk sixteen ter the dozen.”

“ Waal, we hed better look out how our tongues wag so slack with that thar name,” said Price. “ I lef’ old man Griff settin’ outside the mill door a-waitin’ fur old Winkeye ter ride by, bein’ ez I hed gin the word he lives in Eskaqua Cove, kase he wanted ter warn him not ter let no job o’ work go ter Mink Lorey. He ’lowed he war goin’ ter gin Mink a bad name.”

Mink’s blood, fired by the liquor, burned at fever heat. His roving eyes were distended and unnaturally bright as the moonlight flashed into them. His swarthy cheek was deeply flushed. Despite the rare chill air of the heights, he was heated ; often he took off his hat to let the wind play in his long tangled hair that hung down to his shoulders, and lay in heavy moist rings on his forehead. Every fibre was strained to the keenest tension of excitement. He was equally susceptible to any current of emotion, to anger or mirth. He broke out indignantly : —

“ Old man Griff hed better quit tryin’ ter spite me. I ‘ll fix him fur it. I’m goin’ by thar this very night an’ lift the mill gate an’ set the wheel a-runnin’. It ‘ll be good ez a coon-fight ter see him kem out’n his house an’ cuss! ”

He burst into sudden laughter.

“ Oh, ah ! Oh, ah ! ” he sang, —

His mellow, rich baritone voice, hilarious and loud, echoed far and wide, and incongruously filled the solemn solitudes.

“ Who air a-goin’ ter hear ? ” he demanded, when caution was suggested. “ The herders on the mounting ? Too fur off! Too high up! Asleep, besides.”

“ They ’d think ’t war a wolf,” said Peter Rood, still lying at length on the ground.

Mink had his sensibilities. On these harmonious numbers he piqued himself. He felt affronted.

“A leetle mo’, an’ I ‘ll break this jug over yer head. Nobody ain’t a-goin’ ter think ez my singin’ air a wolf.”

“ Ye hand it hyar,” said Pete; “ nobody gits a fair show at that jug but you-uns.” As he rose to his knees one foot caught in a grapevine, in his haste.

“ Wait till it be empty,” said Mink, making a feint of lifting it to his mouth. Then turning suddenly, he faced Pete Rood as he staggered to his feet, and dealt a blow which sent that worthy once more prone upon the grouud.

There was a jumble of excited protest from the others. One was vociferously trying to quiet his companions. Mink had risen, and was squaring off witli clenched fists.

“ Kem on,” he observed ; “ thar ’s ground enough hyar fur ez many ez kin kiver it.”

“ Look-a-hyar,” exclaimed Jerry Price, whose grief that the placidities of the festivity should be frustrated very nearly resembled a regard for law and order, “ ye two boys hev jes’ got ter quit fightin’ an’ sech, an’ spilin’ the enjyement o’ the rest o’ we-uns. Quit foolin’, Mink. Ye ain’t hurt no-ways, air ye, Pete ? ”

“ Laws-a-massy, naw,” said Pete unexpectedly. “ Mink never knocked me down nohow. I jes’ cotched my foot in a grapevine. That’s all.”

But he lifted himself heavily, and he limped as he walked to a rock at a little distance and sat down.

Mink with his sudden change of temper had let the encounter pass as a bit of fun. He referred to the jug frequently afterward, and again burst into song: —

The others joined tumultuously in the chorus. One sprang up, dancing a clumsy measure and striking his feet together with an uncouth deftness worthy of all praise in the estimation of his comrades. They broke into ecstatic guffaws, in the midst of which Mink’s “ Oh, ah ! Oh, ah ! ” heralding the next verse, seemed a voice a long way off.

The shadows had shifted, slanted. The moon was westering fast. Every gauzy effect of vapor had its fascination in the embellishing beam, and shone vaguely iridescent. All were drifting down to where the Scolacutta River breaks through Chilhowee. Above them rose that enchanted mountain’s summit, with its long irregular horizontal line, purple and romantic, suggestive of its crags, its caves, its forests, and its wild unwritten poetry. A star was close upon it. Peace brooded on its heights. Down the ravine one could see a collection of great white trees standing in some field, all so tiny in the distance that it was as if the fingers of a ghostly hand had pointed upward at the group of uncouth revelers on the ridge.

The prophecy of dawn was momently reiterated with fuller phrase, with plainer significance. Even Mink, reluctant to recognize it, yielded at last to Jerry Price’s insistence. And indeed the jug was empty.

“ Put the jug in the hollow tree, then, like we promised, an’ let’s go,” said Mink. “ Mos’ day, ennyhow. ‘ Oh, ah ! Oh, ah ! The daylight’s apt ter break, said the witch.’ ”

The jug was thrust in the hollow of the tree, and the drunken fellows, in the securities of their fancied quiet, went whooping through the woods. The owl’s hoot ceased as their meaningless clamor rose from under the boughs. Now and then that crisp, matutinal sound, the vibrant chirp of half-awakened nestlings, jarred the air.

The group presently began to separate, some going down to Eskaqua Cove, where they would find their several homes if they could, but would at all hazards lay down their neighbors’ fences. Rood lingered for a time with Mink and one or two others who cherished the design of seeing old man Griff’s mill started before day. He turned off, however, when they had reached the open spaces of Piomingo Cove. It lay quiet, pastoral, encircled by the solemn mountains, with the long slant of the moonbeams upon it and the glister of the dew. The fields had all a pearly effect, marked off by the zigzag lines of the rail fences and the dark bushes that stood in corners. The houses, indicated by clumps of trees among which they nestled, were dark and silent. Not even a dog barked. When a cock crew the sudden note seemed clear and resonant as a bugle. “ Crowin’ fur fower o’clock,” said Mink.

The road ran among woods much of the distance ; through the trees could be caught occasional glimpses of the illuminated world without. But presently they gave way. A wide, deep notch in the summit of Chilhowee revealed the western sky, and within the limits of this gap the moon was going down. A translucent amber sphere it swung between the purple steeps, all suffused with its glamourous irradiation. Below, the shining breadth of the Scolacutta River swept down from the vague darkness that lay beneath. It was still night, yet one could see how the pawpaw and the laurel crowded the banks. The oblique line of the roof of the mill was drawn against the purple sky; its windows were black; its supports were reflected in the stream with a distinct reduplication ; the water trickled down from crevices in the race with a lace-like effect, seeming never to fall, but to hang as if it were some gauzy fragment of a fabric. Beneath the great wheel, motionless, circular, shadowy, was a shoaling yellow light, pellucid and splendid,— the moon among the shallows. The natural dam, a glassy cataract, bursting into foam and spray, was whitely visible in the dim light, with surging rapids below. The sound seemed louder than usual; it deadened the snap when Mink cut a pole from a pawpaw tree and hastily trimmed the leaves. He climbed gingerly upon the timbers of the race, then paused, looked back, and hesitated.

The others had reined in their horses, and stood, ill-defined equestrian shadows, on the bank watching him.

He placed the pole beneath the lever by which the gate was raised, its other end being within the building. There was no sound but the monotone of the river. Then with a great creak the gate was lifted. The imprisoned water came through with a tumultuous rush. Mink felt the stir beneath as the wheel began to revolve. There was a sudden jar, a jerk, the structure swayed beneath him, a crash among the timbers, a harsh, wrenching sound as they tore apart. He saw the faint stars reel as in some distraught vision. He heard the wild exclamations of the men on the bank. He could not distinguish what they said, but with an instinct more than any appreciation of cause and effect he tried to draw away the pole to let the gate down.

Too late. Through the sunken wreck of the race still poured the water over the madly plunging wheel. Mink sprang upon the bank, fell upon his hands and knees, and as he struggled to his feet he saw beneath the race the grotesque distortions of the simple machinery. Some villain’s hand had adroitly contrived a series of clogs, each of insufficient weight to stop the wheel with the water still pouring over it, but as it crushed them — first a barrel, then a pole, then a fencerail — giving it a succession of shocks that were fast breaking it in pieces. Thus what was designed for jest should result in destruction. The mill itself was a rotten old structure at best. Jarring with every convulsive wrench and jerk of the bewitched wheel, its supports tottered feebly in the water, and when all at once the race came down, and the wheel and the heavy beams were driven against it, for an instant it quivered, then careened, crashed. There was a great cloud of dust rising from the tumbled wreck on the bank. In the water, floating away on the swollen floods, were heavy timbers, and barrels, and boards, and parts of the clapboard roof.

And then, from their midst, as if the old building had an appreciated agony in its dissolution, a great cry of pain went up. Mink turned, as he put his foot in the stirrup, to stare over his shoulder with a white face. Surely he was drunk, very drunk. Had the others heard ? A twinkling light sprang up in the midst of the orchard boughs. The house had taken the alarm. His companions were getting away in haste. Sober enough for flight and flapping their elbows, they crowed in mockery. Mink leaped into his saddle to ride as ride he must, still looking with a lingering fear over his shoulder, remembering that quavering cry.

Was he drunk, or did he hear ? Could any creature have been in the mill, undisturbed, — for they were so craftily quiet, — asleep till awakened by those death throes of the little building? Could it have been a dog, a pet fawn bleating with almost a human intonation in that common anguish of all life, the fear of death, — a pet cub ? What! his heart ached for it, — he, the hardy hunter? Oh, was his conscience endowed with some subtle discernment more acute than his senses ? It seemed a surly fate that crept up on the unwitting creature in the dark, in the humble peace of its slumbers. And he was sorry, too, for the old man’s mill ; and then a vague terror possessed him when he thought of the trickery with the wheel. Surely the hand of another had compassed its destruction, yet when or why he could not understand, could not guess; or was he himself the miscreant? He could not remember what he had done; he had been so very drunk.

Ah, should he ever again see Chilhowee thus receive the slant of the sunrise, and stand revealed in definite purple heights against the pale blue of the far west ? Should he ever again mark that joyous matutinal impulse of nature as the dawn expanded into day? The note of a bird, sweet, reedy, thrilling with gladness, came from the woods, so charged with the spirit of the morning that it might have been the voice of the light. And the dew was rich with the fragrance of flowers, and as he galloped along the bridle-path they stretched their rank growth across his way, sometimes smiting him lightly in the face, like a challenge to mirth. When he climbed the steep ridge from which were visible the domes of the Great Smoky, all massive and splendid against the dispersing rose in the sky, the sunlight gushing down in a crimson flood while the dazzling focus rose higher than the highest bald, he cared less to look above than into the shadowed depths of Piomingo Cove. Did he fancy, or could he see a stir there ? An atom slowly moved down the lane, and across the red clay slope of a hill, — another, and yet one more. Was the settlement already roused with the news of the disaster to the mill ? He turned and pressed his horse along the rocky road, up slopes and down again, still ascending and descending the minor ridges that lie about the base of the Smoky. Sometimes he wondered at himself with a harsh, impersonal reprehension, as if his deed were another’s. “ How’s the old man goin’ ter make out ter barely live ’thout his mill ? ” he demanded of himself ; “ an’ them gran’chil’n ter keer fur, an’ Tad, an’ all.”

Then would come again the recollection of that strange muffled scream, and though the sun was warm he shivered.

Often he drew up the mare and listened with a vague sense of pursuit. Stillness could hardly be more profound. Not the stir of a leaf, never a stealthy tread. Then as he started again down the rocky way, some vagrant echo, or a stone rolling under his mare’s hoof, would bring to him again that sudden affright, and he would swiftly turn to see who dogged him.

There were many curves in the path, and unexpected turns, and once in its sudden vista he saw before him a girl with yellow hair outlined against the green and gold foliage of the sunlit woods, clad in brown homespun, partly leading and partly driving a dun-colored ox, with a rope knotted about his long horns. She paused, swaying hard on it to check the beast, when she beheld the horseman, and her brown eyes were full of surprised recognition.

Mink gravely nodded in response to her grave salutation. He seemed at first about to pass without stopping, but when it was evident that she intended to let the ox trudge on he drew up the mare.

“ Howdy, Lethe,” he said.

“ Howdy,” returned Alethea.

“ Enny news ? ”

She shook her head without speaking.

“ Whar be ye a-goin’ with Buck?” he asked.

“ Arter the warpin’ bars. They war loaned ter aunt Dely, an’ she hain’t got but one steer ter haul ’em home. So Buck hed ter go.”

The ox had reached up his dun-colored head for the leaves, all green and flecked with golden light, behind her bright hair. She did not move out of the creature’s way. She only stood and gazed at Mink.

“ I war down ter Crosby’s yestiddy evenin’,” he observed, watching her.

“ I hopes ye enjyed yerse’f,” she said, with tart self-betrayal.

He laughed a little, and turned the reins in his hands. He relished infinitely the sight of the red and angry spot on either cheek, the spark in her eye.

“ I did,” he said, jauntily, watching the effect of his words. “ I seen Elviry.”

She made an effort at self-control.

“ Waal,” she returned, calmly, although her voice trembled a little, “ I hope ye kin agree with her better ‘n ye ever done with me. We warn’t made fur one another, I reckon, no-ways.”

“ Oh, I hain’t never axed Elviry; ’t ain’t never gone ez fur ez that. I ’lowed ez mebbe ye an’ me mought make it up some day.”

He was only trying her, but the vaunted feminine intuition did not detect it. She crimsoned to the roots of her hair. Her eyes were full of liquid lights. She laughed, a low gurgling laugh of happiness, that, nevertheless, broke into a sob.

“ I dunno ’bout that,” she said, evasively, belying the rapture in her face.

She was very beautiful at the moment. A cultivated man, versed in the harmonies of line and color, tutored to discriminate expressions and gauge feelings and recognize types, might have perceived something innately noble in her, foolish though the affection was which embellished her.

Even he was impressed by it. “ I hev never axed nobody but ye,” he said. “ Not even arter we quar’led.”

He was not bound by this, which he knew full well, and it promised nothing. But it held her love and loyalty for him, if ever he should want them.

Nevertheless, while he piqued himself on his domination, he was under her influence at the fleeting moment when he was with her. Perhaps her presence induced some tender affinity for the better things. He said with a sigh, “ I hev done gone an’ got in a awful scrape, Lethe. I reckon nobody never hed sech a pack o’ troubles in this worl’.”

With a sort of pitying deprecation of the wiles of old Tobias Winkeye she gravely listened. Once she unconsciously put up her hand and stroked his mare. He was petulant, like a spoiled child, when he told how he only meant a jest and such woeful destruction had ensued. “ An’ me so boozy I dunno what I done. An’ that thar pore ole man ! An’ his mill plumb ruined! An’ all his gran’chillen an’ Tad ter keer fur ! ”

Her face had become very pale. Her voice trembled as she said, —

“ Ain’t sech agin the law, Reuben?”

He noticed that she called him by his name, rather than the sobriquet his pranks had earned. He was unfamiliar with himself thus dignified, and it gave him an added sense of importance.

“ Yes, but’t ain’t nuthin’ but ten dollar fine, mebbe, an’ a few days in jail,” — she gasped, — “ ef they ketches me.”

He looked at her with a swift, crafty brightness that was wonderfully like the little creature whose name he bore.

“ I would n’t keer fur that, though,” he added after a pause. “ Bein’ in jail fur rollickin’ roun’ the kentry jes’ fur fun ain’t a disgrace, like fur stealin’ an’ sech. What pesters me so is studyin’ ‘bout the old man and his mill, plumb ruined. Lord ! Lord I I’d gin my mare an’ hogs an’ gun ef it bed never happened ! ”

She stood meditative and motionless against the leafy background, all dark and restful verdure close at hand, opening into a vista of luminous emerald lightened in the distance to a gilded green where the sunshine struck aslant with a climax of gold.

“ I reckon ye think so, Reuben, but ye would n’t,” she said at last, with her fatal candor.

He winced. He was both hurt and angry as he rejoined, “ An’ why would n’t I ? ”

“ Why, ye be ’bleeged ter know ef ye war ter gin the old man yer mare an’ gun an’ hogs, he’d be more ’n willin’ ter gin it up agin ye. The mill stones air thar yit under the water, an’ he could sell that truck o’ yourn an’ build ez good a shanty ez he hed afore, — better, kase ’t would be new.”

He looked down at her, tapping his heavy boot with the hickory switch in his hand.

“ Ye ain’t changed none, since we war promised ter marry,” he said slowly. “ Then ye war forever a-jawin’ an’ a-preachin’ at me ’bout what I done an’ what I oughter do, same ez the rider. Ye talk ‘bout jewty ez brash ez ef ye never hed none, same ez he does ’bout religion. He ain’t hurt with that, ef ye watch him fresk ’round when they’s pourin’ him out a dram or settin’ out the table. That’s sech grace ez he hev got, but he kin talk powerful sober ter other folks; jes’ like you-uns. I’m sorry I ever tole ye about it, ennyways. I’m sorry I met up with ye this mornin’ ” —

The girl’s face was as visibly pained as if he had cruelly struck her. He went on tumultuously,aggregating wrath and a sense of injury and a desire of reprisal with every word.

“ I’m sorry I ever seen ye ! Ye ’mind me o’ that thar harnt o’ a Herder on Thunderhead the folks tells about. Ef ye happen ter kern upon him suddint, an’ don’t turn back but ketch his eye, that year air withered. Nuthin’ ye plant will grow, an’ ef the craps air laid by they won’t ripen. He can’t kill ye; he jes’ spiles yer chance. An’ ye ’minds me o’ him.”

“ Oh, Reuben ! ” the girl cried, in deprecation.

“ Ye do, — ye do ! I tole ye, kase I ’lowed mebbe ye mought holp me, — more fool me ! — leastways ye mought be sorry. Shucks ! And now I’m sorry I tole ye.”

He turned the mare suddenly and slowly rode away. He glanced back once. If she had been looking wistfully after him he might have paused. He expected it; he had even listened for her to call. The light struck with a rich tinge on her golden hair and her delicate profile as she reached up to adjust the rope on the long horns of the dun-colored ox. The vacillating color of the leaves shoaling in the wind and the sunshine seemed the more fantastic for the sober hue of her brown gown and the crude red clay path. Even when the animal resumed his journey she did not once look back, and presently the fluctuating leaves hid her from sight.

Mink’s gust of temper had served to divert him for the moment from the contemplation of his perplexities. Now they reasserted themselves. before, however, he had seen no hope of extrication. But Alethea’s words had given him something. He begun to appreciate the necessity of a definite plan of action. If he should go up to Piomingo Bald he would be taken at the herders’ cabin by the officers of the law. His home could be no refuge. He felt a respite essential. He craved the time to think of Alethea’s suggestion, to canvass the ground, to judge what was possible. At last he dismounted and turned his mare out; even here he could hear the occasional jangling bells of the herds, and the animal would soon follow the familiar sound. He took his way on foot down the mountain and through Eskaqua Cove. “ The news ’ll travel slower ’n me,” he said.

He hardly felt hunger ; he did not realize his fatigue. The red clay roads were vacant, the few daily passers were not yet astir. He avoided the possibility of meeting them as far as he might by taking short cuts over the mountains and through valleys. His instinct was to remove himself as far as he might from his accustomed haunts. Nevertheless, he had no definite intention of hiding, for after traversing Hazel Valley he struck boldly into the county road that leads up the eastern slope of Big Injun Mountain. He had no thought of resisting arrest. He walked along slowly, meditatively, hardly conscious even of the vague company of his shadow climbing the mountain with him, until he suddenly found that it had skulked away and he was bereft of this vague similitude of a comrade. For the sun was already west of Big Injun. A pensive shade lay far down the slope, but below there was again the interfulgent play of sunshine itinerant with the wind among the leaves.

Once he sat down on a rock close by the road, with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees, and sought again to adjust his course to the best interests of conscience and policy. A woman with a bag of fruit on her back passed him presently. He gave her “ howdy ;" then after a time rose and trudged up and up the road. He had known repentance before, for he was plastic morally. But in his experience there had been no perplexity. It seemed to him, with the urgency of decision and the turmoil of doubt pressing upon him, that it was happier to be resolutely reckless. The harassments of uncertainty had affected his nerves, and he gave a quick start when the abrupt jangle of a bell smote the air. On the opposite side of the road, among the great craggy steeps, there was a wide, low niche in the face of the cliff, with a beetling roof and a confusion of rocks and bushes below. Sheep had climbed into it : some were standing looking down at him, now and then stirring and setting the bell to jangling fitfully ; others lay motionless in the shadowy nook. He was about to go on ; suddenly he turned and began to scale the huge fragments of rock to the niche in the cliff.

“ Ye clar out,” he said to the sheep as they scuttled away at his approach; “ ye hev got the very spot I want.”

They huddled together as he crept in ; two or three hastily ran out upon the rocks, — only a little frightened, for they began presently to nibble the grass growing in the rifts. He lay down, pillowing his head upon his arm, and turning his eyes on the scene without. He could see far below into the depths of Hazel Valley, with hill and dale in undulatory succession. The light glanced here and there on the minute lines of a zigzag fence; on a field in which the stark and girdled trees stood in every gaunt attitude of despair ; on a patch striped with green where tobacco grew in orderly ranks, — all amongst the dense forests, upon which these tiny suggestions of civilization seemed only some ephemeral accident, some ineffective incident, capable of slightest significance. Beyond, the wooded mountains rose in the densities of unbroken primeval wilderness, with irregular summit - lines, with graduating tones from bronzegreen to blue-gray, with a solemnity that even the sunshine did not abate. Still further, the Great Smoky, veiled with mist and vague with distance, stood high against the sky, — so high that but for the familiar changeless outline it must have seemed the fiction of the clouds.

The sheep came back and crowded about him, — he lay so still. Once he was conscious of their motion; he intended to rouse himself in a moment and drive them off. And once afterward he was vaguely aware of the tinkle of the bell. Then he heard no more.

The afternoon wore on. The sunlight deepened to orange and burned to red. The mountains were all garbed in purple. The sky above that splendid summit-line of the Great Smoky caught the reflection from the west and was delicately roseate. Cow - bells were clanking in Hazel Valley, faintly, faintly. A star, most serene, was at the zenith.

The sheep in the dark niche of the crags stirred, and huddled together again, and were quiet. The moon came and looked coyly in, as if she sought Endymion. The face of the mountaineer, its reckless spirit all spent, was gentle and young in the soft, shy light.

All at once he was awake. The sheep were crowding timorously about him. A voice broke with sudden discord into the harmonies of the night.

“ Nothin’ but sheep, I reckon.”

There was a great scuffling among the rocks and bushes, and Mink ventured to lift his head.

He saw the mist-filled valley below, the glister of the moon in the skies above; the infinite expanse of vague mountain forms all along the background, and in the stony road on the verge of the precipice an equestrian group standing motionless in shadow and sheen.

He recognized the sheriff of the county among them, and the constable from Piomingo Cove was in the act of clambering up the rocks.

Charles Egbert Craddock.