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diff --git a/old/50896-0.txt b/old/50896-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 152a390..0000000 --- a/old/50896-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6467 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Northern Georgia Sketches, by Will N. Harben - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you’ll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: Northern Georgia Sketches - -Author: Will N. Harben - -Release Date: January 11, 2016 [EBook #50896] -Last Updated: May 22, 2018 - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NORTHERN GEORGIA SKETCHES *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - - -NORTHERN GEORGIA SKETCHES - -By Will N. Harben - -Chicago - -A. C. McClurg & Co. - -1900 - - -DEDICATION - -TO JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF THE KINDLY -ENCOURAGEMENT - -WHICH MADE THIS BOOK POSSIBLE. - -THE AUTHOR - -I am indebted to the publishers of The Century Magazine, Lippincott’s -Magazine, The Ladies Home Journal, Book News, The Black Cat, and to the -Bachelier Syndicate for the courteous permission to reprint the sketches -contained in this volume. - -WILL N. HARBEN. - -Dalton, Ga. - - - - -A HUMBLE ABOLITIONIST - - -|Andrew Duncan and his wife trudged along the unshaded road in the -beating sunshine, and paused to rest under the gnarled white-trunked -sycamore trees. She wore a drooping gown of checked homespun, a -sun-bonnet of the same material, the hood of which was stiffened with -invisible strips of cardboard, and a pair of coarse shoes just from the -shop. Her husband was barefooted, his shirt was soiled, and he wore -no coat to hide the fact. His trousers were worn to shreds about the -ankles, but their knees were patched with new cloth. - -“I never was as thirsty in all my born days,” he panted, as he looked -down into the bluish depths of a road-side spring. “Gee-whilikins! ain’t -it hot?” - -“An’ some fool or other’s run off with the drinkin’-gourd,” chimed in -his wife. “Now ain’t that jest our luck?” - -“We ’ll have to lap it up dog-fashion, I reckon,” Andrew replied, -ruefully, “an’ this is the hardest spring to git down to I ever seed. -Hold on, Ann; I ’ll fix you.” - -As he spoke he knelt on the moss by the spring, turned his broad-brimmed -felt hat outside in, and tightly folded it in the shape of a big dipper. -He filled it with water, and still kneeling, held it up to his wife. -When their thirst was satisfied, they turned off from the road into -a path leading up a gradual slope, on the top of which stood a -three-roomed log cabin. - -“They are waitin’ fer us,” remarked Duncan. “I see ’em out in the -passage. My Lord, I wonder what under the sun they ’ll do with Big -Joe. Ever’ time I think of the whole business I mighty nigh bu’st with -laughin’.” Mrs. Duncan smiled under her bonnet. - -“I think it’s powerful funny myself,” she said, as she followed after -him, her new shoes creaking and crunching on the gravel. To this -observation Duncan made no response, for they were now in front of the -cabin. - -An old man and an old woman sat in the passage, fanning their faces with -turkey-wing fans. They were Peter Gill and his wife, Lucretia. - -The latter rose from her chair, which had been tilted back against the -wall, and with clattering heels, shambled into the room on the right. - -“I reckon you’d ruther set out heer whar you kin ketch a breath o’ air -from what little’s afloat,” she said, cordially, as she emerged, a -chair in either hand. Placing the chairs against the wall opposite her -husband, she took a pair of turkey-wings from a nail on the wall and -handed them to her guests, and with a grunt of relief resumed her seat. -For a moment no one spoke, but Duncan presently broke the silence. - -“Well, I went an’ seed Colonel Whitney fer you,” he began, his blue eyes -twinkling with inward amusement. “An’, Pete Gill, I’m powerfully afeerd -you are in fer it. As much as you’ve spoke agin slave-holdin’ as a -practice, you’ve got to make a start at it. The Colonel said that you -held a mortgage on Big Joe, an’ ef you don’t take ’im right off you won’t -get a red cent fer yore debt.” - -“I’m prepared fer it,” burst from Mrs. Gill. “I tried my level best to -keep Mr. Gill from lendin’ the money, but nothin’ I could say would have -the least influence on ‘im. The Lord only knows what we ’ll do. We are -purty-lookin’ folks to own a high-priced, stuck-up quality nigger.” - -The two visitors exchanged covert glances of amusement. - -“How did you manage to git caught?” Andrew asked, crushing a subtle -smile out of his face with his broad red hand. - -Peter Gill had grown quite red in the face and down his wrinkled, -muscular neck. As he took off his brogans to cool his feet, and began -to scratch his toes through his woolen socks, it was evident to his -questioner that he was not only embarrassed but angry. - -“The thousand dollars was all the money we was ever able to save up,” he -said. “I was laying off to buy the fust piece o’ good land that was on -the market, so me ’n the ol’ ’oman would have a support in old age. But I -didn’t see no suitable farm just then, an’ as my money was lyin’ idle -in the bank, Lawyer Martin advised me to put it out at intrust, an’ I -kinder tuck to the notion. Then Colonel Whitney got wind o’ the matter -an’ rid over an’ said, to accommodate me, he’d take the loan. He fust -give me a mortgage on some swampy land over in Murray, that Martin said -was wuth ten thousand, an’ it run on that way fur two yeer. The fust -hint I had of the plight I was in was when the Colonel couldn’t pay the -intrust. Then I went to another lawyer, fer it looked like Martin an’ -the Colonel was kinder in cahoot, an’ my man diskivered that the lan’ -had been sold long before it was mortgaged to me for taxes. My lawyer -wasn’t no fool, so he got Whitney in fer a game o’ open-an’-shut -swindle. He up an’ notified ’im that ef my claim wasn’t put in good -shape in double-quick time, he was goin’ to put the clamps on somebody. -Well, the final upshot was that I tuck Big Joe as security, an’ now that -the Colonel’s entire estate has gone to flinders, I’ve got the nigger -an’ my money’s gone.” - -Duncan waited for the speaker to resume, but the aspect of the case -was so disheartening that Gill declined to say more about it. He simply -hitched one of his heels up on the last rung of his chair and began to -fan himself vigorously. - -“I did as you wanted me to,” said Duncan, wiping his brow and combing -his long, damp hair with his fingers. “I went round an’ axed the opinion -o’ several good citizens, an’ it is the general belief ef you don’t -take the nigger you won’t never git back a cent o’ yore loan. But the -funniest part o’ the business is the way Big Joe acts about it.” Dun can -met his wife’s glance and laughed out impulsively. “You see, Gill, -in the Whitney break-up, all the other niggers has been sold to rich -families, an’ the truth is, Big Joe feels his dignity tuck down a good -many pegs by bein’ put off on you-uns, that never owned a slave to yore -name. The other darkies has been a-teasin’ of ’im all day, an’ he’s sick -an’ tired of it. The Whitneys has spiled ’im bad. They l’arnt ’im to read -an’ always let ’im stan’ dressed up in his long coat in the big front -hall to invite quality folks in the house. They say he had his eye on -a yaller gal, an’ that he’s been obliged to give her up, fer she’s gone -with one of the Staffords in Fannin’ County.” - -Gill’s knee, which was thrust out in front of him by the sharp bend of -his leg, was quivering. - -“Big Joe might do a sight wuss ’n to belong to me,” he said, warmly. “I -don’t know as we-uns ’ll have any big hall for ’im to cavort about in, nur -anybody any wuss ’n yore sort to come to see us, but we pay our debts an’ -have a plenty t’eat.” - -Mrs. Gill was listening to this ebullition, her red nose slightly -elevated, and she made no effort to suppress a chuckle of satisfaction -over her husband’s subtle allusion to the status of their guests. - -“I want you two jest to come heer one minute,” she burst out suddenly, -and with a dignity that seemed to cool the air about her, she rose and -moved toward the little shed room at the end of the cabin. Duncan and -his wife followed, an expression of half-fearful curiosity in their -tawny visages. Reaching the door of the room, Mrs. Gill pushed it open -and coolly signaled them to enter, and when they had done so, and stood -mutely looking about them, she followed. - -“When I made up my mind we’d be obliged to take Big Joe,” she explained, -“I fixed up fer ’im a little. Look at that bedstead!” (Her hand was -extended toward it as steadily as the limb of an oak.) “Ann Duncan, you -are at liberty to try to find a better one in this neighborhood. You ‘n -Andrew sleep on one made out ’n poles with the bark on ‘em. Then jest feel -o’ them thar feathers in this new tick an’ pillows, an’ them’s bran-new -store-bought sheets.” - -This second open allusion to her own poverty had a subduing effect on -Mrs. Duncan’s risibilities. The ever-present twinkle of amusement went -out of her eyes, and she had an attitude of vast consideration for the -words of her hostess as she put her perspiring hand on the mattress and -pressed it tentatively. - -“It’s saft a plenty fer a king,” she observed, conciliation enough for -any one in her tone; “he ’ll never complain, I bound you!” - -“Big Joe won’t have to tech his bare feet to the floor while he’s -puttin’ on his clothes, nuther,” reminded Mrs. Gill. She raised her -eyebrows as an admiral might after seeing a well-directed shot from one -of his guns blow up a ship, and pointed at a piece of rag carpet laid at -the side of the bed. “An’ you see I’ve fixed ’im a washstand with a new -pan thar in the corner, an’ a roller towel, an’ bein’ as they say he’s -so fixy, I’m a-goin’ to fetch in the lookin’-glass, an’ I’ve cut some -pictur’s out ’n newspapers that I intend to paste up on the walls, so -as--” - -Mrs. Gill paused. Experienced as she was in the tricks of Ann Duncan’s -facial expression, she at once divined that her words were meeting with -amused opposition. - -“Why, Mis’ Gill,” was Ann’s rebuff, “shorely you ain’t a-goin’ to let ‘im -sleep in the same house with you-uns!” - -“Of course I am, Ann Duncan; what in the name o’ common sense do you -mean?” - -“Oh, nuthin’.” Mrs. Duncan glanced at her husband and wiped a cowardly -smile from her broad mouth with her hand. “You see, Mis’ Gill, I’m -afeerd you are goin’ to overdo it. You’ve heerd me say I have good stock -in me, ef I am poor. I’ve got own second cousins that don’t know the’r -own slaves when they meet ’em in the big road. I’ve heerd how they treat -their niggers, an’ I’m afeerd all this extra fixin’ up will make folks -poke fun at you. To-day in town the niggers started the laugh on Big -Joe theirselves, an’ the white folks all j’ined in. It looked like they -thought it was a good joke for the Gill lay-out to own a quality slave. -Me ’n Andrew don’t mean no harm, but now it _is_ funny; you know it is!” - -“I don’t see a thing that’s the least bit funny in it.” Mrs. Gill -bristled and turned almost white in helpless fury. “We never set -ourselves up as wantin’ to own slaves, but when this one is saddled on -us through no fault o’ our ‘n, I see no harm in our holdin’ onto ’im till -we kin see our way out without loss. As to ’im not sleepin’ in the same -cabin we do, whar in the Lord’s creation would we put ‘im? The corn-crib -is the only thing with a roof on it, an’ it’s full to the door.” - -“Oh, I reckon you are doin’ the best you kin,” granted Mrs. Duncan, as -she passed out of the door and went back to where Peter Gill sat fanning -himself. He had overheard part of the conversation. - -“I told Lucretia she oughtn’t to fix up so almighty much,” he observed. -“A nigger ain’t like no other livin’ cre’ture. A pore man jest cayn’t -please ‘em.” - -Ann Duncan was driven to the very verge of laughter again. - -“What you goin’ to call ‘im?” she snickered, her strong effort at -keeping a serious face bringing tears into her eyes. “Are you goin’ to -make ’im say Marse Gill, an’ Mis’ Lucretia?” - -“I don’t care a picayune what he calls us,” answered Gill, testily. “I -reckon we won’t start a new language on his account.” - -Through this colloquy Mrs. Duncan had been holding her sun-bonnet in -a tight roll in her hands. She now unfurled it like the flag of a -switchman and whisked it on her head. - -“Well, I wish you luck with yore slave,” she was heard to say, crisply, -“but I hope you ’ll not think me meddlin’ ef I say that you ’ll have -trouble. Folks like you-uns, an’ we-uns fer that matter, don’t know -no more about managin’ slaves raised by high-falutin’ white folks than -doodle-bugs does.” And having risen to that climax, Ann Duncan, followed -by her splay-footed, admiring husband, departed. - -The next morning, accompanied by Big Joe and the man who had been -overseer on his plantation, Colonel Whitney drove over in a spring -wagon. - -“I decided to bring Joe over myself, so as to have no misunderstanding,” - he announced. “The other negroes have been picking at him a good deal, -and he is a little out of sorts, but he ’ll get all right.” - -The Gills were standing in the passage, a look of stupid embarrassment -on their honest faces. Despite their rugged strength of character, they -were not a little awed by the presence of such a prominent member of -the aristocracy, notwithstanding the fact that their dealings with the -Colonel had not, in a financial way, been just to their fancy. - -“I’m much obliged to you, sir,” Peter found himself able to enunciate. - -The Colonel lighted a cigar and began to smoke. A sad, careworn -expression lay in his big blue eyes. He had the appearance of a man who -had not slept for a week. His tired glance swept from the Gills to the -negro in the wagon, and he said, huskily: - -“Bounce out, Joe, and do the very best you can. I hate to part with you, -but you know my condition--we’ve talked that over enough.” - -Slowly the tall black man crawled out at the end of the wagon and stood -alone on the ground. The expression of his face was at once so full of -despair and fiendishness that Mrs. Gill shuddered and looked away from -him. - -“Well, Gill,” said the planter, “I reckon me and you are even at last. -I’m going down to Savannah, where I hope to get a fresh start and amount -to more in the world. Goodbye to you--good-bye, Joe.” - -He had only nodded to the pair in the passage, but he reached over -the wagon-wheel for the hand of the negro, and as he took it a tender -expression of regret stamped itself on his strong features. - -“Be a good boy, Joe,” he half-whispered. “As God is my heavenly judge, -I hate this more than anything else in the world. If I could possibly -raise the money I’d take you with me--or free you.” - -The thick, stubborn lip of the slave relaxed and fell to quivering. - -“Good-bye, Marse Whit’,” he said, simply. - -The Colonel took a firmer grasp of the black hand. - -“No ill-will, Joe?” he questioned, anxiously. - -“No, suh, Marse Whit’, I hain’t got no hard feelin’s ’gin you.” - -“Well, then good-bye, Joe. If I ever get my head above water, I ’ll keep -my promise about you and Liza. She looked on you as her favorite, but -don’t raise your hopes too high. I’m an old man now, and it may be -uphill work down there.” - -The negro lowered his head and the overseer drove on. As the wagon -rumbled down the rocky slope a wisp of blue smoke from the Colonel’s -cigar followed it like a banner unfurled to the breeze. For several -minutes after the wagon had disappeared Big Joe stood where he had -alighted, his eyes upon the ground. - -“What’s the matter?” asked Gill, stepping down to him. - -“Nothin’, Marse--” Big Joe seemed to bite into the word as it rose to -his tongue, then he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously and looked -down again. - -The Gills exchanged ominous glaces, and there was a pause. - -“Have you had anything to eat this morning?” Gill bethought himself to -ask. - -The black man shook his head. - -“I ain’t teched a bite sence dey sol’ me; dey offered it to me, but I -didn’t want it.” - -Once more the glances of the husband and wife traveled slowly back and -forth, centering finally on the face of the negro. - -“I reckon it’s ‘cause yore sick at heart,” observed Gill, at first -sympathetically, and then with growing firmness as he continued. “I know -how you feel; most o’ yore sort has a way o’ thinkin’ yorese’ves a sight -better ’n pore white folks, an’ right now the truth is you can’t bear the -idee o’ belongin’ to me ’n my wife. Now, me ’n you an’ her ought to come -to some sort of agreement that we kin all live under. You won’t find -nuther one of us the overbearin’ sort. We was forced to take you to -secure ourse’ves agin the loss of our little all, an’ we want to do -what’s fair in every respect. I’m told you are a fust-rate shoemaker. -Now, ef you want to, you kin set up a shop in yore room thar, an’ have -the last cent you kin make. You ’ll git plenty o’ work, too, fer this -neighborhood is badly in need of a shoemaker. Now, my wife will fry you -some fresh eggs an’ bacon an’ make you a good cup o’ coffee.” - -But all that Peter Gill had managed to say with satisfaction to himself -seemed to have gone into one of the negro’s ears and to have met with -not the slightest obstruction on its way out at the other. To the -hospitable invitation which closed Peter’s speech, the negro simply -said: - -“I don’t feel like eatin’ a bite.” - -“Oh, you don’t,” said Gill, at the end of his resources; “maybe you’d -feel different about it ef you was to smell the bacon a-fryin’.” - -“I don’t wan’t to eat,” reiterated the slave. “Well, you needn’t unless -you want to,” went on Gill, still pacifically. “That thar room on the -right is fer you; jest go in it whenever you feel like it an’ try to -make yorese’f at home; you won’t find us hard to git along with.” - -The Gills left their human property seated on a big rock in front of the -cabin and withdrew to the rear. There they sat till near noon. Now and -then Gill would peer around the corner to satisfy himself that his slave -was still seated on the rock. Gill chewed nearly a week’s allowance of -tobacco that morning; it seemed to have a sedative effect on his nerves. -Finally, Ann Duncan loomed up in the distance and strode toward the -cabin. She wore a gown of less brilliant tints than the one she had worn -the day before. It had the dun color of clay washed into rather than out -of its texture, and it hung from her narrow hips as if it were damp. - -“Well, he _did_ come,” she remarked, introductively. - -Mrs. Gill nodded. “Yes; the Colonel fetched ’im over this mornin’.” - -“So I heerd, an’ I jest ‘lowed I’d step over an’ see how you made out.” - Mrs. Duncan’s rippling laugh recalled the whole of her allusions of the -day previous. “Thar’s more talk goin’ round than you could shake a stick -at, an’ considerable spite an’ envy. Some ‘lows that the havin’ o’ -this slave is agoin’ to make you stuck up, an’ that you ’ll move yore -membership to Big Bethel meetin’-house; but law me! I can see that you -are bothered. How did he take to his room?” - -“He ain’t so much as looked in yit,” replied Mrs. Gill, with a frown. - -Thereupon Ann Duncan ventured up into the passage and peered cautiously -round the corner at Big Joe. - -“He’sa-wipin’ of his eyes,” she announced, as she came back. “It looks -like he’s a-cryin’ about some ‘n’.” - -At this juncture, a motley cluster of men, women, and children, led -by Andrew Duncan, came out of the woods which fringed the red, freshly -plowed field below, and began to steer itself, like a school of fish, -toward the cabin. About fifty yards away they halted, as animals do when -they scent danger. Heads up and open-mouthed, they stood gazing, first -at the Gills, and then at their slave. Peter Gill grew angry. He stood -up and strode as far in their direction as the ash-hopper under the -apple-tree, and raised both his hands, as if he were frightening away a -flock of crows. - -“Be off, the last one of you!” he shouted; “and don’t you dare show -yorese’ves round heer unless you’ve got business. This ain’t no -side-show--I want you to understand that!” - -They might have defied their old neighbor Gill, but the owner of a -slave so big and well dressed as the human monument on the rock was too -important a personage to displease with impunity; so, followed by the -apologetic Mrs. Duncan, who blamed herself for having set a bad example -to her curious neighbors, they slowly dispersed. - -At noon Mrs. Gill went into the cabin and began to prepare dinner. She -came back to her husband in a moment, and in a low voice, and one that -held much significance, she said: - -“I need some firewood.” As she spoke she allowed her glance to rest on -Big Joe. Gill looked at the sullen negro for half a minute, and then he -shrugged his shoulders as if indecision were a burden to be shaken off, -and mumbling something inaudible he went out to the woodpile and brought -in an armful of fuel. - -“A pore beginning,” his wife said, as he put it down on the hearth. - -“I know it,” retorted Gill, angrily. “You needn’t begin that sort o’ -talk, fer I won’t stand it. I’m a-doin’ all I can.” And Gill went back -to his chair. - -The good housewife fried some slices of dark red ham. She boiled a pot -of sweet potatoes, peeled off their jackets, and made a pulp of them in -a pan; into the mass she stirred sweet milk, butter, eggs, sugar, and -grated nutmeg. Then she rolled out a sheet of dough and cut out some -open-top pies. - -“I never knowed a nigger that could keep his teeth out of ‘em,” she -chuckled. - -Half an hour later she called out to Gill to come in. He paused in the -doorway, staring in astonishment. - -“Well, I never!” he ejaculated. - -She had laid the best white cloth, got out her new knives and forks with -the bone handles, and some dishes that were never used except on rare -occasions. She had placed Gill’s plate at the head of the table, hers -at the foot, and was wiping a third--the company plate with the blue -decorations. - -“Whar’s he goin’ to set an’ eat?” she asked. - -“Blast me ef I know any more ’n a rat,” Gill told her, with alarmed -frankness. “I hain’t thought about it a bit, but it never will do fer ‘im -to set down with me an’ you. Folks might see it, an’ it would give ‘em -more room for fun.” - -Mrs. Gill laid the plate down and sighed. - -“I declare, I’m afeered this nigger is a-goin’ to stick us up, whether -or no. I won’t feel much Christian humility with him at one table an’ us -at another, but of course I know it ain’t common fer folks to eat with -their slaves.” - -Gill’s glance was sweeping the table and its tempting dishes with an -indescribable air of disapproval. - -“You are a-fixin’up powerful,” was his slow comment; “a body would -think, to look at all this, that it was the fourth Sunday an’ you was -expectin’ the preacher. You’d better begin right; we cayn’t keep this up -an’ make a crop.” - -Her eyes flashed angrily. - -“You had no business to bring Big Joe heer, then,” she fumed. “You know -well enough he’s used to fine doin’s, an’ I’m not a-goin’ to have ‘im -make light of us, ef we _are_ pore. I was jest a-thinkin’; the Whitneys -always tied napkins ‘round the’r necks to ketch the gravy they drap, an’ -Big Joe’s bound to notice that we ain’t used to sech.” - -It was finally agreed that for that day at least the slave was to -have his dinner served to him where he sat; so Mrs. Gill arranged it -temptingly on a piece of plank, over which a piece of cloth had been -spread, and took it out to him. She found him almost asleep, but he -opened his eyes as she drew near. - -Drowsily he surveyed the contents of the cups and dishes, his eyes -kindling at the sight of the two whole custards. But his pride--it was -evidently that--enabled him to manifest a sneer of irreconcilability. - -“I ain’t a-goin’ t’eat a bite,” was the way he put it, stubbornly. - -For a moment Mrs. Gill was nonplussed; but she believed in getting at -the core of things. - -“Are you a-complainin’?” she questioned. - -The big negro’s sneer grew more pronounced, but that was all the answer -he gave. - -“Don’t you think you could stomach a bit o’ this heer custard pie?” - -Big Joe’s eyes gleamed against his will, but he shook his head. - -“I tol’ um all ef dey sol’ me to you, I wouldn’t eat a bite. I’m gwine -ter starve ter death.” - -“Oh, that’s yore intention!” Mrs. Gill caught her breath. A sort of -superstitious terror seized upon her as she slowly hitched back to the -cabin. - -“He won’t tech a bite,” she informed Gill’s expectant visage; “an’ -what’s a sight more, he says he’s vowed he won’t eat our victuals, an’ -that he’s laid out to starve. Peter Gill, I’m afeerd this has been sent -on us!” - -“Sent on us!” echoed Gill, who also had his quota of superstition. - -“Yes, it’s a visitation of the Almighty fer our hoardin’ up that money -when so many of our neighbors is in need. I wish now we never had -seed it. Ef Big Joe dies on our hands, I ’ll always feel like we have -committed the unpardonable sin. We’ve talked ag’in’ slave-holdin’ all -our lives tell we had the bag to hold, an’ now we’ve set up reg’lar in -the business.” - -Gill ate his dinner on the new cloth in morose silence. A heavy air of -general discontent had settled on him. - -“Well,” he commented, as he went to the water-shelf in the passage to -take his afterdinner drink from the old cedar pail, “ef he refused ‘tater -custards like them thar he certainly is in a bad plight. If he persists, -I ’ll have to send fer a doctor.” - -The afternoon passed slowly. The later conduct of the slave was -uneventful, beyond the fact that he rose to his full height once, -stretched and yawned, without looking toward the cabin, and then -reclined at full length on the grass. Another batch of curious neighbors -came as near the cabin as the spring. Those who had been ordered away in -the forenoon had set afloat a report that Gill had said that, now he -was a slave-holder, he would not submit to familiar visits from the -poor white trash of the community. And Sid Ruford, the ringleader of the -group at the spring, had the boldness to shout out some hints about the -one-nigger, log-cabin aristocracy which drove the hot blood to Gill’s -tanned face. He sprang up and took down his long-barreled “squirrel gun” - from its hooks on the wall. - -“I ’ll jest step down thar,” he said, “an’ see ef that gab is meant fer -me.” - -“I wouldn’t pay no ‘tention to him,” replied Mrs. Gill, who was held back -from the brink of an explosion only by the sight of the weapon and a -knowledge of Gill’s marksmanship. However, Gill had scarcely taken half -a dozen steps down the path when he wheeled and came back laughing. - -“They run like a passle o’ skeerd sheep,” he chuckled, as he restored -his gun to its place. - -This incident seemed to break the barrier of reserve between him and his -human property, for he stood over the prostrate form of the negro and -eyed him with a dissatisfied look. - -“See heer,” he began, sullenly, “enough of a thing is a plenty. I’m -gettin’ sick an’ tired o’ this, an’ I ’ll be dadblasted ef I’m a-goin’ -to let a black, poutin’ scamp make me lose my nat’ral sleep an’ peace o’ -mind. Now, you git right up off ’n that damp ground an’ go in yore room -an’ lie down, if you feel that-a-way. Folks is a-passin’ along an’ -lookin’ at you like you was a stuffed monkey.” - -It may have been the sight of the gun, or it may have been a masterful -quality in the Anglo-Saxon voice, that inspired the negro with a respect -he had not hitherto entertained for his new owner, for he rose at once -and went into his room. - -At dusk Mrs. Gill waddled to the closed door of his apartment and rapped -respectfully. She heard the bed creaking as if Big Joe were rising, and -then he cautiously opened the door and with downcast eyes waited for her -to make her wishes known. - -“Supper is ready,” she announced, in a voice which, despite her strength -of character, quivered a little, “an’ before settin’ down to it, I -thought thar would be no harm in askin’ if thar’s anything that would -strike yore fancy. When it gits a little darker I could blind a chicken -on the roost an’ fry it, or I could make you some thick flour soup with -sliced dumplin’s.” - -She saw him wince as he tore himself from the temptation she had laid -before him, but he spoke quite firmly. - -“I ain’t a-goin’ t’eat any more in this worl’,” he said. - -“Well, I reckon you won’t gorge yorese’f in the next,” said Mrs. Gill, -“but I want to say that what you are contemplatin’ is a sin.” She turned -back into the cabin and sat at the table and poured her husband’s coffee -in disturbed silence. - -“I believe on my soul he’s goin’ to make a die of it,” she said, after -a while, as she sat munching a piece of dry bread, having no appetite at -all. And Gill, deeply troubled, could make no reply. - -It was their habit to go to bed as soon as supper was over, so when they -rose from the table Mrs. Gill turned down the covers of the high-posted -bed and beat the pillows. Before barring the cabin door, she scrutinized -the closed shutter directly opposite, but all was still as death in the -room of the slave. - -For the first night in many years the old pair found they could not -sleep, their brains being still active with the first great problem of -their lives. The little clock struck ten. The silence of the night was -disturbed by the shrilling of tree-frogs and the occasional cry of the -whip-poor-will. - -Suddenly Gill sprang up with a little grunt of alarm. “What’s that?” he -asked. - -“It sounded powerful like somebody a-groanin’,” whispered Mrs. Gill. -“Oh, Lordy, Peter, I have a awful feelin’!” - -“I ’ll git up an’ see what’s ailin’ ‘im,” said Gill, a little more -calmly. “Mebby the idiot has done without food till he’s took cramps.” - -Dressing himself hastily, he went outside. A pencil of yellow light was -streaming through a crack beneath Big Joe’s door. Gill had not put on -his shoes, and his feet fell softly on the grass. Putting his ear to -the door of the negro’s room, he overheard low groans and words which -sounded like a prayer, repeated over and over in a sing-song fashion. -Later he heard something like the sobbing of a bigchested man. - -“Open up!” cried Gill, shaking the door; “open up, I say!” - -The vocal demonstration within ceased, and there was a clatter in the -vicinity of the bed, as if Big Joe were rising to his feet, The farmer -repeated his firm command, and the shutter slowly opened. The negro -looked like a giant in the dim light of the tallow-dip on a table behind -him. - -“Was that you a-makin’ all that noise?” asked Gill. - -“I wus prayin’, suh,” answered Big Joe, his face in the shadow. - -“Oh, that was it; I didn’t know!” Gill was trying to master a most -irritating awkwardness on his part; in questions of religious ceremony -he always allowed for individual taste. Passing the negro, he went into -the cabin and lifted the tallow-dip above his head and looked about the -room suspiciously. “You was jest a-prayin’, eh?” - -“Yes, suh; I was a-prayin’ to de Gre’t Marster ter tek me off on a bed -o’ ease, sence I hatter go anyway. Er death er starvation ain’t no easy -job.” - -Gill sat down on the negro’s bed. He crossed his legs and swung a bare -foot to and fro in a nervous, jerky manner. - -“Looky’ heer,” he said finally to the black profile in the doorway, “you -are a plagued mystery to me. What in the name o’ all possessed do you -hanker after a box in the cold ground fer?” - -The slave seemed slightly taken aback by the blunt directness of -this query; he left the door and sat down heavily in a chair at the -fireplace. “Huh!” he grunted, “is you been all dis time en not fin’ out -what my trouble is?” - -“Ef I _did_ know I wouldn’t be settin’ heer at this time o’ night, -losin’ my nat’ral sleep to ask about it,” was the tart reply. - -The negro grunted again. “Do you know Marse Whit’s Liza?” he asked, -almost eagerly. - -“I believe I’ve seed ’er once or twice,” Gill told him. “A fine-lookin’ -wench--about the color of a sorghum ginger-cake. Is she the one you -mean?” - -The big man nodded. “Me ’n her was gwine ter git married, but Marse Whit’ -hatter go ’n trade ’er off ter Marse Stafford, en Marse Stafford is done -give ’er ’erer freedom yistiddy.” - -“Ah, he set ’er free, did he?” Gill stared, and by habit awkwardly -stroked that part of his face where a beard used to grow. - -“Yes, suh; Marse Gill, he done set ’er free, en now a free nigger is -flyin’ roun’ her. She won’t marry no slave now, suh!” - -Gill drew a full breath and stood up. “Then it wasn’t becase you thought -yorese’f so much better ’n me ’n my wife that you wanted to dump yorese’f -into eternity?” - -“No, suh; dat wasn’t in my min’, suh.” - -“Well, I’m powerful glad o’ that, Joe,” responded Gill, “becase neither -me nor my wife ever harmed a kink in yore head. Now, the gospel truth -is, I was drawed into this whole business ag’in’ my wishes, an’ me an’ -Lucretia would give a lots to be well out of it. Now, I don’t want to be -the cause o’ that free nigger walkin’ off with yore intrusts, so heer’s -what I ’ll do. Ef you ’ll ride in town with me in the mornin’ I ’ll git a -lawyer to draw up as clean a set o’ freedom papers as you ever laid your -peepers on. What do you say?” - -Big Joe’s eyes expanded until they seemed all white, with dark holes -in the center. For a minute he sat like a statue, as silent as the wall -behind him; then he said, with a deep breath: “Marse Gill, is you in -earnest--my Gawd! _is_ you?” - -“As the Almighty is my judge, in whose presence I set at this minute.” - -The negro covered his face with a pair of big, quivering hands. - -“Den I don’t know what ter say, Marse Gill. I never expected to be a -free man, en I had give up hope er ever seein’ Liza ag’in. Oh, Marse -Gill, you sho’ is one er His chosen flock!” - -Gill was so deeply moved that when he ventured on a reply he found -difficulty in steadying his speech. His voice had a quality that was -new to it. He spoke as gently as if he were promising recovery to a -suffering child. - -“Now, Joe, you crawl back in bed an’ sleep,” he said, “an’ in the -mornin’ you ’ll be free, as shore as the sun rises on us both.” - -Then he went back to bed and told his wife what he had done. - -“I’m powerful glad we can git out of it so easy,” she commented. “It’s -funny I never thought o’ settin’ ’im free. It looked to me like he was -a-goin’ to be a burden that we never could git rid of, an’ now it’s -a-goin’ to end all right in the Lord’s sight.” - -They were just dozing off in peaceable slumber when they heard a gentle -rap on the door. - -“It’s me, Marse Gill,” came from the outside. “I’m mighty sorry to wake -you ag’in, but I’m so hungry I don’t think I kin wait till mornin’.” - -“Well, I reckon you do feel kinder empty,” laughed the farmer as he -sprang out of bed. He lighted a candle, and following the specter-like -signals of his wife, who sat up in bed, he soon found the meal she had -arranged for the slave at noon. “Thar,” he said, as he handed it through -the doorway; “I had clean forgot yore fast was over.” - -The next morning the farmer and Big Joe drove to town, two miles -distant. Gill was gone all day and did not return till dusk. His wife -went out to meet him at the wagon-shed. - -“How did you make out?” she asked. - -“Tip-top,” he said, with a laugh. “As we went to town, nothin’ would -do the black scamp but we must go by after the gal. She happened to be -dressed up, an’ went to town with us. I set in front an’ driv’, while -they done their courtin’ on the back seat. I soon got the papers in -shape, an’ Squire Ridley spliced ’em right on the sidewalk in front -o’ his office. A big crowd was thar, an’ you never heerd the like o’ -yellin’. Some o’ the boys, jest fer pure devilment, picked me up an’ -carried me on their shoulders to the tavern an’ made me set down to -a hearty dinner. Joe borrowed a apron from the cook an’ insisted on -waitin’ on me, La me, I wisht you’d ‘a’ been thar. I felt like a blamed -fool.” - -“I reckon you did have a lots o’ fun,” said Mrs. Gill. “Well, I’m glad -he ain’t on our hands. I wouldn’t pass another day like yis-tiddy fer -all the slaves in Georgia.” - - - - -THE WHIPPING OF UNCLE HENRY - -“I do believe,” said Mrs. Pelham, stooping to look through the oblong -window of the milk-and-butter cellar toward the great barn across the -farmyard, “I do believe Cobb an’ Uncle Henry are fussin’ ag’in.” - -“Shorely not,” answered her old-maid sister, Miss Molly Meyers. She left -her butter bowl and paddles, and bent her angular figure beside Mrs. -Pelham, to see the white man and the black man who were gesticulating -in each other’s faces under the low wagon-shed that leaned against the -barn. - -The old women strained their ears to overhear what was said, but the -stiff breeze from across the white-and-brown fields of cotton stretching -toward the west bore the angry words away. Mrs. Pelham turned and drew -the white cloths over her milkpans. - -“Cobb will never manage them niggers in the world,” she sighed. “Henry -has had Old Nick in ’im as big as a house ever since Mr. Pelham went -off an’ left Cobb in charge. Uncle Henry hain’t minded one word Cobb -has said, nur he won’t. The whole crop is goin’ to rack an’ ruin. Thar’s -jest one thing to be done. Mr. Pelham has jest got to come home an’ whip -Henry. Nobody else could do it, an’ he never will behave till it’s done. -Cobb tried to whip ’im t’other day when you was over the mountain, but -Henry laid hold of a ax helve an’ jest dared Cobb to tech ‘im. That ended -it. Cobb was afeard of ‘im. Moreover, he’s afeard Uncle Henry will put -p’ison in his victuals, or do ’im or his family some bodily damage on -the sly.” - -“It would be a powerful pity,” returned Miss Molly, “fer Mr. Pelham to -have to lay down his business in North Carolina, whar he’s got so awful -much to do, an’ ride all that three hundred miles jest fer to whip one -nigger. It looks like some other way mought be thought of. Couldn’t you -use your influence--” - -“I’ve talked till I’m tired out,” Mrs. Pelham interrupted. “Uncle Henry -promises an’ forms good resolutions, it seems like, but the very minute -Cobb wants ’im to do some ’n a little different from Mr. Pelham’s way, -Henry won’t stir a peg. He jest hates the ground Cobb walks on. Well, I -reckon Cobb ain’t much of a man. He never would work a lick, an’ if he -couldn’t git a job overseein’ somebody’s niggers he’d let his family -starve to death. Nobody kin hate a lazy, good-for-nothin’ white man like -a nigger kin. Thar Cobb comes now, to complain to me, I reckon,” added -Mrs. Pelham, going back to the window. “An’ bless your soul, Henry has -took his seat out in the sun on the wagon-tongue, as big as life. I -reckon the whole crop will go to rack an’ ruin.” - -The next moment a tall, thin-visaged man with gray hair and beard stood -in the cellar door. - -“I’m jest about to the end o’ my tether, Sister Pelham.” (He always -called her “Sister,” because they were members of the same church.) “I -can’t get that black rascal to stir a step. I ordered Alf an’ Jake to -hold ‘im, so I could give ’im a sound lashin’, but they was afeard to -tech ‘im.” - -Mrs. Pelham looked at him over her glasses as she wiped her damp hands -on her apron. - -“You don’t know how to manage niggers, Brother Cobb; I didn’t much ‘low -you did the day Mr. Pelham left you in charge. The fust mornin’, you -went to the field with that hosswhip in your hand, an’ you’ve toted it -about ever since. You mought know that would give offense. Mr. Pelham -never toted one, an’ yore doin’ of it looks like you ‘lowed you’d have a -use fer it.” - -“I acknowledge I don’t know what to do,” said Cobb, frowning down -her reference to his whip. “I’ve been paid fer three months’ work in -advance, in the white mare an’ colt Mr. Pelham give me, an’ I’ve done -sold ’em an’ used the money. I’m free to confess that Brother Pelham’s -intrusts are bein’ badly protected as things are goin’; but I’ve done my -best.” - -“I reckon you have,” answered Mrs. Pelham, with some scorn in her tone. -“I reckon you have, accordin’ to your ability an’ judgment, an’ we can’t -afford to lose your services after you’ve been paid. Thar is jest one -thing left to do, an’ that is fer Mr. Pelham to come home an’ whip -Henry. He’s sowin’ discord an’ rebellion, an’ needs a good, sound -lashin’. The sooner it’s done the better. Nobody can do it but Mr. -Pelham, an’ I’m goin’ in now an’ write the letter an’ send it off. In -the mean time, you’d better go on to work with the others, an’ leave -Henry alone till his master comes.” - -“Brother Pelham is the only man alive that could whip ‘im,” replied -Cobb; “but it looks like a great pity an’ expense for Brother Pel--” - But the planter’s wife had passed him and gone up the steps into the -sitting-room. Cobb walked across the barnyard without looking at the -stalwart negro sitting on the wagon-tongue. He threw his whip down at -the barn, and he and half a dozen negroes went to the hayfields over the -knoll toward the creek. - -In half an hour Mrs. Pelham, wearing her gingham bonnet, came out to -where Uncle Henry still sat sulking in the sun. As she approached him, -she pushed back her bonnet till her gray hair and glasses showed beneath -it. - -“Henry,” she said, sternly, “I’ve jest done a thing that I hated -mightily to do.” - -“What’s that, Mis’ Liza?” He looked up as he asked the question, and -then hung his head shamefacedly. He was about forty-five years of -age. For one of his race he had a strong, intelligent face. Indeed, -he possessed far more intelligence than the average negro. He was -considered the most influential slave on any of the half-dozen -plantations lying along that side of the river. He had learned to read, -and by listening to the conversation of white people had (if he had -acquired the colloquial speech of the middle-class whites) dropped -almost every trace of the dialect current among his people. And on -this he prided himself no little. He often led in prayer at the colored -meeting-house on an adjoining plantation, and some of his prayers were -more widely quoted and discussed than many of the sermons preached in -the same church. - -“I have wrote to yore master, Henry,” answered Mrs. Pelham, “an’ I’ve -tol’ ’im all yore doin’s, an’ tol’ him to come home an’ whip you fer -disobeyin’ Brother Cobb. I hated to do it, as I’ve jest said; but I -couldn’t see no other way out of the difficulty. Don’t you think you -deserve a whippin’, Uncle Henry?” - -“I don’t know, Mis’ Liza.” He did not look up from the grass over which -he swung his rag-covered leg and gaping brogan. “I don’t know myself, -Mis’ Liza. I want to help Marse Jasper out all I can while he is off, -but it seems like I jest can’t work fer that man. Huh, overseer! I say -overseer! Why, Mis’ Liza, he ain’t as good as a nigger! Thar ain’t -no pore white trash in all this valley country as low down as all -his lay-out. He ain’t fittin’ fer a overseer of nothin’. He don’t do -anything like master did, nohow. He’s too lazy to git in out of a rain. -He--” - -“That will do, Henry. Mr. Pelham put him over you, an’ you’ve disobeyed. -He ’ll be home in a few days, an’ you an’ him can settle it between you. -He will surely give you a good whippin’ when he gits here. Are you goin’ -to sit thar without layin’ yore hand to a thing till he comes?” - -“Now, you know me better ’n that, Mis’ Liza. I’ve done said I won’t mind -that man, an’ I reckon I won’t; but the meadow-piece has obliged to -be broke an’ sowed in wheat. I’m goin’ to do that jest as soon as the -blacksmith fetches my bull-tongue plow.” - -Mrs. Pelham turned away silently. She had heard some talk of the -government buying the negroes from their owners and setting them free. -She ardently hoped this would be done, for she was sure they could then -be hired cheaper than they could be owned and provided for. She disliked -to see a negro whipped; but occasionally she could see no other way to -make them do their duty. - -From the dairy window, a few minutes later, she saw Uncle Henry put the -gear on a mule, and, with a heavy plow-stock on his shoulder, start for -the wheat-field beyond the meadow. - -“He ’ll do two men’s work over thar, jest to show what he kin do when -he’s let alone,” she said to Miss Molly. “I hate to see ’im whipped. -He’s too old an’ sensible in most things, an’ it would jest break -Lucinda’s heart. Mr. Pelham had ruther cut off his right arm, too; but -he ’ll do it, an’ do it good, after havin’ to come so far.” - -Mr. Pelham was a week in reaching the plantation. He wrote that it would -take several days to arrange his affairs so that he could leave. He -admitted that there was nothing left to do except to whip Uncle Henry -soundly, and that they were right in thinking that Henry would not let -any one do it but himself. After the whipping he was sure that the negro -would obey Cobb, and that matters would then move along smoothly. - -When Mr. Pelham arrived, he left the stage at the cross-roads, half a -mile from his house, and carpet-bag in hand, walked home through his -own fields. He was a short, thick-set man of about sixty, round-faced, -blue-eyed, and gray-haired. He wore a sack-coat, top-boots, and baggy -trousers. He had a good-natured, kindly face, and walked with the quick -step and general air of a busy man. - -He had traveled three hundred miles, slept on the hard seat of a jolting -train, eaten railroad pies and peanuts, and was covered with the grime -of a dusty journey, all to whip one disobedient negro. Still, he was not -out of humor, and after the whipping and lecture to his old servant he -would travel back over the tiresome route and resume his business where -he had left it. - -His wife and sister-in-law were in the kitchen when they heard his step -in the long hall. They went into the sitting-room, where he had put down -his carpet-bag, and in the center of the floor stood swinging his hat -and mopping his brow with his red handkerchief. He shook hands with the -two women, and then sat down in his old seat in the chimney-corner. - -“You want a bite to eat, an’ a cup of coffee, I reckon,” said Mrs. -Pelham, solicitously. - -“No, I kin wait till dinner. Whar’s Cobb?” - -“I seed ’im at the wagon-shed a minute ago,” spoke up Miss Molly; “he -was expectin’ you, an’ didn’t go to the field with the balance.” - -“Tell ’im I want to see ‘im.” - -Both of the women went out, and the overseer came in. - -“Bad state of affairs, Brother Cobb,” said the planter, as he shook -hands. They both sat down with their knees to the embers. - -“That it is, Brother Pelham, an’ I take it you didn’t count on it any -more ’n I did.” - -“Never dreamt of it. Has he been doin’ any better since he heerd I was -comin’ to--whip ‘im?” - -“Not fer me, Brother Pelham. He hain’t done a lick fer me; but all -of his own accord, in the last week, he has broke and sowed all that -meadow-piece in wheat, an’ is now harrowin’ it down to hide it from the -birds. To do ’im jestice, I hain’t seed so much work done in six days -by any human bein’ alive. He ’ll work for hisse’f, but he won’t budge fer -me.” - -Mr. Pelham broke into a soft, impulsive laugh, as if at the memory of -something. - -“They all had a big joke on me out in North Carolina,” he said. “I tol’ -‘em I was comin’ home to whip a nigger, an’ they wouldn’t believe a -word of it. I reckon it is the fust time a body ever went so fur on sech -business. They ‘lowed I was jest homesick an’ wanted a’ excuse to come -back.” - -“They don’t know what a difficult subject we got to handle,” Cobb -replied. “You are, without doubt, the only man in seven states that -could whip ‘im, Brother Pelham. I believe on my soul he’d kill anybody -else that’d tech ‘im. He’s got the strangest notions about the rights of -niggers I ever heerd from one of his kind. He’s jest simply dangerous.” - -“You ‘re afeard of ‘im, Brother Cobb, an’ he’s sharp enough to see it; -that’s all.” - -The overseer winced. “I don’t reckon I’m any more so than any other -white man would be under the same circumstances. Henry mought not strike -back lick fer lick on the spot--I say he mought not; an’ then ag’in -he mought--but he’d git even by some hook or crook, or I’m no judge o’ -niggers.” - -Mr. Pelham rose. “Whar is he?” - -“Over in the wheat-field.” - -“Well, you go over thar n’ tell ’im I’m here, an’ to come right away -down in the woods by the gum spring. I ’ll go down an’ cut some hickory -withes an’ wait fer ‘im. The quicker it’s done an’ over, the deeper the -impression will be made on ‘im. You see, I want ’im to realize that all -this trip is jest solely on his account. I ’ll start back early in the -mornin’. That will have its weight on his future conduct. An’, Brother -Cobb, I can’t--I jest _can’t_ afford to be bothered ag’in. My business -out thar at the lumber-camp won’t admit of it. This whippin’ has got to -do fer the rest of the year. I think he ’ll mind you when I git through -with ‘im. I like ’im better ’n any slave I ever owned, an’ I’d a thousand -times ruther take the whippin’ myself; but it’s got to be done.” - -Cobb took himself to Henry in the wheat-field, and the planter went down -into the edge of the woods near the spring. With his pocket-knife he cut -two slender hickory switches about five feet in length. He trimmed off -the out-shooting twigs and knots, and rounded the butts smoothly. - -From where he sat on a fallen log, he could see, across the boggy swamp -of bulrushes, the slight rise on which Henry was at work. He could -hear Henry’s mellow, resonant “Haw” and “Gee,” as he drove his mule and -harrow from end to end of the field, and saw Cobb slowly making his way -toward him. - -Mr. Pelham laid the switches down beside him, put his knife in his -pocket, and stroked his chin thoughtfully. Suddenly he felt a tight -sensation in his throat. The solitary figure of the negro as he trudged -along by the harrow seemed vaguely pathetic. Henry had always been such -a noble fellow, so reliable and trustworthy. They had really been, in -one way, more like brothers than master and slave. He had told Henry -secrets that he had confided to no other human being, and they had -laughed and cried together over certain adventures and sorrows. About -ten years before, Mr. Pelham’s horse had run away and thrown him against -a tree and broken his leg. Henry had heard his cries and run to him. -They were two miles from the farmhouse, and it was a bitterly cold day, -but the stalwart negro had taken him in his arms and carried him home -and laid him down on his bed. There had been a great deal of excitement -about the house, and it was not until after the doctor had come and -dressed the broken limb that it was learned that Henry had fallen in a -swoon in his cabin and lain there unconscious for an hour, his wife and -children being away. Indeed, he had been almost as long recovering as -had been his master. - -Henry had stopped his mule. Cobb had called to him, and was approaching. -Then Mr. Pelham knew that the overseer was delivering his message, for -the negro had turned his head and was looking toward the woods which hid -his master from view. Mr. Pelham felt himself flush all over. Could -he be going to whip Henry--really to lash his bare back with those -switches? How strange it seemed all at once! And that this should be -their first meeting after a two months’ separation! - -In his home-comings before, Uncle Henry had always been the first to -meet him with outstretched hand. But the negro had to be whipped. Mr. -Pelham had said it in North Carolina; he had said it to Cobb, and he -had written it to his wife. Yes, it must be done; and if done at all, of -course it must be done right. - -He saw Henry hitch his mule to a chestnut-tree in the field and Cobb -turn to make his way back to the farm-house. Then he watched Henry -approaching till the bushes which skirted the field hid him from view. -There was no sound for several minutes except the rustling of the -fallen leaves in the woods behind him, and then Uncle Henry’s head and -shoulders appeared above the broom-sedge near by. - -“Howdy do, Marse Jasper?” he cried; and the next instant he broke -through the yellow sedge and stood before his master. - -“Purty well, Henry.” Mr. Pelham could not refuse the black hand which -was extended, and which caught his with a hearty grasp. “I hope you are -as well as common, Henry?” - -“Never better in my life, Marse Jasper.” - -The planter had risen, but he now sat down beside his switches. For a -moment nothing was said. Uncle Henry awkwardly bent his body and his -neck to see if his mule were standing where he had left him, and his -master looked steadfastly at the ground. - -“Sit down, Henry,” he said, presently; and the negro took a seat on the -extreme end of the log and folded his black, seamed hands over his knee. -“I want to talk to you first of all. Something of a very unpleasant, -unavoidable nature has got to take place betwixt us, an’ I want to give -you a sound talkin’ to beforehan’.” - -“All right, Marse Jasper; I’m a-listenin’.” Henry looked again toward -his mule. “I did want to harrow that wheat down ‘fore them birds eat it -up; but I got time, I reckon.” - -The planter coughed and cleared his throat. He tried to cross his short, -fat legs by sliding the right one up to the knee of the left, but owing -to the lowness of the log, he was unable to do this, so he left his legs -to themselves, and with a hand on either side of him, leaned back. - -“Do you remember, Uncle Henry, twenty years ago, when you belonged to -old Heaton Pelzer an’ got to hankerin’ after that yellow girl of mine -jest after I bought her in South Carolina?” - -“Mighty plain, Master Jasper, mighty plain.” Henry’s face showed a -tendency to smile at the absurdity of the question. - -“Lucinda was jest as much set after you, it seemed,” went on the -planter. “Old Pelzer was workin’ you purty nigh to death on his pore, -wore-out land, an’ pointedly refused to buy Lucinda so you could marry -her, nur he wouldn’t consent to you marryin’ a slave of mine. Ain’t that -so?” - -“Yes, Marse Jasper, that’s so, sir.” - -“I had jest as many niggers as I could afford to keep, an’ a sight more. -I was already up to my neck in debt, an’ to buy you I knowed I’d have to -borrow money an’ mortgage the last thing I had. But you come to me -night after night, when you could sneak off, an’ begged an’ begged to -be bought, so that I jest didn’t have the heart to refuse. So, jest to -accommodate you, I got up the money an’ bought you, payin’ fully a third -more fer you than men of yore age was goin’ at. You are married now, -an’ got three as likely children as ever come into the world, an’ a big -buxom wife that loves you, an’ if I haven’t treated you an’ them right I -never heerd of it.” - -“Never was a better master on earth, Marse Jasper. If thar is, I hain’t -never seed ‘im.” Henry’s face was full of emotion. He picked up his -slouch hat from the grass and folded it awkwardly on the log beside him. - -“From that day till this,” the planter went on, “I’ve been over my head -in debt, an’ I can really trace it to that transaction. It was the straw -that broke the camel’s back, as the feller said. Well, now, Henry, six -months ago, when I saw that openin’ to deal in lumber in North Carolina, -it seemed to me to be my chance to work out of debt, if I could jest -find somebody to look after my farm. I found a man, Henry--a good, -clever, honest man, as everybody Said, an’ a member of Big Bethel -Church. For a certain consideration he agreed to take charge. That -consideration I’ve paid in advance, an’ it’s gone; I couldn’t git it -back. - -“Now, how has it turned out? I had hardly got started out thar before -one of my niggers--the very one I relied on the most--has played smash -with all my plans. You begun by turnin’ up yore nose at Brother Cobb, -an’ then by openly disobeyin’ ‘im. Then he tried to punish you--the -right that the law gives a overseer--an’ you up an’ dared him to tech -you, an’--” - -“Marse Jasper--” - -“Hold yore tongue till I’m through.” - -“All right, Marse Jasper, but--” - -“You openly defied ‘im, that’s enough; you broke up the order of the -whole thing, an’ yore mistress was so upset that she had to send fer -me. Now, Henry, I hain’t never laid the lash on you in my life, an’ I’d -ruther take it myself than to have to do it, but I hain’t come three -hundred miles jest to talk to you. I’m goin’ to whip you, Henry, an’ I’m -goin’ to do it right, if thar’s enough strength in my arm. You needn’t -shake yore head an’ sulk. No matter what you refused to let Cobb an’ -the rest of ’em do, you are a-goin’ to take what I’m goin’ to give you -without a word, because you know it’s just an’ right.” - -Henry’s face was downcast, and his master could not see his eyes, but -a strange, rebellious fire had suddenly kindled in them, and he was -stubbornly silent. Mr. Pelham could not have dreamed of what was passing -in his mind. - -“Henry, you an’ me are both religious men,” said the planter, after he -had waited for a moment. “Let’s kneel right down here by this log an’ -commune with the Lord on this matter.” - -Without a word the negro rose and knelt, his face in his hands, his -elbows on the log. There never had been a moment when Uncle Henry was -not ready to pray or listen to a prayer. He prided himself on his -own powers in that line, and had unbounded respect even for the less -skillful efforts of others. Mr. Pelham knelt very deliberately and began -to pray: - -“Our heavenly Father, it is with extreme sadness an’ sorrow that we come -to Thee this bright, sunny day. Our sins have been many, an’ we hardly -know when our deeds are acceptable in Thy sight; but bless all our -efforts, we pray Thee, for the sake of Him that died for us, an’ let us -not walk into error in our zeal to do Thy holy will. - -“Lord, Thou knowest the hearts of Thy humble supplicant an’ this man -beside him. Thou, through the existin’ laws of this land, hast put him -into my care an’ keepin’ an’ made me responsible to a human law for his -good or bad behavior. Lord, on this occasion it seems my duty to punish -him for disobedience, an’ we pray Thee to sanction what is about to take -place with Thy grace. Let no anger or malice rest in our hearts during -the performance of this disagreeable task, an’ let the whole redound -to Thy glory, for ever an’ ever, through the mercy of Thy Son, our Lord -Jesus Christ. Amen.” - -Mr. Pelham rose to his feet stiffly, for he had touches of rheumatism, -and the ground was cold. He brushed his trousers, and laid hold of his -switches. But to his surprise, Henry had not risen. If it had not been -for the stiffness of his elbows, and the upright position of his long -feet, which stood on their toes erect as gate-posts, Mr. Pelham might -have thought that he had dropped asleep. - -For a moment the planter stood silent, glancing first at the mass of -ill-clothed humanity at his feet, and then sweeping his eyes over the -quiet, rolling land which lay between him and the farmhouse. How awfully -still everything was! He saw Henry’s cabin near the farmhouse. Lucinda -was out in the yard picking up chips, and one of Uncle Henry’s children -was clinging to her skirts. The planter was very fond of Lucinda, and he -wondered what she would do if she knew he was about to whip her husband. -But why did the fellow not get up? Surely that was an unusual way to -act. In some doubt as to what he ought to do, Mr. Pelham sat down again. -It should not be said of him that he had ever interrupted any man’s -prayers to whip him. As he sat down, the log rolled slightly, the elbows -of the negro slid off the bark, and Henry’s head almost came in contact -with the log. But he took little notice of the accident, and glancing -at his master from the corner of his eye, he deliberately replaced his -elbows, pressed his hands together, and began to pray aloud: - -“Our heavenly Father.” These words were spoken in a deep, sonorous tone, -and as Uncle Henry paused for an instant the echoes groaned and murmured -and died against the hill behind him. Mr. Pelham bowed his head to his -hand. He had heard Henry pray before, and now he dreaded hearing him, he -hardly knew why. He felt a strange creeping sensation in his spine. - -“Our heavenly Father,” the slave repeated, in his mellow sing-song tone, -“Thou knowest that I am Thy humble servant. Thou knowest that I have -brought to Thee all my troubles since my change of heart--that I have -left nothing hidden from Thee, who art my Maker, my Redeemer, an’ my -Lord. Thou knowest that I have for a long time harbored the belief that -the black man has some rights that he don’t git under existin’ laws, but -which, Thy will be done, will come in due time, like the harvest follows -the plantin’. Thou know-est, an’ I know, that Henry Pelham is nigher to -Thee than a dumb brute, an’ that it ain’t no way to lift a nigger up -to beat ’im like a horse or a ox. I have said this to Thee in secret -prayer, time an’ ag’in, an’ Thou knowest how I stand on it, if my master -don’t. Thou knowest that before Thee I have vowed that I would die -before any man, white or black, kin beat the blood out ’n my back. I may -have brought trouble an’ vexation to Marse Jasper, I don’t dispute -that, but he had no business puttin’ me under that low-down, white-trash -overseer an’ goin’ off so far. Heavenly Father, thou knowest I love -Marse Jasper, an’ I would work fer ’im till I die; but he is ready to -put the lash to me an’ disgrace me before my wife an’ children. Give my -arms strength, Lord, to defend myself even against him--against him who -has, up to now, won my respect an’ love by forbearance an’ kindness. -He has said it, Lord--he has said that he will whip me; but I’ve said, -also, that no man shall do it. Give me strength to battle fer the right, -an’ if he is hurt--bad hurt--may the Lord have mercy on him! This I ask -through the mercy an’ the blood of the Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.” - -Henry rose awkwardly to his feet and looked down at his master, who -sat silent on the log. Mr. Pelham’s face was pale. There was a look of -indecision under the pallor. He held one of the switches by the butt in -his hand, and with its tapering end tapped the brown leaves between his -legs. He looked at the imperturbable countenance of the negro for fully -a minute before he spoke. - -“Do you mean to say, Henry,” he asked, “that you are a-goin’ to resist -me by force?” - -“I reckon I am, Marse Jasper, if nothin’ else won’t do you. That’s what -I have promised the Lord time an’ ag’in since Cobb come to boss me. I -wasn’t thinkin’ about you then, Marse Jasper, because I didn’t ’low you -ever would try such a thing; but I said _any_ white man, an’ I can’t -take it back.” - -The planter looked up at the stalwart man towering over him. Henry -could toss him about like a ball. In his imagination he had pictured the -faithful fellow bowed before him, patiently submitting to his blows, -but the present contingency had never entered his mind. He tried to -be angry, but the goodnatured face of the slave he loved made it -impossible. - -“Sit down thar, Henry,” he said; and when the negro had obeyed, he -continued, almost appealingly: “I have told the folks in North Carolina -that I was comin’ home to whip you, you see. I have told yore mistress, -an’ I have told Cobb. I ’ll look like a purty fool if I don’t do it.” - -A regretful softness came into the face of the negro, and he hung his -head, and for a moment picked at the bark of the log with his long -thumbnail. - -“I’m mighty sorry, Marse Jasper,” he answered, after remaining silent -for a while. “But you see I’ve done promised the Lord; you wouldn’t have -me--what do all them folks amount to beside the Lord? No; a body ought -to be careful about what he’s promised the Almighty.” - -Mr. Pelham had no reply forthcoming. He realized that he was simply not -going to whip Uncle Henry, and he did not want to appear ridiculous in -the eyes of his friends. The negro saw by his master’s silence that -he was going to escape punishment, and that made him more humble and -sympathetic than ever. He was genuinely sorry for his master. - -“You have done told ’em all you was goin’ to whip me, I know, Marse -Jasper; but why don’t you jest let ’em think you done it? I don’t keer, -jest so I kin keep my word. Lucinda ain’t a-goin’ to believe I’d take -it, nohow.” - -At this loophole of escape the face of the planter brightened. For a -moment he felt like grasping Henry’s hand: then a cloud came over his -face. - -“But,” he demurred, “what about yore future conduct? Will you mind what -Cobb tells you?” - -“I jest can’t do that, Marse Jasper. Me ’n him jest can’t git along -together. He ain’t no man at all.” - -“Well, what on earth am I to do? I’ve got to have an overseer, an’ I’ve -got to go back to North Carolina.” - -“You don’t have to have no overseer fer me, Marse Jasper. Have I ever -failed to keep a promise to you, Marse Jasper?” - -“No; but I can’t be here.” - -“I ’ll tell you what I ’ll do, Marse Jasper. Would you be satisfied with -my part of the work if I tend all the twenty-acre piece beyond my cabin, -an’ make a good crop on it, an’ look after all the cattle an’ stock, an’ -clear the woodland on the hill an’ cord up the firewood?” - -“You couldn’t do it, Henry.” - -“I ’ll come mighty nigh it, Marse Jasper, if you ’ll let me be my own boss -an’ be responsible to you when you git back. Mr. Cobb kin boss the rest -of ‘em. They don’t keer how much he swings his whip an’ struts around.” - -“Henry, I ’ll do it. I can trust you a sight better than I can Cobb. I -know you will keep yore word. But you will not say anything about--” - -“Not a word, Marse Jasper. They all may ’low I’m half dead, if they want -to.” Then the two men laughed together heartily and parted. - -The overseer and the two white women were waiting for Mr. Pelham in the -backyard as he emerged from the woods and came toward the house. Mrs. -Pelham opened the gate for him, scanning his face anxiously. - -“I was afeard you an’ Henry had had some difficulty,” she said, in a tone -of relief; “he has been that hard to manage lately.” - -Mr. Pelham grunted and laughed in disdain. - -“I ’ll bet he was the hardest you ever tackled,” ventured Cobb. - -“Anybody can manage him,” the planter replied--“anybody that has got -enough determination. You see Henry knows me.” - -“But do you think he ’ll obey my orders after you go back?” Cobb had -followed Mr. Pelham into the sitting-room, and he anxiously waited for -the reply to his question. - -The planter stooped to spit into a corner of the chimney, and then -slowly and thoughtfully stroked his chin with his hand. “That’s the -only trouble, Brother Cobb,” he said, thrusting his fat hands into the -pockets of his trousers and turning his back to the fire-place; “that’s -the only drawback. To be plain with you, Brother Cobb, I’m afeard you -don’t inspire respect; men that don’t own niggers seldom do. I believe -on my soul that nigger would die fightin’ before he’d obey yore orders. -To tell the truth, I had to arrange a plan, an’ that is one reason--one -reason--why I was down thar so long. After what happened today” (Mr. -Pelham spoke significantly and stroked his chin again) “he ’ll mind me -jest as well at a distance as if I was here on the spot. He’d have a -mortal dread of havin’ me come so fur ag’in.” - -“I hope you wasn’t cruel, Mr. Pelham,” said Mrs. Pelham, who had just -come in. “Henry’s so good-hearted--” - -“Oh, he ’ll git over it,” replied the planter, ambiguously. “But, as I -was goin’ on to say, I had to fix another plan. I have set him a sort o’ -task to do while I’m away, an’ I believe he ’ll do it, Brother Cobb. So -all you ’ll have to do will be to look after the other niggers.” The plan -suited Cobb exactly; but when Mr. Pelham came home the following summer -it was hard to hear him say that Uncle Henry had accomplished more than -any three of the other negroes. - - - - -A FILIAL IMPULSE - - -“Yo’ ‘re purty well fixed, Jim; I wish I had yore business.” - -Big Jim Bradley glanced slowly around his store. The heaps of -flour-sacks, coffee-bags, sugar-barrels, piles of bacon, crates of hams, -kits of mackerel, and the long rows of well-filled shelves brought a -flush of satisfaction into his rugged face. - -“Hain’t no reason to complain, Bob,” he said; “you’ve been in Georgia, -an’ you know how blamed hard it is fer a feller to make his salt back -thar.” - -“Now yo’ ‘re a-talkin’--yo’ ‘re a-sayin’ some ‘n’ now!” Bob Lash was -sitting on the head of a potato-barrel, eating cheese and crackers, and -his spirited words were interspersed with little snowy puffs from the -corners of his mouth. “Jim,” he continued, in a muffled tone, as he -eased his feet down to the floor, “I’m a-goin’ to wash this dry truck -down with a glass o’ yore cider; I’m about to choke. Thar’s yore nickel. -You needn’t rise; I can wait on myse’f.” - -“I’d keep my eye open while he was behind the counter, Jim,” put in -Henry Webb, jestingly. “Bob’s got a swallow like a mill-race. He may -take a notion to drink out of yore half-gallon measure.” - -“Had to drink out ’n a thimble, or some ‘n’ ’bout the size of it, at -yore place when you kept a bar,” gurgled Bob in the cider-glass. “But I -hain’t nothin’ ag’in you; the small doses of the stuff you sold was all -that saved my life.” - -The flashily dressed young man sitting at Webb’s side laughed and -slapped him familiarly on the knee. His name was Thornton. He used to -“mix drinks” for Webb, and had been out of employment ever since his -employer’s establishment had been closed by the sheriff, a few months -before. “One on you, Harry,” he said, laughing again at the comical -expression on his friend’s face; “you have to get up before day to get -the best o’ these Georgia mossbacks.” - -Webb said nothing; and Bob, blushing triumphantly under Thornton’s -compliment, and chewing a chip of dried beef that he had found on the -counter, came back to his seat on the barrel. - -“Well, I reckon I _have_ done middlin’ well,” said Jim, bringing the -conversation back to his own affairs with as much adroitness as he was -capable of exercising. “I didn’t have a dollar to my name when I struck -this town, ten year back. I started as a waiter in a restaurant nigh -the railroad shops, then run a lemonade-stand at the park, an’ by makin’ -every lick count, I gradually worked up to this shebang.” - -Henry Webb seemed to grow serious. He glanced stealthily at Thornton -when Jim was not looking, crossed his legs nervously, and said: “Jim, me -an’ you have been dickerin’ long enough; all this roundabout talk don’t -bring us an inch nearer a trade. Now I’m goin’ to make you my last -proposition about this stock o’ goods. My wife got her money out of her -minin’ interest to-day, an’ wants to put it in some regular business o’ -this sort. I’m goin’ to make you a round bid on the whole thing, lock, -stock, an’ barrel, an’, on my honor, it’s my last offer. I ’ll give you -ten thousand dollars in cash fer the key to the door.” - -Everybody in the group was fully conscious of the vital importance -of the words which had just been spoken. Webb, who was a famous -poker-player, had never controlled his face and tone better. No one -spoke for a moment, but all eyes were fixed expectantly on Bradley. -“Huh,” he answered, half under his breath, “I reckon you would!” He -tossed his shaggy, iron-gray head and smiled artificially. His face was -pale, and his eyes shone with suppressed excitement. It was a better -offer than he had expected; in fact, he had not realized before that his -stock was convertible into quite so much ready money, and it was hard -for him, simple and honest as he was, to keep from showing surprise. -“Harry Webb,” he went on, evasively, “do you have any idee what I -cleared last year, not countin’ bad debts an’ expenses? I’m over three -thousand ahead, an’ prospects fer trade never was better. My books will -show you that I am a-givin’ it to you straight.” - -Webb made no reply. If he had been as sure of his own moral worth as he -was of Jim’s he would have been a better man. As it was, he only looked -significantly at Thornton, who had evidently come prepared to play a -part. - -“It ain’t no business o’ mine, fellers, one way or the other,” began -Thornton, slightly confused. He cleared his throat and spat on the -floor. “But I ’ll admit I’m kinder anxious to see Harry get into some -settled business. You know he’s mighty changeable, one day runnin’ some -fortune-wheel or card-table, an’ the next got charge of a side-show, -bar, or skating-rink, and never makes much stake at anything. I told -his wife to-day that I’d do my best to get you fellers to come to a -understanding. That’s all the interest I’ve got in the matter; but I’d -bet my last chip you’d have to look a long ways before you could find -another buyer with that much ready cash such times as these.” - -“Huh, you don’t say!” sneered Jim, a cold gleam of indecision and -excitement in the glance that he accidentally threw to Bob Lash, who -erroneously fancied that his friend wanted him to say something to -offset the remarks made by Webb’s ally. But diplomacy was not one of the -few gifts with which frugal nature had blessed Bob, and when the idea -struck him that he ought to speak, he grew very agitated, and almost -stabbed a hole in one of his cheeks with the long splinter with which he -was picking his teeth. - -“The man that gits it has a purty dead-shore thing fer a comfortable -income,” he blurted out, incautiously. “I wish I had the money to secure -it; I’d plank it down so quick it ‘u’d make yore head swim.” - -Jim flushed. “Nobody hain’t said nothin’ ’bout the shebang bein’ on the -market,” he said, quickly. - -Bob saw his mistake too late to rectify it, so he said nothing. - -Webb smiled, and rose with an easy assumption of indifference and -lighted a fresh cigar over the lamp-chimney. “Tibbs wants to rent me the -new store-room joining you, Jim,” he said, rolling his cigar into the -corner of his mouth and half closing the eye which was in direct line -with the rising smoke. “I kinder thought I’d like them big plate-glass -show-windows. Ten thousand dollars in bran-new groceries wouldn’t be -bad, would they?” - -Jim was taken slightly aback, but he recovered himself in an instant. -“Not ef they was bought jest right, Harry,” he said, significantly. “A -man _mought_ have a purty fair start that way, ef he was experienced; -but law me! I’d hate awful to start to lay in a stock frum these cussed -drummers; they are wholesale bunco-sharks. An’ then, you see, I’ve been -here sence this town fust started, an’ I know who will do to credit an’ -who won’t. My blacklist is wuth five thousand to any man in this line. -Thar’s men in this town that ’ll pay a gamblin’ debt ‘thout a bobble, -an’ cuss like rips at the sight of a grocery bill. But thar ain’t no use -talkin’; I reckon my business ain’t fer sale.” - -Webb turned to Thornton and coolly asked for a match; then the entire -group was silent till Bob Lash spoke. - -“How in the world did you ever happen to come ’way out here, anyway, -Jim?” he asked, obtusely believing that Bradley meant exactly what he -had said in regard to Webb’s proposition, and that for all concerned it -would be more agreeable and profitable to talk about something else. - -“Got tired an’ wanted a change,” grunted Bradley. “I never was treated -exactly right by my folks, an’ was itchin’ awful to make money.” - -“What county did you say you was from?” - -“Gilmer.” - -Webb yawned aloud, puffed at his cigar, and swept the store from end to -end with a rather critical, would-be dissatisfied glance. - -“I passed through thar goin’ from Dalton to Canton,” went on Bob, -warming up. “It’s a purty country through them mountains. What was you -a-follerin’ back thar?” - -“Farmin’ it. Thar was jest three uv us--me an’ brother Joe an’ mother; -but we couldn’t git along together.” - -“What a pity!” said Bob. - -“I al’ays wanted to make money,” went on Jim, “an’ atter the old man -died I was anxious fer me an’ Joe to save up enough to git a farm uv our -own; but he tuk to drinkin’ an’ spreein’ round generally, an’ was al’ays -off jest when the crop needed the most attention. I al’ays was easy -irritated, an’ never could be satisfied onless I was goin’ ahead. Me an’ -Joe was eternally a-fussin’, an’ mother al’ays tuk his part. One night -she got rippin’ mad, an’ ‘lowed that she could git along better with ‘im -ef I wasn’t thar to make trouble, an’ so I made up my mind to come West. -I tol’ ’em they was welcome to my intrust in the crap, an that I had had -all I could stand up under, an’ was goin’ off. Mother never even said -farewell, an’ Joe sorter turned up his nose, an’ ‘lowed I’d be writin’ -back an’ beggin’ fer money to git home on ‘fore a month was out. I told -mother ef she ever needed help to write, but she never looked up from -her spinnin’-wheel, an’ from that day to this I hain’t had a scratch of -a pen.” - -“Shorely you didn’t leave a old woman in sech hands as that,” ventured -Bob. - -The expression on Jim Bradley’s face changed. “What was I to do? Ef I’d -‘a’ stayed thar I’d ‘a’ been a beggar to-day,” he said, argumentatively. -“I ‘lowed ef I was sech a bother I’d leave ‘em; but I ’ll admit thar are -times when I think I may ‘a’ been a leetle hasty. An’ I do hanker atter -home folks mighty bad at times, especially when I’m locked up in this -lonely store at night, with nothin’ but my cat fer company. I’ve been -intendin’ to write to mother every day, but some ‘n’ al’ays interferes. I -heerd four year ago, accidentally, that they was gittin’ ’long tolerable -well.” - -“It’s mighty tough on fellers of our age, Jim, to grow old alone in the -world,” sighed Bob, reaching out to the crate for another splinter. -“I’d ruther have less money an’ more rale home comforts. Kin is a great -thing. Brother Sam sent me a pictur’ uv his little gal. I wish I had -it to show you; she’s mighty purty an’ smart-lookin’. It made me mighty -homesick.’ - -“I reckon it did,” said Bradley. “I’ve seed dogs that lived better than -I do. D’ you fellers ever see whar I bunk?” - -“No,” joined in Thornton and Webb, seeing that they were addressed. - -“Come into my parlor, then;” and Jim grinned, broadly. He lifted the -lamp, and holding it over his head, he led them through some curtains -made of cotton bagging into the back room. Empty boxes, hogsheads, -crates, bales of hay, heaps of old iron, and every sort of rubbish -imaginable covered the floor. A narrow bed stood by a window between -a row of dripping syrup-barrels and the greasy wall. “Thar’s whar I -sleep,” said Jim, pointing to the bed. “It hain’t been made up in a -coon’s age. Sometimes old Injun Mary changes the sheets an’ turns the -mattress when she happens along, but it hain’t often. At home I used to -sleep in a big sweet-smellin’ bed that was like lyin’ down in a pile o’ -roses.” - -“I’d think you’d git tired o’ this; I would, by hooky!” declared Bob. -“Whar do you git yore grub?” - -“Fust one place an’ then another; I don’t bother much about my eatin’. -I have to light out o’ bed to wait on the fust one that rattles the -doorknob in the mornin’, an’ am so busy from then on that I cayn’t find -a minute to git a bite o’ breakfast. See my kettle thar? I can make as -good a cup o’ coffee as the next one. Half a cup o’ ground Javy in my -coffeepot, with bilin’ water poured on, an’ then put on the stove to -bile ag’in, does the business. Thar’s my skillet; a cowboy give it to -me. Sometimes I fry a slice o’ streak-o’-lean-streak-o’-fat, ur a few -cracked eggs, but it hain’t half livin’.” - -They walked back and sat down in the store again. Bob had a strange, -perplexed look on his face. Webb was about to make some reference to his -offer, when Bob forestalled him in a rather excited tone. - -“Jim, did yore mother live nigh Ellijay?” - -“‘Bout three miles from town. What in the thunder is the matter? What -are you starin’ at me that way fer?” - -Bob looked down and moved uneasily on the barrel. “I was jest -a-wonderin’--my Lord, Jim! thar was a feller shot the day I passed -through Ellijay. I cayn’t be shore, but it seems to me his name was Joe -Bradley. He was a troublesome, rowdyish sort of a feller, an’ a man had -to shoot ’im in self-defense.” - -Jim stared at the speaker helplessly, and then glanced around at Webb -and Thornton. His great brown eyes began to dilate, and a sickly -pallor came into his face. His breathing fell distinct and harsh on -the profound stillness of the room. His mouth dropped open, but he was -unable to utter a word. - -“He may not ‘a’ been yore brother,” added Bob, quickly, and with -sympathy. “I’m not plumb shore o’ the name, nuther. I was helpin a man -drive a drove of Kentucky hosses through to Gainesville, an’ we got thar -jest atter the shootin’. I heerd the shots myse’f. The coroner held a -inquest, an’ the dead man’s mother was thar. She looked pitiful; she -was mighty gray an’ old an’ bent over. I was standin’ in the edge o’ -the crowd when some neighbor fotch’ ’er up in his wagon, an’ we all made -room for ‘er. She had the pity of every blessed man thar. She jest stood -‘mongst the rest, lookin’ down at the corpse fer some time ‘thout -sayin’ a word to anybody, nur sheddin’ a tear. Then she seemed to come -to ‘erse’f, an’ said, jest as ef nothin’ oncommon had occurred: ‘Well, -gentlemen, why don’t you move ’im under a shelter?’ an’ with that she -squatted down at his head, an’ breshed the hair off ’n his forehead -mighty gentle-like. ‘We are a-holdin’ uv a inquest, accordin’ to law,’ -a big feller said who was the coroner of the town. ‘Law ur no law,’ -she said, lookin’ up at ‘im, her eyes flashin’ like a tiger-cat’s, ‘he -sha ‘n’t lie here in the br’ilin’ sun with no roof over ‘im. Thar wasn’t -no law to keep ’im from bein’ murdered right in yore midst.’ An’ she had -her way, you kin bet on that. The men jest lifted ’im up an’ toted ‘im -into the nighest store an’ put ’im on a cot. The coroner objected, but -them men jest cussed ’im to his face an’ pushed him away as ef he was so -much trash.” - -“Did you take notice o’ the body?” gasped Bradley, finding voice -finally. “What kind of a lookin’ man was he?” - -“Ef I remember right, he had sorter reddish hair an’ blue eyes, an’ -was ’bout yore build. He was a good-lookin’ man.” - -“It was brother Joe,” said Bradley. He was trembling from head to foot -and was deathly pale. “Well, go on,” he said, making a mighty effort to -appear calm; “what about mother?” - -“I don’t know anything more,” said Bob. “I left that same day. I heerd -some talk about her bein’ left destitute, an’ ef I ain’t mistaken, some -said her other son had gone off West an’ died out thar, as nobody had -heerd from him. That’s what made me--” But Bradley interrupted him. He -rose, with a dazed look on his face, and went to his desk, a few feet -away. He sat on the high stool and leaned his shaggy head on a pile of -account-books. An inkstand rolled down to the floor, and a penholder -rattled after it, but he did not pick them up. Then everything was -still. Thornton reached over and took Webb’s cigar to light his own, -instead of striking the match he had taken from his pocket. The two -men exchanged significant glances, and then looked curiously, almost -breathlessly, at the mute figure bowed over the desk. Bradley raised his -head. His eyes were bloodshot, and a tangled wisp of his long hair lay -across his haggard face. - -“How long ago was it, Bob?” he asked, in a deep, husky voice. - -“Two year last May.” - -“My Lord! she may be dead an’ gone by this time, an’ I kin never make -up fer my neglect!” He left the desk and came back slowly. “Kin you git -that money to-night?” he asked, looking down at Webb. - -“Yes; by walkin’ up home.” Webb tried to subdue the eager light in his -eyes, which threatened to betray his intense satisfaction at the sudden -change of affairs. - -“Well, go git it. I ’ll pack my satchel while yo’ ‘re gone. I’m goin’ to -leave you fellers fer good, I reckon. I want to git back home. I wish -you luck with the business, Webb. It’s a good investment; we mought -never have traded ef this hadn’t ‘a’ come up.” - -***** - -Jim Bradley was worn out with the fatigue of his long journey when he -alighted from the train in the little town that he had once known so -well. The place had changed so much that he hardly knew which way -to turn. He went into a store. The merchant was at his desk behind a -railing in the rear, and a boy sat in the middle of the floor filling a -patent egg-case with fresh eggs. “Come in,” he said, without looking up, -and went on with his work. Jim put his oilcloth valise on the floor and -sat down in a chair. - -“Some ‘n’ I kin do fer you to-day?” asked the boy, rising, and putting -the lid on the egg-case. - -“No, I b’lieve not to-day, bub,” replied Bradley. “I’ve jest got off ‘n -the train an’ stopped in to ax a few questions. The’ used to be a woman -livin’ on the Starks place ten year ago--a widder woman, Mis’ Jason -Bradley; kin you tell me whar I’d be likely to find ’er now?” - -“I don’t know no sech er person,” said the boy; “mebby Mr. Summers kin -tell.” - -“You mean Joe Bradley’s mother,” said the storekeeper, approaching--“the -feller that was shot over at Holland’s bar?” - -“She’s the one,” said Jim, breathlessly; “is she still alive?” - -“I hain’t heerd nothin’ to the contrary, but I don’t know jest whar she -is now. She was powerful hard up last winter, an’ somebody tuk ’er to -live with ‘em--seems to me it was one o’ the Sanders boys.” - -A woman entered the door and set her basket on the counter. - -“Mis’ Wade ’ll be able to tell you,” continued the merchant, turning to -her; “she lives over in that direction.” - -“What’s that, Mr. Summers?” she asked, carefully untying the cloth that -covered some yellow rolls of butter. - -“This gentleman was askin’ about the widow Bradley, Joe’s mother; do you -know whar she is?” - -“She’s livin’ with Alf Sanders,” replied the woman; “I seed ’er thar -soap-bilin’ as I driv by last Tuesday was a week. Are you any kin o’ -hern?” and she eyed Bradley curiously from head to foot. - -He made no reply to her question, though a warm color had suddenly come -into his face at the words she had spoken. He took up his valise and -looked out at the setting sun. - -“How fer is it out thar?” he asked, a tremor in his voice. “I want to -see ’er to-night.” - -“Three mile, I reckon,” the woman said. “Keep to the big road tel you -cross the creek, an’ then turn off to the right. You cayn’t miss it.” - -He thanked her, and trudged on past the other stores and the little -white church on the hill, and on into the road that led toward the -mountain. Just before entering the woods, he turned and looked back at -the village. - -“O Lord, I’m glad I ain’t too late entirely,” he said; and he took a -soiled red handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes. “I don’t -know what I would ‘a’ done ef they’d ‘a’ said she was gone. But I ‘ll -never see Joe ag’in, an’ that seems quar. Poor boy! me an’ him used to -be mighty thick when we was little bits o’ fellers. I kin remember when -he’d ‘a’ fit a wildcat to help me, an’ I got mad at him fer drinkin’ -when he wasn’t able to he’p hisse’f. I’d hold my peace ef it was to do -over ag’in.” - -Sanders’ house was a low, four-roomed log cabin which sat back under -some large beech-trees about a hundred yards from the road. Sanders -himself sat smoking in the front yard, surrounded by four or five -half-clad children and several gaunt hunting-dogs. He was a thin, wiry -man, with long brown hair and beard, and dark, suspicious eyes set close -together. He did not move or show much concern as Jim Bradley, just at -dusk, came wearily up the narrow path from the bars to the door. - -“Down, Ski! Down, Brutus!” he called out savagely to his barking dogs, -and he silenced their uproar by hurling an ax-helve among them. - -“This is whar Alf Sanders lives, I reckon,” said Bradley. - -“I’m the feller,” replied Sanders. “Take a cheer; thar’s one handy,” and -he indicated it with a lazy wave of his pipe. - -Jim sat down mutely. Through the open door in one of the rooms he -could see the form of a woman moving about in the firelight. He fell -to trembling, and forgot that he was under the curious inspection of -Sanders and his children. A moment later, however, when the fire blazed -up more brightly, he saw that it was not his mother whom he had seen, -but a younger woman. - -“Yo’ ‘re a stranger about here?” interrogated Sanders, catching his eye. - -“Hain’t been in this country fer ten year,” was the laconic reply. “My -name’s Bradley--Jim Bradley; I’ve come back to see my mother.” - -“My stars! We all ‘lowed you was dead an’ buried long ‘go!” and Sanders -dropped his pipe in sheer astonishment. “Well, ef that don’t take the -rag off ’n the bush! Mary! Oh, Mary!” - -“What ails you, Alf?” asked a slatternly woman, emerging from the -firelight. - -“Come out here a minute. This is the old woman’s son Jim, back from the -West.” - -“Yo’ ‘re a-jokin’,” she ejaculated, as she came slowly in open-eyed -wonder toward the visitor. “Why, who’d ‘a’ thought--” - -“Whar is she?” interrupted Bradley, unceremoniously. “I’ve come a long -ways to see ‘er.” - -“She’s out thar at the cow-lot a-milkin’. She tuk ’er bucket an’ the -feed fer Brindle jest now.” - -His eyes followed hers. Beyond a row of alder-bushes and a little -patch of corn he saw the dim outlines of a log stable and lean-to shed -surrounded by a snake fence. Away out toward the red-skied west lay -green fields and meadows under a canopy of blue smoke, and beyond -their limits rose the frowning mountains, upon the sides of which long, -sinuous fires were burning. - -“I reckon I ort not to run upon her too sudden,” he said, awkwardly, -“bein’ as she ain’t expectin’ me, an’ hain’t no idee I’m alive. Is she -well?” - -“Toler’ble,” replied Mrs. Sanders, hesitatingly. “She’s been complainin’ -some o’ headaches lately, an’ her appetite ain’t overly good, but she’s -up an’ about, an’ will be powerful glad to see you. She talks about you -a good deal of late. Jest atter yore brother Joe’s death she had ‘im -on her mind purty constant, but now she al’ays has some ‘n’ to say about -Jim--that’s yore name, I believe?” - -He nodded silently, not taking his eyes from the cow-lot. His valise -rolled from his knees down on to the grass, and one of the children -restored it to him. - -“Yes, that is a fact,” put in Sanders. “She was talkin’ last Sunday -about her two boys. She al’ays calls you the steady one. You ort to be -sorter cautious. Old folks like her sometimes cayn’t stand good news any -better ’n bad.” - -“I ’ll be keerful.” His voice sounded husky and deep. “Does she--” he -went on hesitatingly--“does she work fer you around the place?” - -Sanders crossed his legs and cleared his throat. “That was -the understandin’ when we agreed to take ‘er,” he said, rather -consequentially. “She was to make ‘erse’f handy whenever she was able. -My wife has had a risin’ on ’er arm an’ couldn’t cook, an’ we’ve had -five ur six field hands here to the’r meals. The old critter was willin’ -to do anything to git a place to stay. The’ wasn’t any-whar else fer ‘er -to go. She’s too old to do much, but she’s willin’ to put ’er hands to -anything. We cayn’t complain. She gits peevish now an’ then, though, an’ -‘er eyesight an’ memory’s a-failin’, so that she makes mistakes in the -cookin’. T’other day she salted the dough twice an’ clean furgot to put -in sody.” - -“She’s gittin’ into ’er second childhood,” added Mrs. Sanders, “an’ she -ain’t got our ways in church notions, nuther. She’s a Baptist, you know, -an’ b’lieves in emersion of the entire body an’ in close communion -an’ sechlike, while the last one of us, down to little Sally thar, is -Methodists. She goes whar we do to meetin’ ‘ca’se her church is too fer -off an’ we use the hosses Sundays.” - -Bradley’s face was hidden by the dusk and the brim of his slouch hat, -and they failed to notice the hot flush that rose into his cheeks. He -got up suddenly and put his valise on a chair. “I reckon I mought as -well walk out to whar she is,” he said. “She won’t be apt to know me. -I’ve turned out a beard an’ got gray sence she seed me.” - -“I ’ll go’long with you.” But Mrs. Sanders touched her husband on the -arm as he was rising. “It ‘u’d look more decent ef you’d leave ‘em -to the’rselves, Alf,” she whispered. He sat down without a word, and -Bradley walked away in the dusk to meet his mother. There was a blur -before the strong man’s eyes, and a strange weakness came over him as -he leaned against the cow-lot fence and tried to think how he would make -himself known to her. Beneath the low shed, a part of the crude stable, -he saw the figure of a woman crouched down under a cow. “So, so, Brin’!” - she was saying softly. “Cayn’t you stan’ still a minute? That ain’t no -way to do. So, so!” - -His heart sank. It was her voice, but it was shrill and quivering, and -he recognized it only as one does a familiar face under a mask of age. -Just then, with a sudden exclamation, she sprang up quickly and placed -her pail on the ground out of the cow’s reach. He comprehended the -situation at a glance. The calf had got through the bars and was sucking -its mother. - -“Lord, what ’ll I do?” cried the old woman, in dismay; and catching the -calf around the neck, she exerted all her strength to separate it from -the cow. - -Bradley sprang over the fence and ran to her assistance. - -“Le’ me git a hold o’ the little scamp,” he said, and the next instant -he had the sleek little animal up in his strong arms. “Whar do you want -‘im put?” he asked, drily, turning to her. - -“Outside the lot,” she gasped, so astonished that she could hardly utter -a word. - -He carried his struggling burden to the fence and dropped it over, and -fastened up the bars to keep it out. - -“Well, ef that don’t beat all!” she laughed, in great relief, when he -turned back to her. “I am very much obleeged. I ‘lowed at fust you was -one o’ the field hands.” He looked into her wrinkled face closely, -but saw no sign of recognition there. She put the corner of her little -breakfast-shawl to her poor wrinkled mouth and broke out into a low, -childlike laugh. “I cayn’t help from being amused at the way you tuk -up that calf; I don’t know” (and the smile left her face) “what I’d ‘a’ -done ef you hadn’t ‘a’ come along. I never could ‘a’ turned it out, an’ -Alf’s wife never kin be pacified when sech a thing happens. We don’t git -enough milk, anyway.” - -“Le’ me finish milkin’,” he said, keeping his face half averted. - -She laughed again. “Yo’ ‘re a-jokin’ now; I never seed a _man_ milk a -cow.” - -“I never did nuther tel I went out West,” he replied. “The Yankees out -thar showed me how. I’m a old bach’, an’ used to keep a cow o’ my own, -an’ thar wasn’t nobody but me to tend ‘er.” - -She stood by his side and laughed like a child amused with a new toy -when he took her place at the cow, and with the pail between his knees -and using both hands, began to milk rapidly. - -“I never seed the like,” he heard her muttering over and over to -herself. Then he rose and showed her the pail nearly filled. “I reckon -that calf ‘u’d have a surprise-party ef he was to try on his suckin’ -business now,” he said. “It serves ’im right fer bein’ so rampacious.” - -“Law me! I never could git that much,” she said, and she held out her -hand for the pail, but he swung it down at his side. “I ’ll tote it,” he -said; “I’m a-goin’ back to the house. I reckon I ’ll put up thar fer the -night--that is, ef they ’ll take me in.” - -“I’ve jest been lookin’ at you an’ wonderin’,” she said, reflectively, -after they had passed through the bars. “My hearin’ an’ eyesight is -bad, an’ so is my memory of faces, but it seems like I’ve seed somebody -some’r’s that favors you mightily.” - -He walked on silently. Only the little corn-patch was between them -and the group in the yard. He could hear Sanders’s drawling voice, and -caught a gleam of the kitchen fire through the alder-bushes. - -“You better le’ me take the bucket,” she said, stopping abruptly and -showing some embarrassment. “Yo’ ‘re mighty gentlemanly; but Alf’s wife -al’ays gits mad when I make at all free with company. The whole family -pokes fun at me, an’ ‘lows I am childish, an’ too fond o’ talkin’. They -expect me jest to keep my mouth shet an’ never have a word to say. -It cayn’t be helped, I reckon, but it’s a awful way fer a old body to -live.” - -“That’s a fact!” he blurted out, impulsively, still holding to the pail, -on which she had put her hand. “It’s the last place on earth fer you.” - -“I hain’t had one single day o’ enjoyment sence I came here,” she -continued, encouraged to talk by his manifest sympathy. “I reckon I ort -to be thankful, an’ beggars mustn’t be choosers, as the feller said; fer -no other family in the county would take me in. But it hain’t no place -fer a old woman that likes peace an’ rest at my time o’ life. I work -hard all day, an’ at night I need sound sleep; but they put the children -in my bed, an’ they keep up a kickin’ an’ a squirmin’ all night. Then, -the’ ain’t no other old women round here, an’ I git mighty lonesome. -Sometimes I come as nigh as pease givin’ up entirely.” - -“Thank the Lord, you won’t have to stand it any longer!” he exclaimed, -hotly. - -She started from him in astonishment, and began to study his features. -At that juncture two of Sanders’s little girls drew near inquisitively. -“Here!” and he held the pail out to them. “Take this milk to yore -mammy.” One of them, half frightened, took the pail, and both scampered -back to the house. - -“Yo’ ‘re a curi’s sort of a man,” she said, with a serious kind of -chuckle, as she drew her shawl up over her white head. “I wouldn’t ‘a’ -done that fer a dollar. You skeered Sally out ’n a year’s growth. I used -to have a boy, that went away West ten year ago, who used to fly up like -you do, an’ you sorter put me in mind of him, you do. He was the best -one I had. I could allus count on him fer help. He was as steady-goin’ -as a clock. He never was heerd from, an’ the general belief is that he -died out thar.” - -There was a moment’s pause. He seemed trying to think of some way to -reveal his identity. “You ortn’t to pay attention to everything you -hear,” he ventured, awkwardly. “Who knows? Mebby he’s still alive--sech -things ain’t so almighty oncommon. Seems like I’ve heerd tell o’ a -feller named Bradley out thar.” - -“I reckon it wasn’t Jim,” she sighed. “It was my daily prayer fer a long -time that he mought come back, but thar ain’t no sech luck fer me. I’ve -done give up. I am a destitute, lonely woman, an’ I cayn’t stan’ all -this commotion an’ wrangle much longer. Ef I had him to work fer now, -I wouldn’t keer; I’d wear my fingers to the bone; but fer people that -ain’t no speck o’ kin an’ hain’t no appreciation fer what a body does -it’s different.” The corners of her mouth were drawn down, and she put -her thin hand up to her eyes. - -“I don’t b’lieve you’d know ’im ef you was to see ‘im,” he said, -laughing artificially and taking her hand in his. - -She started. A shiver ran through her frame, and her fingers clutched -his convulsively. “What do you mean?” she gasped. “Oh, my Lord, what -does the man mean?” - -“The’ ain’t much doubt in my mind that he’s alive an’ ort to have a -thousand lashes on his bare back fer neglectin’ his old mammy,” he said, -trying to hide the tremor in his voice. - -A startled light of recognition dawned in her eyes and illumined her -whole visage. She stared at him with dilating eyes for an instant, and -then fell into his arms. “Oh, Jim, I declare I cayn’t stan’ it! It will -kill me! It will kill me!” she cried, putting her arms about his neck -and drawing his head down to her. - -“I’m as glad as you are, mother,” he replied, tenderly stroking her -white hair with his rough hand; “no feller livin’ ever wanted to see his -mammy wuss.” - -Then there seemed nothing further for either of them to say, and so -he led her on to the house and to the chair he had left a few moments -before. - -“I’ve let the cat out ’n the bag,” he said, shamefacedly, answering their -glances of inquiry. “I had to mighty nigh tell her point-blank who I -was.” - -“I never ‘lowed I’d see ’im ag’in,” Mrs. Bradley faltered, in a low, -tearful tone. “I am that thankful my heavenly Father let me live to this -day. I’d suffer it all over an’ over ag’in fer this joy.” - -Sanders was silent, and his wife; and the children, barelegged and -dirty-faced, sat on the grass and mutely watched the bearded stranger -and his mother in childish wonder. Bradley said nothing, but he moved -his chair nearer to his mother’s and put his strong arm around her. -Sanders broke the silence. - -“What have you been follerin’, Bradley?” he asked. - -“Sellin’ goods.” - -“Clerkin’ fer somebody?” - -“No; had a ‘stablishment o’ my own.” - -“You don’t say!” and Sanders looked at Bradley’s seedy attire and then -at his wife significantly. - -“Yes; I made some money out thar. The night ‘fore I left, a feller -offered me ten thousand dollars in cash fer my stock o’ goods, an’ I tuk -‘im up. I didn’t wait to put on my Sunday clothes; these is the things I -worked in, handlin’ dirty groceries. I hain’t the pertic’lar sort. I’ve -got some bonds an’ rale estate that kin remain jest as well whar they -are at present. I’ve come back here to stay with mother. I couldn’t -stand it to be alone much longer, an’ I wouldn’t ax ’er to move to a new -country at ’er age.” - -Sanders and his wife stared at him in astonishment. Mrs. Bradley -leaned forward and looked intently into his face. She was very pale and -quivered with new excitement, but she said nothing. - -“My Lord, you’ve had luck!” exclaimed Sanders, thinking of something -to say finally. “What on earth are you gwine to invest in here, ef it -hain’t no harm to ax?” - -“I ‘lowed I’d buy a big plantation. They are a-goin’ cheap these times, -I reckon. I want a place whar a livin’ will come easy, an’ whar I kin -make mother comfortable. She’s too old to have to lay ’er hand to a -thing, ur be bothered in the least. I want to be nigh some meetin’-house -of her persuasion, an whar she kin ‘sociate with other women o’ her age. -I don’t expect to atone fer my neglect, but I intend to try my hand at -it fer a change.” Mrs. Bradley lowered her head to her son’s knee, and -began to sob softly. Then Mrs. Sanders got up quickly. “I smell my bread -a-burnin’,” she said. “I ’ll call y’all into supper directly. We hain’t -pretendin’ folks, Mr. Bradley, but yo’ ‘re welcome to what we got. You -needn’t rise, Mrs. Bradley; I kin fix the table.” - - - - -THE SALE OF UNCLE RASTUS - - -|Aunt Milly’s cabin was brightly illuminated. Crude tallow dips in the -necks of cracked jugs and bottles spangled a dark clothless table, a -slanting heap of blazing logs filled the wide rock-and-mud chimney, and -a bonfire of pine knots at the “wash-place” near the door outside threw -a red light far down the road which led past a row of cabins to the -residence of Aunt Milly’s owner, Mr. Herbert Putnam. - -The season’s crop of corn had been hauled up from the fields to the -cribs. Frost had come; persimmons were ripe, and Aunt Milly was going to -give the first opossum supper of the fall. Her two boys, Len and Cæsar, -had caught two fat opossums the night before, and she had dressed the -game and left it in a couple of pans out on the roof--“ter let de fros’ -bite de wil’ taste out ’n it en tender it up ‘fo’ bilin’ en bakin’.” She -had given this explanation to her husband, Uncle Rastus, who had been -irritated by her rising two or three times in the night “ter see ef dem -cats wuzn’t atter dat meat.” - -Uncle Rastus was sick; he had taken a severe cold, which had settled -on his lungs and given him a cough. Hearing the negroes singing as they -came through the fields from the neighboring plantations, he left -his bed in the lean-to shed and hobbled slowly into the glare of -candlelight. He sniffed the aroma of coffee and baked meat and intently -surveyed the preparations his wife had made. - -“I heer um--dat Nelse’s tenor en Montague’s bass; dey all comin’. I -never heer sech er racket!” As he spoke he put a quilt down on the floor -in the chimney-corner and lay down and pushed out his long bare feet to -the fire. - -“I reckon I got my heerin’,” she replied, eying him reprovingly. “Look -a-heer, Rastus, who seh you might git up? You know you gwine hat er wuss -achin’ dan ever in yo’ ches’ ef you lie dar over dem cracks des atter -you got out ’n dat warm bed.” - -“Lemme ‘lone,” he said, in an offhand tone; “you reckon I ain’t gwine -be at yo’ ’possum supper, en mebby it de las’ night on dis yer -plantation--huh?” - -His words evoked no reply, for the guests were now near the door, -and she had advanced to meet them. Nelse and Montague, two tall, lank -negroes, slouched in and dropped their hats on the floor. They were -followed by Aunt Winnie and her husband and a crowd of negroes of all -ages and sizes. As the guests filed in at the door and huddled round the -fire and Rastus’s perpendicular feet, each put a silver quarter into a -bowl on the end of the table. - -“I don’t ‘grudge you mine, Aunt Milly,” said Aunt Winnie, feelingly. “My -goodness, you is hat ernough trouble, wid yo’ marster bein’ so po’ -en Une’ Rastus so sickly en y’all gwine be put up on de auction-block -ter-morrer en no idee whar you gwine nex’. How much y’ reckin you gwine -ter fetch, Aunt Milly?” - -For reply Aunt Milly simply shrugged her fat shoulders as she went round -among her guests and took their bonnets and shawls, which she piled -promiscuously on a chest in the corner. - -“She’s wuff all she ’ll bring, I boun’ yer,” said Nelse, who was standing -almost astride of Rastus’s head. “As for me, Aunt Milly, I’d er sight -ruther be put up on de auction-block at de court-house dan ter be sol’ -in er slave-mart. Dey hat me on sale in New Orleans fur two weeks han’ -runnin’, settin’ bolt up in er long room wid er passel er niggers dey -call Cre-owls, en people constant er-lookin’ at me en axin’ my price. -Dey feed you on de fat er de lan’ en keep you dressed up, but you never -know is yer gwine ter be er ditch-digger ur somebody’s ca’ge-driver. -On de block it soon over en you know whar you gwine, en ef er nigger is -sharp he kin manage er li’l en git on de good side er some white man he -likes.” - -“Marse Geo’ge Putnam ’ll buy y’all, you know he will,” remarked Aunt -Winnie to Ras-tus, who had sat up on his quilt and been listening -eagerly to Nelse. “He ’ll be on’y too glad er de chance ter spite Marse -Herbert en rake in some mo’ uv his paw’s old slaves. He already bought -up all de lan’ ‘cep’ de li’l patch Marse Herbert’s house stan’ on, en -now de house en dis yer fambly er niggers is all dat is lef’ fer ’im ter -want. My white folks seh ten yeer ergo dat Marse Geo’ge never will res’ -satisfied till his po’ brother is flat on his back destitute. Seem lak -he in his glory when he hear dat suppen o’ Marse Herbert’s is up fer -sale, so he kin buy it in. I hain’t never seed two sech brothers; dey -hain’t ‘change one word in ten yeer; en all kase ole Marse Putnam lef’ -Marse Herbert de ol’ home place en want ’im ter hol’ on ter it.” - -Uncle Rastus looked up suddenly. His face was full of angles, and -his dark eyes flashed in the firelight. “I hope he won’t buy me,” he -grunted; “ef I cayn’t stay wid Marse Herbert, de younges’ en po’es’ er -ol’ marster’s chillun, I want ter go clean off ’mongst strangers. Dis -_me_ er-talkin’!” - -The pathos of this remark struck most of the listeners; but Montague, -who, for reasons of his own, disliked old Rastus, was unmoved by it. -“You needn’t trouble ’bout whar _you_ gwine,” he said, with contemptuous -emphasis on the “you,” and he pushed a little black girl to one side -that he might watch the effect of his words on Rastus. “De won’t be any -big scramblin’ atter you; who want ter buy er nigger des ter git ter -bury ’im dese hard times?” - -“Be ershamed, Montague,” remonstrated Aunt Winnie; “be ershamed er -yo’se’f!” - -“He ain’t got no raisin’!” blurted out Aunt Milly. “Unc’ Rastus ain’t -gwine ter listen ter dat black fool.” - -“I des know what white folks seh, dat’s all,” insinuated Montague, -sullenly. “Marse Herbert come over ter see my marster ter-day, en -I heerd um talkin’ in de stable-yard. Marse Herbert ’low he’d been -countin’ on payin’ off his pressin’ debt wid whut dis fambly er niggers -would fetch, en’d laid his plans ter hol’ on ter his house en go Wes’ -en mek money ter pay de in_trust_ en lif’ de mortgage, but des den -Une’ Rastus, de mos’ valuables’ one, tuk sick, en now Aunt Milly an’ de -chillun won’t fetch ernough ter do much good.” - -This announcement produced an impression. Aunt Milly was plainly too -much astonished even to protest against the brutality of the revelation. -Rastus took a fresh hold on his thin knees with his arms, coughed deeply -and painfully, and looked Montague straight in the eyes. - -“Is you tellin’ de trufe?” he asked, “_Is_ you?” - -“I hain’t no reason to tell you er lie, Unc’ Rastus.” - -From that moment Montague had the contempt of the whole room. Aunt -Milly was evidently recompensed by this, for she simply looked into the -sympathetic faces around her and made no sound. Rastus lay back on his -quilt silently, and languidly thrust his feet back to the fire. - -Aunt Milly’s voice sounded cold and equivocal in her effort to smother -her emotions when she said, “Well, come on, y’all, an’ git yo’ ‘possum -an’ biscuit ‘fo’ dey git co’.” The last words of her invitation were -drowned in the scrambling and shuffling of feet as the crowd surged -toward the table. A whole opossum embedded in a great heap of fried -sweet potatoes was placed by Len and Cæsar on each end of the long -table, and Aunt Milly followed them with a great bucket of coffee and -pans of smoking biscuits. - -They were all seated and had begun the feast, when, to their -astonishment, Rastus rose and staggered to a vacant place at the end of -the table. - -“Whar my ‘possum, Aunt Milly?” he demanded, with pretended pique. “On my -soul, I b’lieve you tryin’ ter lef’ me out.” - -“Go back ter yo’ bed, Rastus,” she scolded, gently. “What kin got in -you? you ain’t eat nothin’ in er mont’ ‘cep’ er li’l soup en gravy, en -now you want ter founder yo’se’f on ’possum meat.” - -He shoved his plate impatiently toward her. “Gimme some er dem taters en -dat ‘possum. You heer me?” - -“You too sick, Rastus,” protested Aunt Milly, with maternal -persuasiveness. “Go lie down, en I ’ll fix you some er yo’ good soup.” - -“I know I _wuz_ sick,” he replied; “but I want ter tell y’all, I ain’t -now; I’m cuored well en soun’.” As he spoke these words, accompanied by -a heroic attempt to hold himself erect in his chair, Aunt Milly recalled -the strange look of desperate determination that had possessed his face -when Montague had finished speaking, and she kept silent. Both sides of -the long table were curiously looking at the invalid. “I’m er li’l weak -yit, but I ain’t sick,” he went on, bracing himself with a thin hand -on each side of the table. “You know dat conjure doctor on de river -plantation? Well, he come by here dis mawnin’ ‘fo’ day, he did--des ez I -wuz gittin’ up ter git er armful er firewood, en--” - -“Why, you know dat ain’t so, Unc’ Ras-tus,” broke in Aunt Milly, “kase I -got up fus’ dis mawnin’, en you wuz soun’ ersleep.” - -“‘Twuz long ‘fo’ you got up, Aunt Milly,” added the old man, glibly, as -he warmed up to his fiction. “Well, dat conjure doctor rode by de do’ on -er white hoss, he did, en seh to me, ‘Rastus, you sick, en you mus’ git -well ‘fo’ yo’ marster puts you up for sale, so you kin bring what you -is wuff ter he’p him out ’n his scrape.’ En he up en ax me has I my -rabbit-foot erbout me, en I tuk it out ’n my weskit pocket, en he seh, -‘Well, put it in de hot ashes in de back er de chimbly tell you hear -er dog bark, en den tek it out en wash it clean in spring-water, en den -keep it by you night en day,’ en when I done ez he tol’ me I got well.” - -A chorus of wondering ejaculations rose from the superstitious -listeners, and for a moment opossum meat and potatoes were forgotten. -Aunt Milly looked at her husband tenderly. “Dat nigger would die fer -Marse Herbert,” she thought. “He dat sick now he cayn’t hol’ his haid -up; de sight er dat ’possum meat is gaggin’ ‘im, but he ’ll kill me ef I -let on.” - -“I don’t want yo’ ol’ ’possum meat,” said Rastus, rising and moving back -to the fire. “I’m gwine ter lie down an’ git rested up fer ter-morrer. -Ef dey ’ll let me, I ’ll dance er breakdown on dat auction-block en turn -one er my han’-springs.” - -“He certny is cuored,” said Aunt Winnie, gladly. “Dese conjure doctors -beat de ol’ sort all ter pieces.” - -The supper over, Aunt Milly slowly counted out her earnings and put them -away; the table was moved back against the wall; Nelse got out his bones -and began to play, and Len and Cæsar danced jigs till they sank to -the floor in exhaustion. After this, plantation songs were sung, -ghost-stories were told, and it was late when they went back to their -homes. - -The following day was a fine one. The air was bracing, and the sun shone -brightly. The autumnal foliage had never appeared more beautiful; every -color in nature seemed lavished on the hills near by, and the mountains, -twenty miles away, blue as the skies in spring and summer, had faded -into a beautiful pink. - -The court-house and auction-block were in a village two miles from the -plantations of the two Putnam brothers. Uncle Rastus and his family were -sent over in the wagon of Herbert Putnam’s overseer, and Lawyer Sill -came by in his buggy and drove Herbert to the sale. - -“I thought I would stay away and let you attend to it for me,” said -Herbert Putnam; “but my daughter thinks I ought to go. Brother George -will be there to bid them in. He wouldn’t miss the opportunity to -humiliate me again for anything.” - -“You ought to be on hand,” replied Sill, as the other got into the -buggy. “Your negroes worship you, and would feel hurt if you were -not present. Your brother has acted very badly, and has made himself -unpopular by it.” - -“It was my father’s wish that I hold the home place, but George never -could forgive me for it. If he had advanced money to me, as he has to -total strangers, I should have paid out all right. He has a better head -for business than I have.” - -A hundred wagons, buggies, and carriages were scattered over the -court-house common, the hitching-racks were hidden by mules and horses, -and a considerable crowd of people, white and black, were clustered -around the auction-block to the right of the court-house door, near -the massive log jail. In the edge of the crowd an old darky was selling -“ground-peas,” and his white-headed wife was threading her way through -the crowd, retailing hot gingerbread from a basket and fresh cider -from a capacious jug with a corncob stopper. In some of the carriages -elegantly dressed ladies sat; young men, the gallants among the -gentry of the county, with broad hats, and trousers in their bootlegs, -conversed with them from the backs of restive mettlesome horses. - -Colonel George Putnam sat in his carriage with his wife and son, but -when his brother drove up with Lawyer Sill, he alighted and approached -his own lawyer, who was talking with a group of planters. - -“Burton,” said he, in a low tone, “remember, you are to bid for me; I -don’t want to be conspicuous, but I will have those negroes. I don’t -want any of my father’s estate to go into the hands of strangers.” - -“All right,” replied Burton; “we won’t have much trouble. Old man Staley -has thrown out some intimation that he intends to do some bidding, but -he’s afraid of his shadow, and when he sees you are in the fight he ‘ll -draw in his horns.” - -“I don’t think so. Staley is no friend of mine, and will try to run the -price up on me out of spite. I looked over them a while ago as they came -up,” the colonel went on, glancing at the wagon in which Uncle Rastus -and his wife and sons were seated. “They all seem in pretty fair -condition except Rastus. He says he has had a little spell of fever, but -that he is all right now.” - -“He is thin, but as sound as a dollar,” said Burton, lightly. “He jumped -out of the wagon just now as nimbly as a kitten and unhitched the mules -in a hurry. I told him I heard he had been sick, and he laughed and said -he could do more work than ten ordinary darkies.” - -“Well, keep your eye on Staley. My brother has wasted everything my -father left him, and I owe it to our name to retain as many of our -old slaves as I can. You told me you would find out the amount of the -mortgage on the old place.” - -“McPherson lent him five thousand on it.” - -“And he expects to make that out West and keep the interest paid! He ‘ll -never do it in the world.” - -Burton glanced across the crowd at the seedy-looking man with the pale -face and iron-gray hair, and his reply was tinged with feeling: - -“You ‘re purty hard on ‘im, colonel; it’s none o’ my business, but he’s -a powerful good fellow. Seems to me, as he was the only brother you -have, you might have helped him a little.” - -The planter’s eye fell, and an angry flush came into his dark face. “You -don’t know anything about it, Burton,” said he, quickly. “I acknowledge -we had some words about the will, but he set afloat the rumors about my -treatment of him when I was a candidate for the legislature, and it was -through him that I was beaten.” - -Burton wished to change the subject. “I see the auctioneer and the -negroes going to the block,” he said. “Look at old Rastus; he prances -around like a two-year-old colt. I reckon you can fatten him up; a -little sickness does ’em good sometimes.” - -The crowd drew closer round the platform upon which the red-faced -auctioneer had sprung and was placing chairs for Rastus and his family. -All of them except Rastus himself seemed awed by the solemnity of the -occasion. “Who gwine buy me?” he laughed, clapping his hands and rubbing -them together. “I been er li’l sick, but I’m pickin’ up now, en kin hol’ -my own wid any nigger in dis county. Who want me? Speak up quick.” - -“Dry up,” laughed the auctioneer, and he playfully jerked off the old -man’s hat and laid it in the latter’s lap. “Don’t you know ernough not -to come ‘fo’ company with yore hat on? Who’s goin’ to sell this batch -of niggers, you or me? Ef you are, I ’ll git down and bid on you. I want -somebody to look after my thoroughbreds.” - -This sally evoked a wave of laughter from the crowd, and Rastus joined -in with as much enjoyment as if he had caused it. Herbert Putnam drew -Sill aside. - -“Rastus is shamming,” he whispered; “he is as sick as he can be right -now. He’s doing it in order to bring a better price, to help me out. Dr. -Wilson said the other day that he might live to be an old man, but that -he’d never be able to work any more.” - -“Good gracious!” ejaculated Sill; “who ever heard the like? He’s a -hero.” - -Herbert Putnam’s eyes glistened and his voice was unsteady as he spoke. -“I’d give my right arm rather than part with him. If I were able, he -and his should be free to-day.” The auctioneer began to gesticulate and -shout: “Six hundred has been bid on Rastus, by Mr. Burton over thar, to -start the game. Only six hundred for one of the best buck negroes in the -county. Seven hundred! That’s right, Mr. Staley; he’s the very man you -want. Seven hundred; eight do I hear it? Thank you; Mr. Burton don’t -intend to take a back seat. All right; nine hundred! Nine-fifty do I -hear it, Mr. Burton? Nine-fifty it is. Mr. Staley has got a thousand -ready for him; a thousand has been bid; anybody else in the fight? Old -Rastus is thin, but he could throw a bull a rod by the tail. One -thousand only on a two-thousand-dollar negro. Do I hear more?” - -George Putnam’s face darkened angrily as he watched the excited features -of old man Staley. He drew Burton’s ear down to his lips: “Bid twelve -hundred, and knock him out and be done with it,” he whispered; “it will -scare him to death.” - -“Twelve hundred,” said Burton, without a change of countenance, and -silence fell on the chattering, speculating crowd; even the voluble -auctioneer showed surprise by not at once echoing the bid. Old Rastus -took advantage of the pause; he sprang up and clapped his hands and -knocked his heels together. “I ain’t no thousand-dollar nigger,” he -cried. “I b’longs ter Marse Herbert Putnam, I does; de ain’t no cheap -nigger on dis yer block.” - -“Twelve hundred dollars!” repeated the auctioneer, impressively, and -there was something vaguely respectful in the way he pushed Rastus back -into his chair. “Twelve hundred! Mr. Staley, don’t back out; you need -‘im wuss than anybody else. Is it twelve-twenty-five?” - -Staley hesitated; his eyes fell before the concentrated stare of the -silent crowd, and then he nodded. A murmur passed through the assembly, -and Colonel Putnam grew white with anger. “Some one has put him up to -this,” he said in a low tone to his agent. “Make it thirteen hundred.” - And the next instant the auctioneer was flaunting the bid in the face of -old Staley. - -Herbert Putnam, unnoticed by any one, elbowed his way through the crowd -to his brother and touched him on the arm. Their eyes met. “Pardon me,” - said Herbert, “but I must speak to you.” - -And George Putnam was drawn beyond the outskirts of the crowd. “I -cannot keep quiet and see you cheated,” faltered Herbert, with his eyes -averted. “A long time ago, when you and I were boys, you stood up for -me, and I cannot forget that we are brothers. Don’t bid any more -on Rastus; he is shamming; he is as sick as he can be, and is only -pretending to be well to bring a high price.” - -The two men gazed into each other’s eyes. George Putnam was quivering -all over, and his face was softening. Impulsively he put out his hand, -as if to apologize for his lack of words. “Let’s not be enemies any -longer,” went on Herbert, as he pressed the extended hand. “I am sick -and tired of this estrangement. I am going away, and I may never come -back. I can’t keep up the old place as father thought I would, and you -are welcome to it. Take it and care for it; mother’s and father’s graves -are on it.” - -George Putnam’s face was working; he strove to reply, but his voice -clogged. He looked toward his son and wife in his carriage, and then -back into his brother’s face. “God forgive me, Herb,” he said; “I’ve -treated you like a dog. Old Rastus has been truer to you than your own -brother. You shall not give up the old place; you must keep it. Wait!” - And with those words he hurried to the platform. - -The auctioneer had been proclaiming Staley’s reckless bid of -thirteen-twenty-five, and the crowd was eagerly taking in the unusual -sight of the two Putnam brothers in close conversation. Colonel Putnam -reached the platform and signed the auctioneer to be quiet. Standing on -the lower step, he was in the view of all. - -“I want Rastus, and I am going to have him,” he said to the upturned -faces. “I want him to give him back to my brother, who has been forced -by my neglect to offer him for sale. Twenty thousand dollars is my -bid--and Rastus is worth every cent of it.” - -No one spoke as Colonel Putnam stepped back into the crowd. Old Rastus -seemed the only one to thoroughly grasp the situation. “Bress de Lawd!” - he exclaimed, and he slapped Aunt Milly on the back. “Dem boys done made -up, en I fotch twenty thousand dollars! Whooee!” - -“Twenty thousand dollars,” said the auctioneer, awkwardly. “Twenty -thousand--do I hear--and sold to Colonel Putnam. I reckon the’ ain’t no -use puttin’ up the others.” - -There was great activity in the crowd. Everybody was trying to see the -two brothers as they went arm in arm to Colonel Putnam’s carriage, and a -moment later, when the vehicle with four occupants turned into the road -leading toward George Putnam’s plantation, a unanimous cheer rose from -the crowd. - - - - -THE CONVICT’S RETURN - - -|The pedestrian trudged down the tortuous declivitous road of the -mountain amidst the splendor of autumn-tinted leafage and occasional -dashes of rhododendron flowers. Now and then he would stop and deeply -breathe in the crisp air, as if it were a palpable substance which was -pleasing to his palate. At such moments, when the interstices of trunks -and bowlders would permit, his eyes, large with weariness, would rest on -a certain farmhouse in the valley below. - -“It’s identical the same,” he said, when he had completed the descent of -the mountain and was drawing near to it. “As fer as I can make out, it -hain’t altered one bit sence the day they tuk me away. Ef ever’thing -seems purtier now, it may be beca’se it’s in the fall of the year an’ -the maple-trees an’ the laurel look so fancy.” - -Approaching the barn, the only appurtenance to the four-roomed house, -farther on by a hundred yards, he leaned on the rail fence and looked -over into the barnyard at the screw of blue smoke which was rising from -a fire under a huge iron boiler. - -“Marty’s killin’ hogs,” he said, reflectively. “I mought ‘a’ picked a -better day fer gittin’ back; she never was knowed to be in a good humor -durin’ hog-killin’.” - -He half climbed, half vaulted over the fence, and approached the woman, -who was bowed over an improvised table of undressed planks on which were -heaped the dismembered sides, shoulders, and hams of pork. His heart -was in his mouth, owing to the carking doubt as to his welcome which -had been oozing into the joy of freedom ever since he began his homeward -journey. But it was not his wife who looked up as his step rustled the -corn-husks near her, but her unmarried sister, Lucinda Dykes. - -“Well, I never!” she ejaculated. “It’s Dick Wakeman, as I am alive!” She -wiped her hand on her apron and gave it to him, limp and cold. “We all -heerd you was pardoned out, but none of us ‘lowed you’d make so straight -fer home.” - -His features shrank, as if battered by the blow she had unwittingly -dealt him. - -“I say!” he grunted. “Whar else in the name o’ common sense would a -feller go? A body that’s been penned up in the penitentiary fer four -years don’t keer to be losin’ time monkeyin’ round amongst plumb -strangers, when his own folks--when he hain’t laid eyes on his--” - -But, after all, good reasons for his haste in returning could not -be found outside of a certain sentimentality which lay deep beneath -Wakeman’s rugged exterior, and to which no one had ever heard him refer. - -“Shorely,” said the old maid, taking a wrong grasp of the -situation--“shorely you knowed, Dick, that Marty has got ’er divorce?” - -“Oh, yes. Bad news takes a bee-line shoot fer its mark. I heerd the -court had granted ’er a release, but that don’t matter. A lawyer down -thar told me that it all could be fixed up now I’m out. Ef I’d ‘a’ been -at home, Marty never would ‘a’ made sech a goose of ‘erse’f. How much -did the divorce set ’er back?” - -“About a hundred dollars,” answered Lucinda. - -“Money liter’ly throwed away,” said the convict, with irrepressible -indignation. “Marty never did quite sech a silly thing while I was at -home.” - -The old maid stared at him, a half-amused smile playing over her thin -face. - -“But it was her money,” she said, argumentatively. “She owned the farm -an’ every stick an’ head o’ stock on it when you an’ ’er got married.” - -“You needn’t tell me that,” said Wakeman, sharply. “I know that; but -that ain’t no reason fer ’er to throw ’er money away gittin’ a divorce.” - -Lucinda filled her hand with salt and began to sprinkle it on a side of -meat. “Law me,” she tittered, “I ’ll bet you hain’t heerd about Marty an’ -Jeff Goardley.” - -“Yes, I have. Meddlin’ busybodies has writ me about that, too,” said -Wakeman, sitting down on the hopper of a corn-sheller and idly swinging -his foot. - -“He’s a-courtin’ of ’er like a broom-sedge field afire,” added the -sister, tentatively. - -“She’s got too much sense to marry ’im after ’er promises to me,” said -the convict, firmly. - -“She lets ’im come reg’lar ev’ry Tuesday night.” - -Wakeman was not ready with a reply, and Lucinda began to salt another -piece of pork. - -“Ev’ry Tuesday night, rain or shine,” she said. - -The words released Wakeman’s tongue. - -“Huh, he’s the most triflin’ fop in the county.” - -“Looks like some o’ the neighbors is powerful bent on the match,” - continued Lucinda, her tone betraying her own lack of sympathy for the -thing in question. “Marty was a-standin’ over thar at the fence jest -‘fore you come an’ whirled all of a sudden an’ went up to the house. She -said she was afeered her cracklin’s would burn, but I ’ll bet she seed -you down the road. I never have been able to make ’er out. She ain’t -once mentioned yore name sence you went off. Dick, I’m one that don’t, -nur never did, believe you meant to steal Williams’s hoss, kase you was -too drunk to know what you was a-doin’, but Marty never says whether -she does ur doesn’t. The day the news come back that you was sentenced I -ketched ’er in the back room a-cryin’ as’ ef ’er heart would break, but -that night ‘Lonzo Spann come in an’ said that you had let it out in the -court-room that you’d be glad even to go to the penitentiary to git a -rest from Marty’s tongue, an’--” - -“Lucinda, as thar’s a God on high, them words never passed my lips,” the -convict interrupted. - -“I ‘lowed not,” the old maid returned. “But it has got to be a sort of -standin’ joke ag’in Marty, an’ she heers it ev’ry now an’ then. But I’m -yore friend, Dick. I’ve had respect fer you ever sence I noticed how you -suffered when Annie got sick an’ died. Thar ain’t many men that has sech -feelin’ fer their dead children.” - -Wakeman’s face softened. - -“I was jest a-wonderin’, comin’ on, ef--ef anybody has been a-lookin’ -after the grave sence I went off. The boys in the penitentiary used to -mention the’r dead once in a while, an’ I’d always tell ’em about my -grave. Pris ‘ners, Lucinda, git to relyin’ on the company o’ the’r dead -about as much as the’r livin’ folks. In the four years that I was in -confinement not one friend o’ mine ever come to ax how I was gittin’ -on.” - -“Marty has been a-lookin’ after the grave,” said Lucinda, in the -suppressed tone peculiar to people who desire to disown deep emotion. -She turned her face toward the house. “I wish you wouldn’t talk about -yore bein’ neglected down thar, Dick. The Lord knows I’ve laid awake -many an’ many a cold night a-wonderin’ ef they give you-uns enough -cover, an’ ef they tuk them cold chains off ’n you at night. An’ I reckon -Marty did, too, fer she used to roll an’ tumble as ef ’er mind wasn’t at -ease.” - -Wakeman took off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves. - -“I’m itchin’ to set in to farm-work ag’in,” he said. “Let me salt fer -you, an’ you run up thar an’ tell ’er I’m back. Maybe she ’ll come down -heer.” - -Lucinda gave him her place at the table, a troubled expression taking -hold of her features. - -“The great drawback is Jeff Goardley,” she said. “It really does look -like him an’ Marty will come to a understandin’. I don’t know railly -but what she may have promised him; he has seemed mighty confident heer -lately.” - -Wakeman shrugged his shoulders and said nothing. He filled his hands -with the salt from a pail and began to rub it on the pork. - -Lingeringly the woman left him and turned up the slight incline toward -the house. His eyes did not follow her. He was scrutinizing the pile of -pork she had salted. - -“Goodness gracious!” he grunted. “Lu-cindy has wasted fifteen pound o’ -salt. Ef I’d ‘a’ done that Marty’d ‘a’ tuk the top o’ my head off. I -wonder ef Marty could ‘a’ got careless sence she’s had all the work to -look after.” - -He had salted the last piece of meat when, looking up, he saw Lucinda -standing near him. - -“She wouldn’t come a step,” she announced, with some awkwardness of -delivery. “When I told ’er you wuz down heer she jest come to the -door an’ looked down at you a-workin’ an’ grunted an’ went back to ‘er -cracklin’s. But that’s Marty.” - -The convict dipped his hands into a tub of hot water and wiped them on -an empty salt-bag. - -“I wonder,” he began, “ef I’d better--” But he proceeded no further. - -“I think I would,” said the angular mind-reader, sympathetically. - -“Well, you come on up thar, too,” Wake-man proposed. “I’ve always -noticed that when you are about handy she never has as much to say as -she does commonly.” - -“I ’ll have to go,” said Lucinda. “Ef Marty gits to talkin’ to you she ‘ll -let the cracklin’s burn, an’ then--then she’d marry Goardley out o’ pure -spite.” - -As the pair reached the steps of the back porch the convict caught a -glimpse of a gingham skirt within, and its stiff flounce as it vanished -behind the half-closed door-shutter suddenly flung an aspect of -seriousness into his countenance. He paused, his foot on the lowest -step, and peered into the sitting-room. Seeing it empty, he smiled. - -“I ’ll go in thar an’ take a cheer. Tell ’er I want to see ‘er.” - -His air of returning self-confidence provoked a faint laugh from his -well-wisher. - -“Yo’ ‘re a case,” she said, nodding her consent to his request. “You are -different frum ‘most anybody else. Somehow I can’t think about you ever -havin’ been jailed fer hoss-stealin’.” - -“It all depends on a body’s feelin’s,” the convict returned. “Down -thar in the penitentiary we had a little gang of us that knowed we wuz -innocent of wrong intentions, an’ we kinder flocked together. All the -rest sorter looked up to us an’ believed we wuz all right. It was a -comfort. I ’ll step in an’ git it over.” - -He walked as erectly as an Indian up the steps and into the -sitting-room. To his surprise Mrs. Wakeman started to enter the room -from the adjoining kitchen, and seeing him, turned and began to beat a -hasty retreat. - -“Hold on thar, Marty,” he called out, in the old tone which had formerly -made strangers suppose that the farm and all pertaining to it had been -his when he married her. - -She paused in the doorway, white and sullen. - -“Ain’t you a-goin’ to tell a feller howdy an’ shake hands?” he asked, -with considerable self-possession. - -“What ’ud I do that fur?” - -“Beca’se I’m home ag’in,” he said. - -“Huh, nobody hain’t missed you.” The words followed a forced shrug. - -“I know a sight better ’n that, Marty,” he said. “I know a woman that -‘ud take a duck fit jest when I was gone to drive the cows home an’ got -delayed a little, would fret consider’ble durin’ four years of sech a--a -trip as I’ve had. Set down here an’ let’s have a talk.” - -“I’ve got my work to do,” she returned, after half a minute of -speechlessness, her helpless anger standing between her and satisfactory -expression. - -“Oh, all right!” he exclaimed. “I ain’t no hand to waste time durin’ -work hours with dillydallyin’. Any other time ’ll do me jest as well. I -‘lowed maybe it would suit you better to have it over with. I must git -out the hoss an’ wagon an’ haul that hog-meat up to the smokehouse. -Whar’s Cato? I ’ll bet that triflin’ nigger has give you the slip ag’in -this hog-killin’, like he always did.” - -Mrs. Wakeman stared at the speaker in a sort of thwarted, defiant -way without deigning to reply; her sneer was the only thing about her -bearing which seemed at all expressive of the vast contempt for him that -she really did not feel. She felt that her silence was cowardly, her -failure to assert her rights as a divorced woman an admission that she -was glad of his return. - -At this critical juncture Lucinda Dykes sauntered into the room and -leaned against the dingy, once sky-blue wall. Her air of interested -amusement over the matrimonial predicament had left her. It had dawned -upon her, now that her sister had taken refuge in obstinate silence, -that a vast responsibility rested on her as intermediary. - -“Cato went with some more niggers to a shindig over at Squire Camp’s -yesterday an’ hain’t showed up sence,” she explained. “Ef I was -you-uns--ef I was Marty, I mean--I’d turn ’im off fer good an’ all. -Dick, sence you went off me nur Marty hain’t been able to do a thing -with ‘im.” - -The convict grunted. It was as if he had succeeded in rolling the last -four years from his memory as completely as if they had never passed. - -“Jest wait till I see the black scamp,” he growled. “I reckon I ’ll have -to do every lick of the work myself.” With that Wakeman turned into the -entry and thence went to the stable-yard near by. - -“He hain’t altered a smidgin’,” Lucinda commented. “It may be kase he -has on the identical same clothes; he’s been a-wearin’ striped ones -down thar, you know, an’ they laid away his old ones. To save me I can’t -realize that he’s been off even a week.” The old maid snickered softly. -“He’s the only one that could ever manage you, Marty. Now Jeff Goardley -would let you have yore own way, but Dick’s a caution! It’s always been -a question with me as to whether a woman would ruther lead a man ur be -led.” - -There was a white stare in Mrs Wakeman’s eyes which indicated that -she was pondering the man’s chief aggression rather than heeding her -sister’s nagging remarks. The sudden appearance of the convict’s -head and shoulders above a near-at-hand window-sill rendered a reply -unnecessary. His face was flushed. - -“Can you-uns tell me whar under the sun the halter is?” he broke forth, -in a turbulent tone. “I tuk the trouble to put a iron hook up in the -shed-room jest fer that halter, an’ now somebody has tore down the hook -an’ I can’t find hair nur hide o’ the halter.” - -Mrs. Wakeman tried to sneer again as she turned aside, and the gaunt -intermediary, spurred on to her duty, approached the window. - -“The blacksmith tuk that hook to mend the harrow with,” she said, with a -warning glance at Marty. “You ’ll find the halter on the joist above the -hoss-trough. Ef I was you, on this fust day, I’d try to--” But Wakeman -had dropped out of sight, and muttering unintelligible sounds indicative -of discomfiture, was striding toward the stable. - -All the rest of that afternoon the convict toiled in the smoke-house, -hanging the meat on hooks along the joists over a slow, partly smothered -fire of chips and pieces of bark. When the work was finished his eyes -were red from smoke and brine. He stabled the horse and fed him, and -then, realizing that he had nothing more to do, he felt hungry. He -wanted to go into the sitting-room and sit down in his old place in the -chimney-corner, but a growing appreciation of the extreme delicacy of -the situation had taken hold of him. He wandered about the stable-yard -in a desultory way, going to the pig-pen, now empty and blood-stained, -and to the well-filled corn-crib, but these objects had little claim -on his interest. The evening shadows had begun to stalk like dank -amphibious monsters over the carpet of turf along the creek-banks, and -pencils of light were streaming out of the windows of the family-room. -Suddenly his eyes took in the woodpile; he went to it, and picking -up the ax, began to cut wood. He was tired, but he felt that he would -rather be seen occupied than remaining outside without a visible excuse -for so doing. In a few minutes he was joined by Lucinda. - -“Dick,” she intoned, “you’ve worked enough, the Lord Almighty knows. -Come in the house an’ rest ‘fore supper; it’s mighty nigh ready.” - -He avoided her glance, and shamefacedly touched a big log he had just -cut into the proper length for the fireplace. - -“Cato, the triflin’ scamp, hain’t cut you-uns a single backlog,” he -said, in a tone that she had never heard from him. - -“We hain’t had a decent one sence you went off, Brother Richard,” she -returned. “An’ a fire’s no fire without a backlog.” - -Their eyes met. She saw that he was deeply stirred by her tenderness, -and that opened the floodgates of her sympathy. She began to rub her -eyes. - -“Oh, Dick, I’m so miser’ble; ef you an’ Marty don’t quit actin’ like you -are I don’t know what I will do.” - -She saw him make a motion as if he had swallowed something; then he -stooped and shouldered the heavy backlog and some smaller sticks. - -“I ’ll give you-uns one more backlog to set by, anyhow,” he said, -huskily. - -She preceded him into the sitting-room and stood over him while he raked -out the hot coals and deposited the log against the back part of the -fireplace. Then she turned into the kitchen and approached her sister, -who was frying meat in an iron pan on the coals. - -“Marty,” she said, unsteadily, “ef you begin on Dick I ’ll go off fer -good. I can’t stand that.” - -Mrs. Wakeman folded her stern lips, as if to keep them under check, and -shrugged her shoulders. That was all the response she made. - -Lucinda turned back into the sitting-room, where the dining-table stood. -To-night she put three plates on the white cloth; one of them had been -Dick’s for years. She put it at the end of the table where he had sat -when he was the head of the house. As she did so she caught his shifting -glance and smiled. - -“I want to make you feel as ef nothin’ in the world had happened, Dick,” - she said. “I’ve been a-fixin’ you a bed in the company-room, but you -jest must be sensible about that.” - -“Law! anything will suit me,” he began. But the entrance of Marty -interrupted his remark. - -She put the bread, the coffee, the meat, and the gravy on the table, and -sat down in her place without a word. Lucinda glanced at Wakeman. - -“Come on, Dick,” she called out. “I ’ll bet yo’ ‘re hungry as a bear.” - -He drew out the chair that had been placed for him and sat down. Now an -awkward situation presented itself. In the absence of a man Marty always -asked the blessing. Lucinda wondered what would take place; one thing -she knew well, and that was that Marty was too punctilious in religious -matters to touch a bite of food before grace had been said by some one. -But just then she noticed something about Wakeman that sent a little -thrill of horror through her. Evidently his long life in prison had -caused him to retrograde into utter forgetfulness of the existence of -table etiquette, for he had drawn the great dish of fried meat toward -him and was critically eying the various parts as he slowly turned it -round. - -“What a fool I am,” he said, the delightful savor of the meat rendering -him momentarily oblivious of his former wife’s forbidding aspect. “I -laid aside the lights o’ that littlest shote an’ firmly intended to ax -you to fry ’em fer me, but--” - -Lucinda’s stare convinced him that something had gone wrong. - -“Marty’s waitin’ fer somebody to ax the blessin’,” she explained. - -“Blessin’? Good gracious!” he grunted, his effusiveness dried up. “That -went clean out ’n my mind. But a body that’s tuk his meals on a tin plate -in a row o’ fellers waitin’ fer the’r turn four years hand-runnin’, -ain’t expected to--” - -He went no further, seeming to realize that the picture he was drawing -was tending to widen the distance between him and the uncompromising -figure opposite him. He folded his hands so that his arms formed a frame -for his plate, and said in a mellow bass voice: “Good Lord, make us duly -thankful fer the bounteous repast that Thy angels has seed fit to spread -before us to-night. Cause each of us to inculcate sech a frame of mind -as will not let us harbor ill will ag’in our neighbors, an’ finally, -when this shadowy abode is dispersed by the light of Thy glory, receive -us all into Thy grace. This we beg in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ. -Amen.” - -He ended in some confusion. A red spot hovered over each of his -cheek-bones. “I clean forgot that part about good crops an’ fair -weather,” he said to Lucinda. “But you see it’s been four yeer sence -I said it over, an’ a man o’ my age oughtn’t to be expected to know a -thing like a younger person.” - -“Help yorese’f to the meat an’ pass the dish to Marty.” replied Miss -Dykes. “Ef I was you, I’d not be continually a-bringin’ up things about -the last four yeer.” - -He made a hurried but bounteous choice of the parts of meat on the dish, -and then gave it over into the outstretched hands of Lucinda. Marty was -pouring out the coffee. She passed the old-fashioned mustache-cup to -her sister, and that lady transferred it to Wakeman. He sipped from it -lingeringly. - -“My Lord!” he cried, impulsively. “I tell you the God’s truth; sech good -coffee as this hain’t been in a mile o’ my lips sence I went--sence I -was heer,” he corrected, as Lucinda’s warning stare bore down on him. - -After that the meal proceeded in silence. When he had finished, Dick -went back to his chair in the chimney-corner near the battered woodbox. -After putting away the dishes and removing the cloth from the table, -Lucinda came and sat down near him. Mrs. Wake-man, casting occasional -furtive glances toward the front door, appropriated her share of the -general silence in a seat where the firelight faded. Richard wore an -unsettled air, as if getting into old harness came as awkward as putting -on the new had come when he married, years before. After a few minutes -he became a little drowsy, and began to act naturally, as if by force of -returning habit. He unlaced his shoes, took them off, rubbed the bottoms -of his feet, thrust those members toward the fire, and worked his toes. -He also took a chew of tobacco. Profound silence was in the room; the -thoughts of three minds percolated through it. Marty picked up the -_Christian Advocate_ and pretended to read, but she dropped it in her -lap and cast another look toward the door. - -The rustling of the paper attracted Richard’s gaze. - -“Is she expectin’--is anybody a-comin’?” He directed the question to -Lucinda. - -“I wouldn’t be much surprised,” was the answer. “It’s Jeff Goardley’s -night.” - -“You don’t say!” Each of the words had a separate little jerk, and the -questioning stare of the convict’s eyes pierced the space intervening -between him and his divorced wife. He spat into the fire, wiped his -mouth with an unsteady hand, and caught his breath. - -Silence again. Lucinda broke it. - -“You hain’t never told us how you happened to git yore pardon,” she -ventured. - -“By a streak o’ luck,” Wakeman said, the languid largeness of his eyes -showing that he was still struggling against the inclination to sleep. -“T’other day the governor sent word to our superintendent that he was -comin’ to see fer hisse’f how we wus treated. The minute I heerd it, I -said to myself, I did, ‘Wakeman, you must have a talk with that man.’ So -the mornin’ he got thar we wus all give a sort of vacation an’ stood up -in rowslike fer inspection. When I seed ’im a-comin’ towards me I jest -gazed at ’im with all my might an’ he got to lookin’ at me. When he got -nigh me he stopped short an’ said: - -“‘Looky’ heer, my man,’ said he; ‘yore face seems mighty familiar to me. -Have I ever seed you before?’ - -“‘Not unless you remember me a-throwin’ up my hat in front o’ the -stan’ an’ yellin’ when you wus stump-speakin’ in Murray jest ‘fore yore -‘lection,’ said I. - -“Then he laughed kinder good-natured like, an’ said: ‘I’m sorry to see a -voter o’ mine in a fix like yo’r ‘n. What can I do fer you?’ - -“‘I want to have a talk with you, yore Honor, an’ that bad,’ said I. - -“‘I am at yore disposal,’ said he. ‘That’s what I’m heer fer. I ’ll ax -the superintendent to call you in a moment. What is yore name?’ - -“‘Richard Wakeman, yore Honor,’ said I. “‘An’ one o’ the best men we -ever had,’ said the superintendent. - -“Well, they passed on, an’ in a few minutes I was ordered to come to -the superintendent’s office, an’ thar I found the governor tilted back -smokin’ a fine cigar. - -“‘You wanted to have some ‘n’ to say to me, Wakeman?’ said he. - -“I eased my ball an’ chain down on the skin of a big-eyed varmint o’ -some sort, an’ stood up straight. - -“‘I did, yore Honor, an’ that bad,’ said I. - -“‘What is it?’ said he. - -“‘I want to put my case before you, yore Honor,’ said I. ‘An’ I’m not -a-goin’ to begin, as every convict does, by sayin’ he ain’t guilty, fer -I know you’ve heerd that tale tell yo’ ‘re heartily sick of it.’ - -“‘But are you guilty?’ said the governor. ‘I _have_ seed men sent up fer -crimes they never committed.’ - -“‘Yore Honor,’ said I, ‘I didn’t no more intend to steal that hoss o’ -Pike Williams’s than you did--not a bit. Gittin’ on a spree about once -a year is my main fault, an’ it was Christmas, an’ all of us was full o’ -devilment. It was at the Springplace bar, an’ Alf Moreland struck me a -whack across the face with his whip, an’ bein’ astraddle of a fine nag -he made off. Pike’s nag was hitched at the rack nigh me, an’, without -hardly knowin’ what I was doin’, I jumped on it an’ spurred off after -Alf. I run ’im nip an’ tuck fer about seven mile, an’ then me an’ him -rid on fer more whisky down the valley. The next day I was arrested, -so drunk they had to haul me to jail in a wagon. They tried me before a -jury o’ men that never did like me, an’ I got five yeer.’ - -“When I stopped thar to draw a fresh breath the governor axed, ‘Is that -what you wanted to say, Wakeman?’ - -“‘Not a word of it, yore Honor,’ said I. ‘I jest wanted to put a -straight question to you about the law. Ef you knowed that a man was -a-sufferin’ a sight more on account of imprisonment than his sentence -called fer, would that be right?’ - -“The governor studied a minute, then he kinder smiled at the -superintendent, an’ said: - -“‘That’s a question fer the conscience. Ef a man is imprisoned fer a -crime, an’ jail life breaks his health down, an’ is killin’ ‘im, then he -ort to be pardoned out.’ - -“Then I had ’im right whar I wanted ‘im, an’ I up an’ told ’im that -I had a wife that was all the world to me, an’ that durin’ my term -mischievous folks had lied ag’in me an’ persuaded ’er to git a divorce, -an’ that a oily-tongued scamp was a-tryin’ to marry ’er fer what little -land she had. I reminded ’im that I was put in fer stealin’, an that I -had worked four yeer o’ my sentence, an’ that it looked like a good deal -o’ punishment fer jest one spree, but that I wouldn’t complain, bein’ as -I was cured of the liquor habit an’ never intended to put the neck of a -bottle to my mouth ag’in, but that I did kinder want to hurry back home -‘fore too much damage was done. - -“Well, I’m not lyin’ when I say the governor’s eyes was wet. All of a -sudden he helt out his han’ to me an’ said: - -“‘I feel shore you never intended to steal that hoss, Wakeman.’ - -“‘My wife never has believed it fer one instant,’ said the -superintendent. ‘An’ it takes a woman to ferret out guilt.’ - -“The governor tuk a sheet o’ paper an’ a pen an’ said: - -“‘Wakeman, I’m a-goin’ to pardon you, an’ what’s more, I inten’ to send -a statement to all the newspapers that I’m convinced you are a wronged -man. I’ve done wuss than you was accused of in my young days, an’ had -the cheek to run fer the office of governor.’” Then the superintendent’s -wife come in an’ stood up thar an’ cried, an’ axed to be allowed to -unlock my manacles. She got out my old suit--this un heer--an’ breshed -it ‘erself, an’ kept on a-cryin’ an’ a-laughin’ at the same time The -last words that she said to me was: - -“‘Wakeman, go home an’ make up with yore wife; she won’t turn ag’in you -when you git back to the old place whar you an’ her has lived together -so long, an’ whar yore child’s grave is.’” - -The speaker paused. For a man so coarse in appearance, his tone had -grown remarkably tender. Lucinda was staring wide-eyed, with a fixed -aspect of features, as if she were half frightened at the unwonted -commotion within herself and the danger of its appearing on the surface. -Finally she took refuge in the act of raising her apron to her eyes. - -Mrs. Wakeman had excellent command over herself, drawing upon a vast -fund of offended pride, the interest of which had compounded within the -last four years. Just at this crisis the steady beat of a horse’s hoofs -broke into the hushed stillness of the room. Lucinda lowered her apron -with wrists that seemed jointless bone, and stared at her sister. - -“Are you a-goin’ to let that feller stick his head inside that door -to-night?” - -The question was ill-timed, for it produced only a haughty, contemptuous -shrug in the woman from whom it rebounded. Wakeman did not take his eyes -from the fire. They heard the gate-latch click, and then a heavy-booted -and spurred foot fell on the entry step. The next instant the door was -unceremoniously opened and a tall, lank mountaineer entered. He was at -the fag-end of bachelorhood, had sharp, thin features, a small mustache -dyed black, and reddish locks which were long and curling. He wore a -heavy gray shawl over his shoulders. At first he did not see Wakeman, -for his eyes had found employment in trying to discover why Marty had -not risen as he came in. He glanced inquiringly at Lucinda, and then he -recognized Richard. - -“My Lord!” he muttered. “I had no idee you--I ‘lowed you--” - -“I didn’t nuther,” Richard sneered, the red firelight revealing strange -flashes in his eyes. - -For some instants the visitor stood on the hearth awkwardly disrobing -his sinewy hands. Finally, unheeding Lucinda’s admonitory glances toward -the door, and the prayerful current from her eyes to his, he sat down -near Marty. Ten minutes by the clock on the mantelpiece passed, in which -time nothing was heard except the lowing of the cattle in the cow-lot -and the sizzling of the coals when Richard spat. At last a portion of -Wakeman’s wandering self-confidence resettled upon him, and it became -him well. He crossed his legs easily, dropped his quid of tobacco into -the fire, and with a determined gaze began to prod his squirming rival. - -“Lookye heer,” he said, suddenly. “What did you come heer fur, anyhow?” - -Goardley leaned forward and spat between his linked hands. He -accomplished it with no slight effort, for the inactivity of his mouth, -which was not chewing anything, had produced a hot dryness. - -“I don’t know,” he managed to say. “I jest thought I’d come around.” - -“Ride?” - -“Yes, hoss-back.” - -“Do you know whar you hitched?” Goardley hesitated and glanced -helplessly at Marty, who, stern-faced, inflexible, was looking at the -paper in her lap. - -“I hitched under the cherry-tree out thar,” he answered, with scarcely a -touch of self-confidence in his tone. - -“Well, go unhitch an’ git astraddle of yore animal.” - -Goardley blinked, but did not rise. - -“I didn’t have the least idee you had got free, Dick, an’--” - -“Well, you know it now, so git out to that hoss, ur by all that’s -holy--” - -Mrs. Wakeman drew herself erect and crumpled the paper in her bony hand. - -“This is my house,” she said, “an’ I ain’t no married woman.” - -The white fixity of Goardley’s countenance relaxed in a slow grin. -An automatic affair it was, but as he took in the situation it was a -recognition of the aid which had arrived at the last minute. - -Wakeman stood up in his stockinged feet. He was still unruffled. “That’s -a fact; the place is her ‘n,” he admitted. “But I ’ll tell you one article -that ain’t. It’s that thar shootin’-iron on them deer-horns up thar, an’ -ef you don’t git out ’n heer forthwith it ’ll make the fust hole in meat -that it’s made in four yeer. Maybe me ’n Marty _ain’t_ man an’ wife, -but when we wuz married the preacher said, ‘What the Lord has j’ined -together let no man put asunder,’ an’ I ain’t a-goin’ to set still an’ -see a dirty, oily-tongued scamp like you try to undo the Lord’s work. -You know the way out, an’ I was too late fer hog-killin’. I went into -the penitentiary fer jest one spree, but I ’ll go in fer manslaughter -next time an’ serve my term more cheerful--I mought say with Christian -fortitude.” - -Cowardice produced the dominant expression in Goardley’s face. He rose -and backed from the room. The convict thumped across the resounding -floor to the door and looked out after the departing man. - -“Run like a skeered dog,” he laughed, impulsively, as he turned back -into the room. And then he waxed serious as he entered the atmosphere -circling about Marty, who, with a stormy brow, sat immovable, her eyes -downcast. - -“I couldn’t help it, to save me,” he began, apologetically, to her -profile. “But I reckon you an’ me can manage to git along like we used -to, an’ I never would ‘a’ had any respect fer myself ef I had a-let that -scamp set heer an’ think he was a-courtin’ of you right before my eyes.” - -Marty made no reply. A flush of suppressed emotion had risen in her -cheeks and was taking on a deeper tinge. Richard grunted, stepped -half-way back to his chimney-corner, and looked at her again. Seeing -her eyes still averted, he grunted aloud, and went to his chair and -sat down. Several minutes passed. Then Lucinda’s prayerful eyes saw his -hand, now quivering, reach behind him and draw his shoes in front of -him. He put them on, but did not tie the strings. - -“Somehow,” he said, rising, “somehow, now that I come to think of it, I -don’t feel exactly right--exactly as I used to--an’ I reckon, maybe, I -ort to go some’rs else. I reckon, as you said jest now, that in the eyes -o’ some folks you ain’t no married woman, an’ I have been makin’ purty -free fer a jail-bird. Old Uncle Billy Hodkins won’t set his dogs on me, -an’ I ’ll go over thar tonight. After that the Lord only knows whar I -will head fer. Uncle Billy never did believe I was guilty; he’s writ me -that a dozen times.” - -As he moved toward the door, in a clattering, slipshod fashion, Lucinda -fixed Marty with a fierce stare. - -“Are you a-goin’ to set thar an’ let Dick leave us fer good?” she hurled -at her fiercely. - -Marty made no reply save that which was embodied in a would-be defiant -shrug, but the flow of blood had receded from her face. - -“Ef you do, you ain’t no Christian woman, that’s all,” was Lucinda’s -half-sobbing, half-shrieked accusation. “Yo’ ‘re a purty thing to set -up an’ drink the sacrament with a heart in you that the Old Nick’s fire -couldn’t melt.” - -The convict smiled back at his defender from the threshold; then they -heard him cross the entry and step down on the gravel walk. He had -passed the bars and was turning up the side of a little hill, on the -brow of which a few gravestones shimmered in the moonlight, when he -heard his name called from the entry. It was Lucinda’s voice; she came -to him, her hair flying in the wind. - -“I ‘lowed,” he said, sheepishly, as she paused to catch her breath, “I -jest ‘lowed I’d go up thar an’ see ef the water had been washin’ out -round Annie’s grave. The last time I looked at it the foot-rock was a -little sagged to one side.” - -“Come back in the house, Dick,” cried the old maid. “Marty has -completely broke down. She’s cryin’ like a baby. She has been actin’ -stubborn beca’se she was proud an’ afeerd folks would think she was a -fool about you. As soon as I told ’er you didn’t say that about bein’ -willin’ to go to jail to git out ’n reach o’ ’er tongue, she axed me to -run after you. She’s consented to make it up ef we will send over fer -the justice an’ have the marryin’ done to-night.” - -“Are you a-tellin’ me the truth, Lucinda?” - -“As the Lord is my witness.” - -He stared at the farmhouse a moment; then he said: - -“Well, you an’ her git everything ready, an’ I ’ll git Squire Dow an’ the -license. I ’ll be back as soon as I kin.” - - - - -A RURAL VISITOR - - -I - -|Lucinda Gibbs stood in the corner of the rail fence behind her cottage. -Her face was damp with perspiration, and her heavy iron-gray hair had -become disarranged and hung down her back below the skirt of her gingham -sun-bonnet. She was raking the decayed leaves and dead weeds from her -tender strawberry sprouts and mentally calculating on an abundant crop -of the luscious fruit later in the spring. - -“The trouble is I won’t git to eat none of ‘em,” she sighed, as she -looked up and addressed the woman on the other side of the fence. - -“You don’t mean that you are actually a-goin’ shore ‘nough, Mis’ Gibbs?” - exclaimed Betsey Lowry, as she leaned heavily on the top rail. - -The widow reversed her rake and began to pull out the leaves which were -packed between the metal teeth, her face reddening gradually, as if she -were slightly irritated. - -“I’d like to know ef thar’s anything strange about my goin’,” she said, -coldly. “You said you’d feed my cat an’ chickens an’ attend to the cow -fer what she’d give.” - -“Oh, it ain’t because I have the least objection to keepin’ my word -about them things,” said the old maid, quickly. “Goodness knows, me an’ -Joel needs the milk an’ butter bad enough, an’ it ain’t one speck o’ -trouble jest to throw scraps to the cat, an’ meal-dough to the chickens, -but somehow it skeers me to think of a lone woman like you a-goin’ all -the way to New York by yorese’f.” Mrs. Gibbs leaned the rake against the -fence. The flush died out of her face, giving place to a sweet, wistful -expression. - -“Betsey,” she said, tremulously, “tell me the truth. Do you think I -ought to stay at home?” - -The old maid turned to look through the orchard of leafless trees to her -own house not far away. She had reddened slightly. - -“Ef you push me fer a answer, Mis’ Gibbs, I ’ll have to tell you I don’t -think you ought to go away up thar all alone.” - -“You feel that-a-way, Betsey, because you hain’t never had no child an’ -been separated from it like I have. When Amos married up thar an’ went -to housekeepin’ it mighty nigh killed me. An’ then I begun to live on -the bare hope that he’d come South on a visit, but he hain’t done it, -an’ thar ain’t no prospect of the like. He says he cayn’t git away frum -his business without dead loss, an’ they want me to come. I’ve said many -a time that I’d never leave my home, but, Betsey, it seems to me that -I cayn’t live another week without seein’ how Amos looks. The Lord only -knows how lonely I am mighty nigh all the time. Ef Susie had lived, -she’d never ‘a’ left me, married or not, but it’s different with a man. -Sometimes I wonder why the Lord tuk ’em both frum me.” - -Betsey’s kindly face softened. The intervening fence kept her from -putting a consoling arm around her neighbor. - -“I hain’t been blind--nur Brother Joel hain’t nuther--to yore lonely way -o’ livin’,” she said, sympathetically. “Thar’s hardly a night that -me an’ him don’t look out ‘fore we go to bed to see ef you are still -a-sittin’ up readin’ by yore lamp. I kin always tell when you are -a-thinkin’ about Susie more ’n common; it’s always when you git back frum -‘er grave that you set up latest. I believe in layin’ on o’ flowers an’ -plantin’ shrubs that ’ll keep sech a precious spot green, but when -it seems to make a body brood-like, then I think it ought not to be -indulged in to any great extent.” - -“It’s raily a sort of comfort to go to the graveyard,” faltered Mrs. -Gibbs; and she raised her apron to her mouth. - -“How long do you intend to stay with Amos an’ his wife?” asked Betsey, -to divert the widow’s thoughts. She looked over her shoulder, and saw -her brother Joel, a tall, strong-looking man about fifty-five years -of age, approaching from the direction of his store, down at the -cross-roads. - -“Three months, I reckon,” replied the widow. “I know in reason that I -won’t want to leave Amos a bit sooner. You see, it may be a long time -before I lay eyes on ’im again. They say the baby is doin’ fine, an’ I -want to see it an’ nuss it.” - -“So you are raily goin’?” cried Joel Lowry, as he leaned on the fence -beside his sister. - -“Yes, I’m a-goin’ to make the trip, Joel.” - -“It’s a long ways,” returned the storekeeper, “an’ I don’t see how you -are a-goin’ by yorese’f. Ef it was jest a few weeks later, now, I might -pull up an’ go along. I’ve always believed ef I went to New York to lay -in stock that I could save enough on my goods to defray my expenses thar -an’ back.” - -The eyes of the widow flashed eagerly. She took a long, trembling -breath. - -“I wisht to goodness you would,” she said. “I don’t know one thing about -trains, an’ I am powerful afraid I ’ll make a bobble of the whole thing -from start to finish. Ef I was to git on the wrong car--but what is -the use to cross a bridge ‘fore you git to it? Mebby I ’ll git thar all -right.” - -“I hate mightily to have you try it,” replied Joel, reflectively, as he -stroked his short gray beard. “I jest wish you would think better of it. -I’m a leetle grain older ’n you, Mis’ Gibbs, an’ I’ve been about some.” - -Mrs. Gibbs drew her rake after her as she turned toward her cottage. -“I don’t want to change my mind,” she said, emphatically. “I’m bent on -seein’ Amos, an’ I’m a-goin’ to do it. I’d better go in now. I’ve got a -lot o’ packin’ to do.” - -Joel went back toward his store across a field of decaying corn-stubble -without looking round, and Betsey climbed over the fence and went into -the cottage with her neighbor. - -“I never hated to see a body go so in all my born days,” she sighed. - -Mrs. Gibbs opened the front door and preceded Betsey into the room on -the right of the little hall. - -“You mustn’t mind how things looks in heer,” she apologized. “I left my -trunk open right spank in the middle of the room, so whenever I see a -thing that ought to go in I kin jest fling it at the trunk an’ put it -away when I have time.” - -Betsey stood over the little hair trunk and looked down dolefully. - -“What on earth is that I smell?” she asked. “Sassafras, as I’m alive!” - -“Yes, I dug it yesterday. Amos likes sassafras-root tea; he used to -drink a power of it to thin his blood in the spring; he writ that he -hain’t had a taste of it sence he left heer. Shorely, it’s come to a -purty pass if a body cayn’t get sech as that in a big city like New -York.” - -“Seems to me,” remarked the old maid, “that you’ve got a sight more -truck here than you ’ll have any need fer. What’s this greasy mess -wrapped up?” - -“That’s mutton suet,” was the enthusiastic reply. “It’s the whitest cake -I ever laid eyes on. They ’ll need it fer chapped hands an’ lips. Amos -says it’s a sight colder up thar. That’s ginger-cake in that paper box, -an’ I’ve made him an’ Sally some wool socks an’ stockin’s.” - -“Are you shore you are a-goin’ to be away three months?” asked Betsey, -with a sigh. - -“Mebby longer than that,” answered the old woman. “I feel like I never -will want to leave Amos again, but I couldn’t be away from my home -always, you know. La, it ’ll seem powerful strange to wake up an’ not -look out o’ that thar window towards the mountain.” - -“An’ not to heer the hens a-cacklin’, an’ the cow an’ calf a-bellowin’,” - added Betsey. Then she put her handkerchief to her eyes and plunged -hastily from the room. Mrs. Gibbs moved quickly to the window and looked -out. She saw Betsey climb over the fence and go on through the orchard, -her head hanging down. - - -II - -|The evening before the day appointed for Mrs. Gibbs’s departure, Betsey -came in out of breath. - -“What do you reckon?” she asked, as she stood over the hair trunk, -which, roped and labeled, stood on end near the widow’s bed. “What you -reckon? Joel has made up his mind to go.” - -The widow was putting a brightly polished tin coffee-pot into an -old-fashioned carpetbag which stood on the white counterpane of her bed. -She stood erect, her hands on her hips. - -“Looky’ heer, Betsey,” she exclaimed, excitedly, “don’t you joke with -me! I’ve jest worried over this undertakin’ till I’ve lost every speck -of appetite fer my victuals. I tell you I ain’t in no frame o’ mind fer -any light talk on the subject.” - -“He’s a-goin’, I tell you!” declared the old maid. “I never dreamt he -was in earnest the other day when he fust mentioned it, but all last -night he liter’ly rolled an’ tumbled an’ couldn’t git a wink o’ sleep -fer worrryin’ over you an’ yore wild-cat project. This mornin’ the fust -thing he said was that he’d made up his mind to go ef he could git a -round-trip ticket thar an’ back. He told me not to say anything to you -tell he had sent to town. Jest a minute ago Jeff Woods got back with the -ticket. Joel seems mightily tickled over goin’.” - -Mrs. Gibbs sat down. A serious expression had come over her face. - -“Ef I’d ‘a’ knowed he raily meant to go I’d ‘a’ stopped ‘im,” she said. -“I don’t want to be a bother an’ a burden to my neighbors. Betsey, I’m -a-gittin’ to be a lots o’ trouble to other folks.” - -“Pshaw!” cried Betsey. “Ef Joel hadn’t ‘a’ wanted to go he’d not ‘a’ -bought the ticket. La me, now I ’ll have to go git _him_ ready.” - -The next morning, arrayed in his best suit of clothes, new high -top-boots, and a venerable silk hat, Joel drove to the widow’s cottage -in his spring wagon. While she was locking up the doors he and a negro -farmhand placed the widow’s trunk into the back part of the wagon. The -neighbors from the farmhouses down the red clay road and across the gray -fields and meadows gathered at the gate. When Mrs. Gibbs emerged, -their mental comment was that she looked ten years younger than before -deciding on the journey. - -“All that flushed face an’ shiny eyes is ‘ca’se she’s goin’ to Amos,” - remarked a woman who held a little bare-footed boy by the hand. The -woman addressed was an unmarried woman old enough to be a grandmother. -She looked at the widow’s beaming visage, gave her head a significant -toss, and said, contemptuously: “I say! That woman ain’t a-thinkin’ no -more ’bout Amos ‘an I am at this minute. It looks to me like some people -can’t see a inch before their faces. My Lor’, you make me laugh, Mis’ -Ruggles.” - -Arriving at the station, Joel turned the widow’s trunk over to the -baggage-master, and with her carpet-bag and his own clutched in one -hand, he stood on the platform pulling his beard nervously. - -“We ’ll have to spend one night on the train,” he said. “I never thought -to mention it, but they tell me that a body kin, by payin’ a fraction -more, git a place to lie down and stretch out, an’ snooze a bit.” - -The widow seemed to have made up her mind that she would not show -crude astonishment at anything new to her experience, but her curiosity -finally caused her to admit that she had never heard of such an -arrangement. So, to the best of his ability, the storekeeper entered -into a description of a sleeping-car, lowering the carpet-bags to the -platform, and making signs and drawing imaginary lines with his hands. - -“Men an’ women in the same car with jest curtains stretched betwixt?” - she cried. “No, thank you! I won’t make a fool o’ myse’f if other women -does. I kin set up fer one night easy enough, I reckon. I’ve done the -like many a time with the sick an’ the dead without feeling the wuss fer -it.” - -“I hardly ‘lowed it would suit,” stammered Joel, “but I thought thar -would be no harm in givin’ you yore choice.” - -“Not the least in the world, Joel;” and then she paled, caught her -breath, and grabbed her carpet-bag, for the people on the platform were -hurrying about; the train was coming. - - -III - -|In the train they found a seat together, and when the locomotive -shrieked and they dashed off through deep cuts and over high trestles, -Mrs. Gibbs was unable to control her excitement. He saw that she was -holding tightly to the arm of the seat. - -“I have never been on sech a fast one before,” she said, tremulously. - -“She don’t whiz nigh like some I’ve rid on out West,” replied Joel, with -an air of conscious importance, even guardianship. - -A few minutes later she grew calmer. Happening to catch her eye, he saw -that her mind was far away. - -“I was jest a-thinkin’ how awful it is to be leavin’ Susie’s grave so -fur behind,” she said. “I’m goin’ to Amos, but my other child is back -thar.” - -“I was thinkin’ about Rachel’s grave jest a minute ago,” he returned. -“You called ’er to my mind jest now. Somehow you have the same sort of a -look about the eyes.” - -“Shucks! that ain’t so, I know!” - -“It’s true as I live!” - -“Well, she was a good woman.” - -“The best I ever run across, an’ knowed rail well.” - -The sun, seen first on one side of the car and then on the other, went -down. The train porter laid a plank across the ends of the seats and -climbed up on it and lighted the lamps overhead. This made the space -outside look like a black curtain softly flapping against the car. The -widow opened her carpet-bag and took out something wrapped in a napkin. - -“Betsey said you loved fried chicken an’ biscuits,” she said. - -“It’s my favorite dish,” he replied, stiltedly, readily cloaking himself -in his best table manners. - -“I’m dyin’ fer a cup o’ coffee,” she said. “This dry food will clog in -my throat without some ‘n’ to wash it down. I put in a package o’ ground -coffee an’ my littlest coffee-pot, thinkin’ thar might be some way to -boil water, but I don’t see no chance. You say we don’t stop long enough -to git supper?” - -“That’s what the conductor said.” - -But at the next station, where they stopped for only a minute, he -took the coffee-pot and hurried out. The train started on, and she was -greatly alarmed, thinking that he was left, but he had entered the rear -door and now approached with the coffee-pot steaming at the spout. - -“Now, ef you’ve jest got a cup about you we ’ll be all hunkydory,” he -laughed. - -Her face lighted up with combined pleasure and relief. “Well, I -certainly ‘lowed you was left back thar,” she laughed. “An’ how on earth -did you git the coffee?” - -“They sell it by the quart on the platform,” he replied. “I drapped -onto that trick once when I was on my way to Californy.” - -She got out a tin cup and filled it with the coffee. “I never was so -downright grateful fer a thing in my life,” she remarked. “Now, help -yorese’f, an’ I ’ll sip some along with my chicken an’ bread.” - -“I won’t tech it tell you’ve had all you feel like takin’,” said he, -gallantly. - -The coffee and the lunch seemed to stimulate them both, for they sat and -chatted and laughed together till past eleven o’clock. Then he noticed -that she was growing sleepy, so he took the vacant seat behind her. - -“It ’ll give you more room,” he said. - -By and by he saw her head fall forward. She was asleep. He rolled up his -overcoat in the shape of a pillow and placed it on the end of the seat, -and touching her gently, he told her to lie down and rest her head on -the coat. She obeyed, with a drowsy smile of gratitude. He watched her -all through the night. She slept soundly, like a tired child. - -“I never seed a body look so much like Rachel in all my life,” he said -several times to himself. “Pore woman! I’m that glad I come with ‘er! -She’s had ’er grief, an’ I’ve had mine.” - -The stopping of the train a little after the break of day roused her. -She sat up and rubbed her eyes. He did not wait to speak to her, but -taking the coffee-pot, he ran out at the door behind her, so that her -first glimpse of him was when he appeared before her with more hot -coffee. - -“You must take a cup to start you out fer the day,” he smiled. - -“You do beat the world, Joel!” she laughed. “I couldn’t ‘a’ done without -you.” - -She made room for him beside her, and they ate breakfast together. The -rest of the journey they sat watching the changing landscape, remarking -upon the different methods of tilling the soil, and talking of home and -their neighbors. - -“It’s strange how people can live as nigh to one another as me an’ you -have an’ not git better acquainted,” he said. “I declare, you ain’t a -bit like I thought you was.” - -“I never railly knowed you, nuther, Joel,” she laughed. “You was always -sech a busy, say-nothin’ sort of a man.” - -“An’ right now you are off to stay a long time, and I ’ll have to go back -to the backwoods. I wonder ef--” - -He went no farther, and she did not help him out. She had suddenly grown -reticent, and seemed occupied with the landscape, which was rushing -southward like a swollen stream of level farming lands, in which floated -houses, fences, twisting trees, and waltzing men and horses. - -“I reckon you ’ll stay up thar all the spring an’ summer,” he said at -last. - -“I wouldn’t like to leave Amos right away,” she made answer. “You see, I -hain’t seed the boy fer a long time, an’ I hain’t thought o’ nothin’ but -him fer many a day.” - - -IV - -|They arrived in New York at six o’clock that evening. Amos met them at -the train. They hardly recognized him in his silk hat, long overcoat, -stylish necktie, and kid gloves. Joel did not approve of what he -considered a rather dudish dress, but he overlooked that when he saw how -happy the young man was at the sight of his mother. - -“I wish I could invite you to my house, Mr. Lowry,” said Amos, -cordially, “but the truth is, we have only a small flat, and there is -hardly room for you.” - -“Oh, never mind me,” said Joel. “I’m a-goin’ to a tavern nigh whar I do -my tradin’. I ’ll tell you good day now, but I ’ll run in an’ see ef Mis’ -Gibbs has any word to send back when I start home.” - -He did not see her again for a week. He had concluded his purchases, and -was ready to return South, when he decided to look her up. Finding her -was more difficult than he had imagined. After several hours’ search on -the east side of the city, she being on the west, he finally reached -the big building which contained Amos’s flat. Here he became involved in -another mystery, for he found the front door, a glistening plate-glass -affair, firmly locked, and no bell in sight. He stood in the tiled -vestibule for several minutes deliberating on what was best to do. -Fortunately, he saw a policeman passing, and hailed him. - -“I’ve got a friend a-livin’ somewhar in this shebang,” he said; “but you -may hang me ef I know how to git at ‘im.” - -“Is his name on one of the letter-boxes?” asked the policeman. - -“What letter-boxes?” questioned Joel. “I hain’t seed no names.” - -With an amused aspect of countenance the policeman mounted the steps and -went into the vestibule. Here he opened some wooden doors in the wall, -disclosing to view a long row of letter-boxes with the cards of their -owners beneath them. - -“Who’s your friend?” he asked, kindly. - -“Amos Gibbs. I’ve knowed ’im ever sence he was a little--” - -“There,” interrupted the policeman. “I pushed the button. That rang a -bell inside, and they will open the door by electricity if anybody is at -home. When you hear the latch clicking, push the door open and go in.” - -He disappeared down the street, and then Joel was roused from apathetic -helplessness by a rapid clicking in the lock. He opened the door and -went in. It was fortunate that Amos lived on the first floor, or even -then Joel would not have known how to proceed farther. As it was, -another door at the end of the heavily carpeted hall opened and a -servant girl in white cap and apron put out her head. - -“Yes,” she said, in answer to his inquiry. Mrs. Gibbs was at home, -He followed her into a little parlor facing the street, with a single -window. It was furnished more neatly than any room Joel had ever been -in. The polished hardwood floor was covered with rugs of various -kinds and sizes, and the room contained a bookcase, an upright piano, -pictures, and pieces of bric-a-brac such as the store-keeper had never -seen. - -Mrs. Gibbs entered from the dining-room in the rear. Her hair was done -up in a new style, which made her head appear larger than usual, and she -wore a shining black silk gown that added height, dignity, and youth to -her general aspect. She gave him her hand, and her whole attire rustled -as she sat down. - -“Well, you got heer at last,” she said. “I ‘lowed you never would come. -I’ve been lookin’ fer you every day. I hain’t hardly done anything else -sence I got heer.” - -Joel stared, flushed, and tensely folded his hands anew. It seemed to -him that he would not have suffered such a dire lack of words if she had -not been looking so fine. It was as if his stalwart masculinity were -a glaring misfit among the dainty gewgaws about him. He was mortally -afraid the slender gilded chair he was sitting on would break under his -two hundred weight. He had never imagined that dress could make such a -change in the appearance of any one. The only features about her which -seemed natural were her voice and a triangular bit of her wrinkled face -which showed through her low-parted hair. - -“I come as soon as I got through,” he heard himself say; and then he -cleared his throat from a great depth as an apology for the frailty of -his tone. - -“I kin see you think I’m a sight to behold,” she laughed, merrily. -“Sally fixed me up this-a-way: She fluted my hair with a hot curlin’ -fork, an’ combed it like the New York women’s. She hain’t done one thing -sence I come but haul out dresses an’ fixin’s that used to belong to ‘er -dead mother, an’ try ’em on me, an’ they’ve kept me on the move tell I’d -give a sight fer jest one little nap whar thar wasn’t so much clatter. -Last night they give me a old woman’s party. Joel, jest think of a -person o’ my age a-settin’ up tell ‘leven o’clock talkin’ to a gang o’ -gray-haired women like a passel o’ hens jest off the’r nests! An’ jest -when I ‘lowed they was all goin’ home, Sally passed around things to eat -an’ drink.” - -“They wanted to make you have a good time,” ventured the storekeeper. - -The widow lowered her voice, and threw a furtive glance toward the -dining-room. - -“But it ain’t the way to make a woman o’ my raisin’ enjoy a visit,” she -said, cautiously. “I don’t dare to say a word, fer Amos seems tickled to -death over all that Sally gits up; but, Joel, I’m mighty nigh dead. Like -a born idiot, I told ’em in my last letter that I’d stay three months, -an’ now, as the Lord is my help an’ stay, I don’t believe I can make out -another week.” - -Her voice faltered. Moisture glistened in her eyes. - -“I hope it ain’t as bad as that,” remarked Joel, in a tone of vast -sympathy. - -“It’s jest awful,” whimpered the widow. “I make so many fool blunders. -‘Tother day they wanted me to go to Brooklyn with ‘em, an’ I jest lied -out o’ goin’; an’ as they wanted to take the hired gal along to watch -the baby, I agreed to stay at home an’ ‘tend to the house. My Lord, -Joel, ef you’ve never been alone in one o’ these contraptions, don’t you -ever try it. The hired gal showed me all the different arrangements, -an’ what I was to do. When the bell in the back rings you must press -the button in the kitchen, an’ when the bell in the front rings, it’s -somebody at the side door in the hall. An’ when you hear a shrill -whistle out ’n the talkin’-tube in the kitchen, you have to open the -end an’ blow an’ then holler through an’ ax what’s wanted. Then ef it’s -groceries, ur milk, ur peddlers’ stuff, ur what not, you have to go to -the dumb-waiter that fetches things up through a hole in the wall like a -well-bucket an’ take the things off. I had a lots o’ trouble. I was busy -all the while the family was off at that dumb-waiter. Like a born fool, -I didn’t know it tuk stuff to other folks, too, an’ I thought it would -save time to set at the dumb-waiter with the door open, an’ take off the -things without waitin’ fer ’em to whistle. You never seed the like in -all yore life! Before I’d been thar a hour, the kitchen was liter’ly -filled with all manner o’ stuff, beer, bad-smellin’ cheese, and oodlin’s -an’ oodlin’s o’ milk in bottles. After a while I heerd a fearful racket -inside the dumb-waiter. People all the way to the top was a-yellin’ out -that somebody had stole the’r things, and the landlord was a-bouncin’ -about like a rubber ball, an’ talkin’ of callin’ in the police. Finally -he come in an’ axed me about it. He fixed it all right fer me, and -delivered the goods to their rightful owners, an’ promised not to tell -Amos nur Sally what I’d done.” - -“You did sorter have a time of it,” said Joel. “I’m no hand myse’f to -understand new fixin’s. It’s been chilly the last day or so, an’ when -I went to my room in the tavern t’other night I noticed that it was -powerful warm after I went to bed. I got up an’ struck a light, but thar -wasn’t a sign of a fireplace in the room, an’ it was so hot I ‘lowed -thar might be a conflagration a-smolderin’ som ‘ers. So I put on my -things an’ went down to the office. They explained to me that the heat -comes frum a furnace below, an’ runs into the rooms through holes in the -floor. They come up an’ shet mine off so as I could sleep.” - -“It’s a heap nicer our way,” said the widow, without a smile at his -misadventure. “I tell you, Joel, I jest can’t stand it. I want to go -back. When are you a-goin’?” - -“In the mornin’.” - -She fumbled in the pocket of her skirt and took out her handkerchief, -placing it to her eyes. - -“Oh, I’m heartily sick of it all!” she whimpered. “You are the fust rail -natural thing I’ve laid eyes on sence I come. Sally is mighty cleanly, -an’ I’d ax you to clean the mud off ’n yore feet, but it’s the fust muddy -feet I’ve seen in so long I want to look at ‘em.” - -Joel glanced down at his boots and flushed. “I never noticed ‘em,” he -stammered. “I had sech a time a-gittin’ in this shebang.” - -“Lord, it don’t matter, Joel! I’m jest a-thinkin’ about you a-goin’ -home. I simply cayn’t stand it; an’ yet Amos an’ Sally would feel bad ef -I went so soon. Amos was sayin’ last night that they would make me have -sech a good time that I’d never want to leave ‘em; but la me! this is -the fust rail work I’ve done in many a day. - -“Well, I must go, I reckon,” Joel said, rising awkwardly and taking his -hat from the floor by his chair. “I’m sorry, too, to go back an’ leave -you feelin’ so miserable. I wish I could do some ‘n’ to comfort you, but -I can’t, I reckon. Good-bye--take keer of yorese’f.” - - -V - -|When he arrived home two days later, Betsey found him, as she thought, -peculiarly reticent about his trip, and all her efforts to get him to -speak of how Mrs. Gibbs was pleased were fruitless. One afternoon -two weeks after his return she ran into his store, where he was busy -weighing smoked bacon which he was purchasing from a customer. - -“What you reckon, Joel?” she asked. “What you reckon has happened?” - -“I don’t know,” he said, looking up from the paper on which he was -figuring. - -“Mis’ Gibbs’s got back.” - -“You cayn’t mean it, sister!” - -Betsey leaned against the counter, and the hardware in the showcase -rattled. Joel’s face had paled. He called his clerk to him, and told him -to settle with the customer, and walked to the door with Betsey. - -“Yes,” she said. “She got home in Jeff Woods’s hack about a hour ago. -All the neighbors is over there now. She acts so quar! She hain’t seemed -to keer a speck about the cow, nur the cat, nur the chickens. As soon -as she got ’er things off, she jest sot down an’ drooped. She don’t look -well. The general opinion is that Amos an’ his wife have sent ’er home, -fer she won’t talk about them. She acts mighty funny. Jest as I started -out I happened to remark that you’d be astonished to heer she was back, -an’ I never seed sech a quar look in a body’s face. But,” she concluded -after a pause, “they couldn’t ‘a’ treated ’er so awful bad, fer she’s -got dead loads o’ finery.” - -That night Joel closed up his store earlier than usual, and when he came -into the sitting-room he brought an armful of big logs and put them in -the chimney. Then before a roaring fire he sat reflectively, without -reading the paper he had brought with him, as was his wont. Betsey -sat in the chimney-corner knitting, and looking first at him and then -peering through the window toward Mrs. Gibbs’s cottage. - -“Brother Joel,” she said, suddenly. “You are a-actin’ quar, too. You -must know some ‘n’ about what happened to Mis’ Gibbs, ur why don’t you go -over thar an’ see ’er like the rest o’ the neighbors? They’ve all been -but you. She ’ll think strange of it.” - -“I don’t see what good I could do,” he answered; and he began to punch -the fire, causing a stream of sparks to mount upward with a fusillade of -tiny explosions. - -Betsey knitted silently for a few minutes longer, then she rose and -stood at the window. - -“She’s got ’er lamp on the table an’ a paper in ’er lap, but she hain’t -a-readin’ of it,” said Betsey. “It looks jest like she’s a-goin’ to -commence ’er lonely broodin’ life over ag’in. Some ‘n’ seems wrong with -‘er, as good an’ sweet as she is. She kinder fancied she’d be happy with -Amos, an’ mebby when she got ’im with ’er she begun to pine fer her ole -home. Now she’s back, an’ I reckon she hardly knows what she does want. -I say, perhaps that may be her fix.” - -“Mebby it is,” admitted the storekeeper, briefly. - -Betsey turned on him quickly. There was a peculiar aggressive sparkle in -her eyes, a set look of determination on her face. - -“Brother Joel,” she said, “you’ve jest got to have a grain of common -sense. You’ve got to go over thar this minute an’ see ‘er. Ef you don’t -she ain’t a-goin’ to sleep a wink. I know women, an’ I’ve knowed Mis’ -Gibbs a long time.” - -Joel drew his feet from the fire and wedged his heels under the rung -of his chair. The muscles of his face were twitching. There was no -mistaking Betsey’s tone. She sat down near him and laid her thin, -tremulous hand on his knee. - -“Do as I tell you, brother. Don’t be back’ard. You can’t hide nothin’.” - -Joel rose. He tried to smile indifferently as he went to a little mirror -on the wall and brushed his hair and beard. - -“You must wish me good luck, then, sister,” he said, huskily. “I ain’t -no ways shore what she will do about me.” - -After he had gone out Betsey took up an album and opened it at a -collection of tintype pictures. On one of these her eyes rested long and -mistily. Then she kissed it, wiped her eyes, and went to bed. Two hours -later she heard the front door close and her brother creeping to his -room. - -“Oh, Joel!” she called out. “Come to my door a minute.” - -His boots made a loud clatter in the dead stillness of the house, as he -approached. - -“Was it all right, brother?” - -“You bet it was, Betsey!” He stood in the doorway. The darkness hid his -face, but there was a note of boundless joy in his tone. - -“I thought it would be, but I don’t yet understand why she come back so -quick.” - -“She don’t like city folks’ ways,” answered the storekeeper; “an’ -then--” - -“An’ then what?” broke in Betsey, impatiently. - -“Well, you see, the--the notion seemed to strike both of us when we was -travelin’ together, an’--an’ she admitted that she was a leetle grain -afeered that ef we didn’t see one another ag’in fer three months that -the notion might wear off. Railly, she’s tickled to death, fur now she -says she kin give Amos an’ Sally a sensible reason fer wantin’ to git -back home.” - -Betsey was silent so long that Joel began to wonder if she had fallen -asleep. Finally she said: - -“Go to bed now, Joel. She’s the very woman fer you. I hain’t never had -no rail happiness in my life sence Jim died, but I want them I love to -git all they kin.” - - - - -JIM TRUNDLE’S CRISIS - - -|They were expecting Jim Trundle at the Cross-Roads that spring morning. -His coming had been looked for even more anxiously than that of Sid -Wombley, the wag of the “Cove.” Sid himself, when he dragged his long -legs into the store, forgot to think of anything amusing to say as he -looked the crowd over to see if Jim had preceded him. - -It was on the end of his tongue to ask if Trundle had come and gone, but -for once he said nothing. He seated himself on the head of a soda-keg -and began to whittle the edge of the counter. Sid Wombley, quiet, suited -the humor of the group better on this occasion than the same voluble -individual in his natural element, so no one spoke to him, and all -continued to watch the road leading to Trundle’s cabin. - -The silence and the delay were too much for the patience of Wade Sims, -a bold, dashing young man in tight-fitting trousers, sharp-heeled boots, -and a sombrero like an unroped tent. He was, as he often expressed it, -“afraid o’ nothin’ under a hide,” and if “the boys” had seen fit to -give Jim Trundle notification, in the shape of a letter he would shortly -receive, that he was a disgrace to the community, he saw no reason for -so much secrecy. He wasn’t afraid of the verdict of any jury that could -be impaneled in the three counties over which he openly traded horses -and secretly disposed of illicit whisky. - -“I reckon thar’s no doubt about the letter bein’ ready fer ‘im,” he -remarked to Alf Carden, who stood in the little pigeon-holed pen of -upright palings which was known as “the postoffice.” - -“I reckon not,” was the reply, “when it’s about the only letter I got on -hand.” - -“I could make a mighty good guess who drapped it,” said Sims, with a -grin at a one-armed man who had once held the position of book-keeper -at a cotton-gin, and who wrote letters and legal documents for half -the illiterate community, “but I wouldn’t give ’im away if I was under -oath.” - -“I have an idee who’s goin’ to drap it,” spoke up Sid Wombley from his -soda-keg, and his sudden return to his natural condition evoked the -first laugh of the morning. At that moment a little boy, the son of the -storekeeper, who had been playing on the porch, came in quickly. -His words and manner showed that he knew who was in request, if his -intellect could not grasp the reason for it. - -“Mr. Trundle is comin’ acrost the cotton-patch behind the store,” he -announced, out of breath. Then silence fell on the group, a silence so -complete that Jim Trundle’s strides over the plowed ground outside were -distinctly heard. The next moment Trundle had crawled over the low rail -fence at the side of the store, and with clattering, untied brogans was -coming up the steps. - -The doorway, as his tall, lank figure passed through it, framed a -perfect picture of human poverty. His shirt, deeply dyed with the red of -the soil, was full of slits and patches worn threadbare. The hems of his -trousers had worn away, revealing triangular glimpses of his ankles, -and a frayed piece of a suspender hung from a stout peg in the waistband -behind. - -He greeted no one as he entered. A silent tongue was one of Jim -Trundle’s peculiarities. Few people had ever gotten a dozen consecutive -words out of him. He strode to the end of the store, thrust his hand -into an open cracker-box, bit into a large square cracker, and sent his -eyes foraging along both counters for something to eat with it--cheese, -butter, a bit of honey, or a pinch of dried beef. He was violating -no rule of country store etiquette, for Alf Carden’s customers all -understood that those things left on the counters were to be partaken -of in moderation. I think the habitués of the place had gradually -introduced this custom themselves years before, when Carden was so -anxious to draw people from the store across the river that he would -willingly have given a customer bed and board for an indefinite time if -by so doing he could have deprived his rival of the profit on a bag of -salt. - -Jim Trundle wasn’t going to ask if there was any mail for him, that was -plain to the curious onlookers; and their glances began to play back -and forth between Carden and the cracker consumer, making demands on the -former and condemning the latter for not more readily walking into the -trap set for him. - -Wade Sims winked when he caught the storekeeper’s eye, and nodded toward -the gaunt robber, who had squatted at the faucet of a syrup-barrel and -was cautiously trailing a golden stream over an immaculate cracker. - -“So you didn’t git no letter fer me, Alf,” said Sims, significantly. -“Seems like no mail don’t come this way here lately hardly at all. I -hope all the rest ’ll have their ride fer nothin’ too.” - -Alf Carden understood, having given Sims a letter half an hour before, -and he smiled. “No,” he said, “thar hain’t nothin’ fer any of you except -Jim Trundle; has he come along yet?” - -Jim stood up quickly, and laid his besmeared cracker on the barrel. -“Me?” he ejaculated, and a white puff shot from his crunching jaws; -“I--I reckon yo ‘re mistaken.” - -“I reckon I kin read,” replied Carden, still acting his part -nonchalantly, and glancing askance at Sims to see how that individual -was taking it. “It is jest Jim Trundle in plain ABC letters. It is -either from somebody that cayn’t write shore ’nough writin’ ur is tryin’ -to disguise his handwrite.” - -Carden threw the letter on the counter. It lay there fully a minute, -while Jim Trundle wiped his hands on his trousers, gulped down a -mouthful of cracker, and stared helplessly round at the upturned faces. -Then he reached for the letter, and with trembling fingers tore it open -and read as follows: - -_“Jim Trundle. This is to give you due notice. We the reglar organized -band of Regulators of this settlement hav set on yore case an decided -what we are goin to do about it. Time and agin good citizens have -advised you to change yore way of livin’, but you jest went along as -before, in the same old rut._ - -_“You are no earthly account, an no amount of talkin seems to do you any -good. Yore childern are in tatters an without food, an you jest wont do -nothin fer them. This might hav gone on longer without our action, but -last Wednesday you let yore sick wife go to the field in the hot brilin -sun, an she was seed by a responsible citizen in a faintin condition, -while you was on the creek banks a fishin in the shade._ - -_“To night exactly at eight oclock we are comin after you in full force -to give you a sound lickin. Yore wife an childern would be better off -without you, and we advise you to leave the country before that time. If -we find you at home at eight oclock you may count on a sore back._ - -“_Yours truly, the secretary.”_ - - -The spectators observed that Jim Trundle had read every word of the -communication. His eyes, in their sunken sockets, darted strange, hunted -glances from face to face, as if seeking sympathy; then, as if realizing -the futility of the hope, he looked down at the floor. He leaned back -against the counter so heavily that Carden’s thread-case rattled its -contents and the beam of the scales wildly swung back and forth. - -The group furtively feasted themselves on his visible agony, but they -got nothing more, for Jim Trundle did not intend to talk. Talking was -not in his line. He knew that at eight o’clock that night he was going -to be punished in a way that would be remembered against the third and -fourth generation of his descendants--that is, if he did not desert his -family and leave the country. - -“Kin I do anything fer you in the provision line, Jim?” asked Carden, -for the entertainment of his customers. “I’ve got some fresh bulk pork. -Seems to me you hain’t had none lately.” - -Trundle refused to answer. He only stared out into the golden sunshine -that lay on the road to his home. He saw through Carden’s remarks, and -his heart felt heavier under the thought that before him were some of -the faces which would be masked later on. He wondered if those men knew -that a lazy, worthless vagabond could feel disgrace as keenly as they -could. - -There was nothing left for him to do except to go home. He wanted to -turn his mind-pictures of his wife and children into helpful realities. -Somehow they had always comforted him in trouble. Oh, God! if only he -could have foreseen the approach of this calamity! As he moved out of -the store he felt vaguely as if his arms, legs, and body had nothing to -do with his real, horrible self except to hinder it, to detain it near -its spot of torture. - -Outside he drew a long, deep, trembling breath. His breast rose and -expanded under his ragged shirt and then sank like a collapsed balloon, -and lay still while he thought of himself. He was a dead man alive, a -moving, breathing horror in the sight of mankind. - -He was sure that it was his strange nature that had brought him to -it. Nature had, indeed, made him happy in rags, oblivious to material -things. Had he been endowed with education he might have become a poet. -He saw strange, transcendent possibilities in the blue skies; in the -green growing things; in the dun heights of the mountains; in the depths -of his children’s eyes; in the patient face of his wife. - -What an awakening! A shudder ran over him. He felt the lash; he heard -Wade Sim’s voice of command; then his lower lip began to quiver, and -something rising within him forced tears into his eyes. He had begun to -pity himself. If only those men really understood him they would pardon -his shortcomings. No human being could knowingly lash a man feeling as -he felt. - -The road homeward led him into the depths of a wood where mighty trees -arched overhead and obscured the sky. He envied a squirrel bounding -unhindered to its sylvan home. Nature seemed to hold out her vast green -arms to him; he wanted to sink into them and sob away the awful load -that lay upon him. In the deepest part of the wood, where tall, rugged -cliffs bordered the road, there was a spring. He paused, looked round -him, and shuddered anew, for something told him it was at this secluded -spot that he would receive his castigation. - -He passed on. The trees grew less dense along the way, and then on a -rise ahead of him he saw his cabin, a low, weather-beaten structure that -melted into the brown plowed fields about it. He was anxious to see his -wife. Could it be true that she had almost fainted while at work? If so, -why had she not mentioned it to him? He had noted nothing unusual in her -conduct of late; but how could he? She was as uncommunicative as he, and -they seldom talked to each other. - -As he passed the pig-sty in the fence-corner even the sight of the -grunting inmate seemed to remind him that he was going to be whipped by -his neighbors. He shuddered and felt his blood grow cold. He shuddered -with the same thought again, as if he were encountering it for the first -time, when he dragged open the sagging gate and looked about the bare -yard. In one corner of it he had once started to grow some flowers, but -his neighbors had laughed at his attempt so much that he allowed the -bulbs to die and be uprooted by his chickens. His mind now reverted to -that period, and he decided it was this and kindred impulses that had -always kept him from being a good husband, father, and citizen like his -sturdy, more practical neighbors. - -Well, to-morrow he was going to turn over a new leaf--that is, if--but -he could not look beyond the torture set for eight o’clock. He had -imagination, but it could picture nothing but every possible detail of -his approaching degradation--the secluded spot, the masked circle of -men, a muffled talk by Wade Sims, the baring of his back,--the lash! - -His wife was in the cabin. She held a wooden bowl in her lap and was -shelling peas. As he towered up in front of her in the low-roofed room, -for the first time in his life he noticed that she looked pale and -thin, and as he continued to study the evidences against him in growing -bewilderment he felt that even God had deserted him. - -She looked up. - -“What’s the matter?” she asked, in slow surprise. - -“Nothin’.” But he continued to stare. How thin her hair seemed since -she had recovered from the fever! Perhaps if he had insisted on having -a doctor something might have been done for her then that was neglected. -Poor Martha! how he had made her suffer! The whipping would not be -so hard to bear now, except that--if she were to know--if she were to -witness it. Ah, he had not thought of that! Yes, God had left him wholly -at the mercy of Wade Sims and the rest of his neighbors. - -Her eyes held a look of deep concern. - -“What are you lookin’ at me that-a-way fer?” she asked. - -He made no answer, but turned to a stool in the chimney-corner and sat -down. She must not suspect what was going to happen. He would not escape -it by deserting her, for he was going to be a better man, beginning with -the next day. He would stay with her and protect her, but she must never -hear of the whipping. He understood her proud spirit well enough to know -that she could never get over such a disgrace. - -Then out of the black flood of his despair a plan rose and floated into -possibility before his mind’s eye. Sims’ men would gather at the store, -and just before the appointed hour would march along the road he had -just traversed. He would make some excuse to his wife for being obliged -to absent himself for a little while and go to meet them. If he told -them he had voluntarily come to be whipped, they might agree to keep the -fact from his wife. Yes, God would not let them refuse that, for even -Wade Sims would not want to pain an unoffending woman when he was told -how Martha would take it. Then a sob broke from him, and he realized -that his head had fallen between his knees, that tears were dripping -from his eyes to his hands, and, moreover, that Martha was looking at -him as she had never looked before. She wanted to ask him what was the -matter, but she could not have done it to save her life. - -“Are you ready fer dinner?” she asked, still with that look in her eyes. - -“Yes, I reckon, ef--ef you are. Whar’s the children?” - -“Behind the house, hoein’ the young corn. Do you want ‘em?” - -“No; jest thought I’d ask.” - -She emptied the peas from her apron into the bowl, and put it on a -shelf. Then she walked across the swaying puncheon floor to a little -cupboard, and began to busy her hands with some dishes, keeping furtive -eyes the while on him. He evidently thought himself unobserved, for he -allowed his head to fall dejectedly again, and stared fixedly at the -hearth. Surely, thought Mrs. Trundle, Jim had never acted so peculiarly -before. Wiping a plate with a dishcloth, she moved across the floor till -she stood in front of him. He looked up. The gleaming orbs in their deep -hollows frightened the woman into speech she might not have indulged in. - -“Look y’ heer, Jim, has anythin’ gone wrong?” - -“No.” He drew himself up, and rubbed his eyes. “Did you say dinner was -ready?” - -“You know the table hain’t set. Look y’ heer, are you sick, Jim -Trundle?” - -“No.” His eyes rested on her. There was much that he wanted to ask her, -if only he could have found the words. She turned away unsatisfied. -The next moment she fanned him with the cloth she was spreading for the -meal, then she put a plate of fried bacon and a pan of corn bread on the -table, went to the back door, and called the children from their work. - -He studied them one by one with fresh horror as they filed in, wondering -what this one or that one would think if they should learn that their -father had been whipped for neglecting them and their mother. At the -table, however, he studied his wife chiefly. The children were young and -healthy, and devoured their food like famished animals, but she was -only making feeble pretenses with the piece of bread she was daintily -breaking and dipping into bacon-grease. The “Regulators,” as they called -themselves, were right; he had allowed a sick wife to go into the hot -sun to do work he ought to have done. He thought now of the lash again, -but not with a shudder. It could never pain him more than the agony at -his heart. - -He spent that long afternoon under an apple-tree behind the cabin, -mending a harrow that was broken, stealing glances at his wife, longing -to open his heart to her, watching the progress of the sun in its slow -descent to the mountain-top, and feeling the threatening chill of the -lengthening shadows. All nature seemed mutely to announce the coming -horror. At sundown he went to the shelf in the entry, filled a tin pan -with fresh spring-water, and washed his face and hands. Then he went in -to supper, but he did not eat heartily. - -“Don’t you feel no better, Jim?” asked his wife, her manner softened -by a vague uneasiness his actions had roused. A suggestion of his mute -suppressed agony seemed to have reached her and drawn her nearer to him. - -“No, I hain’t sick; I ’ll be all right in the mornin’.” - -Through the open door he watched the darkness thicken and heard the -insects of the night begin to chirp and shrill. He had the curse of -introspective analysis, and resolved that they were happy. He used to -whistle and sing himself when his youth rendered it excusable. How very -long ago that seemed! - -All at once he rose, pretended to yawn, and said something to his wife -about going over to Rawlston’s a little while; he would be back by -bedtime. She wondered in silence, and after he had passed through the -gate she tiptoed to the door and looked after him uneasily. - -The landscape darkened as he went along the road toward Carden’s store. -It was quite dark in the wooded vale. When he reached the spring he -stopped to await the coming of Wade Sims and his followers. He wondered -if the spot was far enough from the cabin to prevent Martha from hearing -the blows that were to fall. He hoped it was, and, more than anything -else, that “the regulators” would not be drinking. They would be more -apt to listen to his request if they were perfectly sober. The rising -moon in the direction of the store now made the arched roadway look like -a long tunnel. - -It would soon be eight o’clock. He sat down on the root of a tree and -tried to pray, but no prayer he had ever heard would come into the chaos -of his mind, and he could not invent one to suit the occasion. By and -by he heard voices down the road, then the tramp, tramp of footsteps. -A dark blur appeared on the moonlit roadway at the mouth of the tunnel, -and grew gradually into a body of men. - -Jim Trundle stood up. They should find him ready. - -“Hello! what have we heer?” It was the undisguised voice of Wade Sims. -The gang of twenty men or more paused abruptly. There was a hurried -fitting on of white cloth masks. - -“Who’s thar?” called out the same voice, peremptorily, and the hammer of -a revolver clicked. - -“Me--Jim Trundle.” - -“Huh!” Wade’s grunt of surprise was echoed in various exclamations round -the group. “On yore way out ’n the county, eh? Seems to me yore time’s -up. We ’ll have to put it to a vote. It’s a little past eight o’clock, -an’ you’ve had the whole day to git a move on you. Whar you bound fer?” - -“I ain’t on my way nowhar. I come down heer a half-hour ago to meet -you-uns, an’ I’ve jest been a-waitin’.” - -“To meet we-uns? Huh! Jeewhilikins!” It sounded like Alf Carden’s voice. - -“I--I ‘lowed you-uns would likely want to do it heer, bein’ as it was -whar you-uns tuck Joe Rand last fall.” - -Silence fell--a silence so profound, so susceptible, that it seemed to -retain Trundle’s words and hold them up to sight rather than to hearing -for fully half a minute after they had ceased to stir the air. Even Wade -Sim’s blustering equipose was shaken. His mask appealed helplessly to -other masks, but their jagged eye-holes offered no helpful suggestions. - -“Well, we are much obleeged to you,” said Wade, awkwardly; and he -laughed a laugh that went little farther than his mask. “Boys, he looks -like he’s actu’ly itchin’ fer it; you needn’t feel at all squeamish.” - -“I’ve been studyin’ over it,” said Trundle, furnishing more surprise, -“and I’ve concluded that I ort to be whipped, an’ that sound. In fact, -neighbors, the sooner you do it an’ have it over the better I ’ll feel -about it.” - -The silence that swallowed up this clear-cut assertion was deeper than -the one which had followed Trundle’s other remark. Seeing that no one -was ready to reply, he went on, “I did come down heer, though, to see ef -I couldn’t git you-uns to do me a sorter favor, ef you-uns jest would.” - -“Ah!” Wade Sims was feeling better. “I must say I was puzzled about yore -conduct in sa ‘nterin’ out to meet us. Well, what do you want?” - -“I’m ready fer my whippin’,” said Trundle, “becase I think I deserve it. -I’ve been so lazy an’ careless that I never once noticed till I got yore -letter that my wife was a sick woman. I _did_ let her go to the field -in the hot sun when I was a-fishin’ on the creek-bank in the shade. I -thought her an’ all of us would like some fresh fish, an’ I forgot that -our corn-patch was sufferin’ fer the hoe. But she didn’t. She ‘tended to -it. An’--now I come to the favor I want to ask. She hain’t done a speck -o’ harm to you-uns, an’, as foolish as it may seem, it would go hard -with her in her weakly condition to heer about me a-goin’ through what -I ’ll have to submit to. She has got a mighty sight of pride, an’ it’s -my honest conviction that she would jest pine away an’ die ef she knowed -about it. I ain’t a-beggin’ off from nothin’, understand; it’s only a -word fer her an’ the childern. You kin all take a turn an’ whip me jest -as long as you want to, but when it’s over an’ done with I ‘lowed you -mought consent to say nothin’ to nobody about it. Besides, I’ve made -up my mind to lead a different sort of a life, friends, God bein’ my -helper, an’ it would be easier to do it if I knowed Martha had respect -fer me; an’, neighbors, I am actu’ly afeered she won’t have it if she -diskivers what takes place to-night. I--I think you-uns mought agree to -that much.” - -Masks turned upon masks. Some of them fell from strangely set visages -into hands that quivered and failed to replace them. It was plain to the -crowd that they had not elected a leader who could possibly do justice -to the infinite delicacy of the situation. In fact, something was -struggling in Wade Sims that was humiliating him in his own eyes, making -him feel decidedly unmanly. - -“I think yore proposition is--is purty reasonable,” he managed to blurt -out, after an awkward hesitation. “We hain’t none of us got nothin’ -ag’in yore wife; an’ ef she is sick, an’ hearin’ about this--” - -But his inability to continue was evident to his most sincere admirers. -Trundle sighed in relief. He knew that not one in the gang could -possibly be harder of heart than their blustering leader. “I wish, then, -gentlemen,” he said, calmly, “that you’d git it over with. I don’t know -how long it’s a-goin’ to take--that’s with you-uns; but Martha thinks -I’ve gone over to Rawlston’s to set till bedtime, an’ it ’ll soon be time -I was back.” - -“That’s a fact,” admitted Wade Sims, slowly, as if his mind were on -something besides the business in hand, and he looked round him. The -band stood like rugged, white-capped posts. - -Then it was proved that Sid Wombley, the wag of the valley, had more -courage of his convictions than had ever been accredited to him. It -sounded strange to hear him speak without joking. His seriousness struck -a sort of terror to the hearts of some of the most backward. There was a -suspicion of a whimper in the tone he manfully tried to straighten as he -spoke. - -“Looky’ heer, Jim,” he said, and he stepped forward and tore off his -mask, I’ve got a sorter feelin’ that I want you to see my face an’ know -who I am. Sence I heard yore proposal, blame me ef I hain’t got more -downright respect fer you than fer any man in this cove, an’ I want to -kick myself. You’ve got the sort o’ meat in you that ain’t in me, I’m -afeered, an’ I take off my hat to it. I’m a member o’ this gang, an’ -have agreed to abide by the vote of the majority, but they ’ll have to -git a mighty move on theirselves an’ reverse the’r decision in yore -case, ur I ’ll be a deserter. I’d every bit as soon whip my mammy as a -body feelin’ like you do.” - -“That’s the talk.” It was the voice of Alf Carden. All at once he -remembered that Jim Trundle, after all that had been said against him, -did not owe him a cent, while nearly every other man present had to be -dunned systematically once a week. “Boys, let ’im go,” he said; “I’m -a-thinkin’ we hain’t fully understood Jim Trundle.” - -“I hain’t the one that got up this movement,” said Wade Sims, in a tone -of defense. Where sentiment was concerned he was out of his element. “Ef -you was to let ’im off with a word of advice, it wouldn’t be the fust -time we conceded a p’int.” - -That settled it. With vague mutterings of various sheepish kinds the -crowd began to filter away. Some went down the road, and others took -paths that led from it. - -Sid Wombley lingered with Jim a moment. Not being able to turn the -matter into a jest, and yet being a thorough man, he felt very awkward. - -“Go on home, Jim,” he said, gently, his hand on Trundle’s arm. “Your -wife ’ll never know a thing about it; they ’ll all keep it quiet, an’ the -boys ’ll never bother you ag’in. I--I ’ll see to that.” - -They shook hands. Trundle started to speak, but simply choked and -coughed. Sid turned away. An idea for a joke flitted through his mind, -but he discarded it as unworthy of the occasion. - -Jim went slowly up the hill to his cabin. The moon was now higher up, -and as he neared the gate he saw his wife walking about in the entry. -She was not alone. A woman sat on the step. It was old Mrs. Samuel, the -aunt of Wade Sims, a neighbor, who sometimes dropped in to spend the -evening. Was it an exclamation of glad surprise that he heard as -he opened the gate, and did his wife stand still and stare at him -excitedly, or was the sound the voice of one of the children turning -in its sleep? Was her cast of countenance a trick of the moonlight and -shadows? - -The eyes of both women fell as he approached them. - -“Good evenin’, Jim,” was Mrs. Samuel’s greeting. - -He nodded and sat down on the steps, his back to his wife. They were all -silent. Mrs. Trundle stepped to the water-shelf at one side, and peered -at his profile through the shadows, her face full of vague misgivings. -Then she sat down in a chair behind him, and studied his back, his neck, -the way his shirt lay, her hands clinched on her knees, the fury of a -tiger in her eyes. - -Ten minutes passed. Then Trundle roused himself with a start. He must -not be so absent-minded; they must suspect nothing. - -“Whar’s the children?” he asked, not looking toward his wife. - -“In bed a hour ago.” - -Her tone struck him dumb with apprehension. He stared over his shoulder -at her. Her face was hidden in her hands. He glanced at the visitor, and -saw her avert her eyes. Could she have heard of the plan to whip him, -and revealed it to his wife? He felt sure of it; Wade Sims could not -keep a secret. His wife thought he had been punished. No matter; it was -the same thing. His heart was ice. - -Mrs. Trundle bent nearer him. She was trying surreptitiously to see if -there were any marks on his neck above his shirt-collar. - -Presently her pent-up emotions seemed to overwhelm her. She began to sob -and rock back and forth. Then she glared at Mrs. Samuel. - -“I’d think you’d have the decency to go home,” she said, fiercely, -“an’ not set thar an’--an’ gloat over me an’ him like a crow. It’s our -bedtime.” - -“Why, Martha, what’s the--” Trundle stood up in bewilderment. - -“I was jest gettin’ ready to go,” stammered the visitor, humbly, and she -hastened away. Trundle sank back on his seat. What was to be done now? -He had never seen his wife that way, but he loved her more than ever -in his life before. She watched Mrs. Samuel’s form vanish in the hazy -moonlight; then she sat down on the step beside her husband. - -“Jim,” she faltered, “I want you to lay yore head in my lap.” She had -put her thin, quivering arm round his neck, and her voice had never -before held such tender, motherly cadences. - -“What do you want me to do that fer?’ - -“Jest becase I do. I hain’t never in all my life loved you like I do -at this minute. I’d fight fer you with my last breath; I’d die fer you. -Jim, poor, dear Jim! you needn’t try to hide it from me. Mis’ Samuel -had jest told me what the Regulators was goin’ to do when you turned -the corner. I know you went down to the spring to meet ’em so me an’ the -childern wouldn’t know it. Many a man would ‘a’ gone away an’ left his -family ruther than suffer such disgrace. Oh, Jim, I’d a million times -ruther they’d whipped me! I ’ll never git over it. I ’ll feel that lash -on my back every minute as long as I live. They hain’t none of ’em got -sense enough to see what a good, lovin’ man you are at the bottom. I’d -ruther have you jest like you are than like any one o’ that layout. We -must move away somewhars an’ begin all over. I don’t want the childern -to grow up under sech disgrace.” - -Her hand passed gently round to the front of his shirt. She unfastened -it, and began to sob as she turned the garment down at the neck. “Oh, -Jim, did they hurt you? Does it--” - -“They didn’t tetch me, Martha,” he said, finally recovering his voice. -“Sid Wombley kinder tuk pity on me an’ stood up fer me, an’ they all -concluded to give me another trial. I hain’t lived right, Martha, I kin -see it now, an’ to-morrow I’m a-goin’ to begin different. These fellows -have got good hearts in ‘em, an’ after the way they talked an’ acted -to-night I hain’t a-goin’ to harbor no ill-will ag’in’ ‘em.” - -Mrs. Trundle leaned toward him. She began to cry softly, and he drew -her head over on his shoulder and stroked her thin hair with his coarse -hands. Then they kissed each other, went into the cabin, and went to bed -in the dark, so as not to wake the children. - - - - -THE COURAGE OF ERICSON - - -|In straggling, despondent lines the men in soiled gray leaned on their -muskets and peered through the misty darkness at the enemy crawling -across the field in front of them like a monster reptile. The colonel -of the regiment nearest the coppice of pines strode restlessly back and -forth in front of his men, on tenter-hooks of anxiety, the spasmodic -glow of his cigar showing features grim and tortured. - -“I feel like we ‘re in fer it to-night,” whispered Private Ericson to a -battle-stained comrade. - -“Right you are,” was the guarded reply; “an’ we-uns ain’t a handful -beside the army out thar. I tell you the blasted fellers have had -reinforcements sence the sun went down. I know it, an’ our colonel is -beginnin’ to suspicion it. Ef he had his way he’d order a retreat while -thar’s a chance.” - -Silence, punctuated by the clanking of the colonel’s sword and the -snoring of a private asleep standing, intervened. Then Private Huckaby -resumed: - -“So this is raily yore old stompin’-ground, Ericson. I reckon you uster -haul pine-knots out ’n them woods, and split rails on that mountain-side.” - -“I know every inch of it like a book,” sighed Ericson. - -“An’ I reckon that sweetheart o’ yor ’n don’t live fur off, ef she didn’t -refugee.” - -“Her folks wuz Union,” returned Ericson, sententiously. “Her ’n tuk one -side, an’ me an’ mine t’other. The cabin she used to live in is jest -beyond them woods at the foot o’ the fust mountain, ‘Old Crow.’ She’s -thar yit. A feller that seed ’er a week ago told me. She ‘lowed ef I -jined the Confederacy I needn’t ever look her way any more. Her father -an’ only brother went to the Union side, an’ she blamed me fer wantin’ -to go with my folks. She is as proud as Lucifer. I wisht we’d parted -friendlier. I hain’t been in a single fight without wantin’ that one -thing off my mind.” - -Ericson leaned on the muzzle of his gun, and Huckaby saw his broad -shoulders rise and quiver convulsively. He stared at the begrimed face -under the slouched hat, beginning to think that what he had seen of his -young mate had been only the surface--the froth--of a deeper nature. An -excited grunt came from the mist which almost enveloped the colonel, and -he was seen to dart to the end of the regiment and throw down his cigar. - -“To arms!” he cried. - -The words were drowned in the clatter of muskets as they were snatched -from the ground to horny palms. The sound died like the rustle of dead -leaves in a forest after a gust of wind. A composite eye saw that -the line which had been moving across the field in front had paused, -steadied itself. The next instant it was a billow of flame half a -mile in length, rolling up and dashing itself against the wall of damp -darkness. The colonel, his blue steel blade raised against the sheet of -piercing lead, sprang forward, a black silhouette against the enemy’s -glare. He meant it as an objective command--a prayer--to his men to -stand to their ground, but he tottered, leaned on his sword, and as its -point sank into the earth he fell face downward. Drums, great and small, -boomed and rattled on the Confederate side like a prolonged echo of the -Federal’s salvo. - -The ranks of the Confederates wavered--broke; the retreat began. Running -backward, his gun poised, Ericson felt a numb, tingling sensation in his -right side. He turned and started after his comrades, but each step he -put down seemed to meet the ground as it fell from him. Then he felt -dizzy. There was a roaring in his ears, and his legs weakened. As he -fell his gun tripped the feet of Huckaby, and that individual went to -earth, and then on hands and knees, to avoid being shot, crept to his -friend’s side. - -“What’s wrong, Eric? Done fer?” he asked, his tone weighty with the -tragedy of the moment. - -“I believe so,” said Ericson. “Go on; don’t wait!” - -“Good-by, my boy,” Huckaby said. “I’d tote ye, but some ‘n’ is the matter -with the calf o’ my right leg. I’d give out, I know, an’--an’ I must -remember my wife and the ba--” He was gone. - -Half an hour passed, during which time Ericson had experienced the -delicious sensation of a man freezing to death, then a realization of -his condition permeated his consciousness. He drew himself up on an -elbow and glanced over the field. Black ambulances, like vultures -stalking about with drooping wings, were picking their way among the -dead and dying. Vaguely Ericson’s numb fancy pictured himself being -jostled like a human log of wood to hospital, or perhaps to prison, -and grasping his musket, and transforming it into a crutch, he rose and -hobbled away from the groans and puddles of blood into the edge of the -wood. - -He had no sooner reached it than he felt the earth acting as if it were -a mad sea again, and he sank headlong into the heather and underbrush. -When he came to it was morning. The oblique rays of the sun were making -diamonds and pearls of the poised dew-drops. The field had been cleared. -Only a shattered gun, a tattered cap, a battered canteen bore evidence -of the recent carnage. Half a mile across the level valley Ericson saw -a village of tents, blue-coated guards pacing to and fro, and the stars -and stripes rippling from a tall staff. - -The private rose cautiously to his trembling feet, and aided by his too -weighty crutch he went slowly through the wood toward the cabin where -dwelt Sally Tripp. - -“It’s the nighest house,” he said to himself. “Shorely she won’t refuse -to let me in.” - -However, when he had passed through the wood and saw the cabin not -fifty yards from him in the open, a screw of blue smoke curling from the -mud-and-stick chimney, misgivings which had depressed him ever since he -had parted with her attacked him anew. He forgot that he had lost nearly -every ounce of his life-blood, and stood almost erect, resting hardly -the weight of his hand on the gun as his eyes drank in the familiar old -scene. - -Then he heard the massive bar of one of the doors squeak as it was -lifted from its wooden sockets, and in the doorway stood a golden-haired -vision. - -“Thank God, it’s her!” Ericson muttered; and the sight of her standing -there, looking afar off toward the camp of the Federals, gave him -courage. He dropped his gun, determined not to exhibit weakness, and -walked erectly, if slowly, toward her. - -He saw the girl turn pale, stare at him steadily, and stifle a scream -with her hand at her lips. - -“Don’t you know me, Sally?” he asked. - -She stared mutely, inwardly occupied with her outward appearance, -fearing perhaps that a tithe of her gladness of heart at seeing him -might be detected by his supersensitive, pleading eye. - -“Thar ain’t nothin’ to keep me from knowin’ of you,” she said. “As -fur as them clothes on yore back is concerned, they become yore sort -powerful well. A rebel is a rebel anywhar.” - -Again the qualms of physical weakness stirred within him. He hung his -head, praying for strength to keep from falling at her feet. She smiled -relentlessly and continued: - -“I reckon when the Union men attackted you-uns last night you broke an’ -ran like all the rest. I seed that fight, John Ericson. Me an’ grandpa -scrouged down behind the chimney so as not to git struck an’ watched the -trap the bluecoats was a-layin’ fer you-uns. We seed the reinforcements -slide in round ‘Old Crow’, an’ knowed most o’ you-uns would play -mumbly-peg ‘fore mornin’. I mought ‘a’ ‘lowed you’d git off unteched, -knowing them woods as well as you do.” - -His silence, his downcast attitude may have shamed the girl, for -a change came over her. She cast a hurried glance at the far-off -encampment, and a touch of anxiety came into her tone as she added: - -“You’d better git back into hidin’, John Ericson. The Union soldiers -have been sendin’ out searchin’ squads all day fer men that got aloose -in the woods. They say they pulled Jake McLain right out ’n his bed. His -wife had burnt his rebel uniform an’ said he was a Yank a-lyin’ up sick, -but the powder-stains on his face give him away, an’ they tuk him off.” - -It was plain to him that she did not suspect he was wounded unto death, -and he forgave her sternness for the sake of his great love. Besides, -she was showing qualities of patriotism to which he granted her the -right, though he could not comprehend what influence had entered -her life to harden it to such an extent. Just then the bent form of -Grandfather Tripp emerged from the other room of the cabin, crossed the -entry, and stared at the soldier. - -“Well, I ’ll be liter’ly bumfuzzled!” he exclaimed. “Ef it ain’t John -Ericson! I knowed yore company was in the fight last night, an’ I -thought o’ you when I heerd the grape-shot a-plinkin’ out thar. But hang -me, ef you don’t look sick ur half starved! Sally, give ’im some ‘n’ t’ -eat. They don’t feed the rebs much. Johnny, she’s been a-pinin’ fer you -ever sence you enlisted, an’ last night durin’ the fight she mighty nigh -went distracted. She--” - -“Grandpa, that’s a lie!” cried the girl, fiercely; but there were pink -spots in her cheeks as she retreated into the cabin and began to slam -the pots and pans on the stone hearth. - -The old man caught the arm of the soldier. “Go right in, my boy. She’s -that glad to see you unhurt she don’t know what to do. She ’ll give you a -mouthful gladder ’n she ever fed a Yank.” - -Mounting the log steps to the cabin door seemed to deprive the soldier -of the last vestige of his strength. As if from a distance he heard the -girl’s complaining voice, and a blur hung before his sight. Blindly he -felt for a chair and sank into it. His head was sinking to his breast, -when the sharp voice of the girl--sharper because of her grandfather’s -meddling--revived him like the lash of a whip on the back of a -succumbing beast of burden. - -“Pa’s dead, John Ericson,” she cried. “Shot down, fer all I know, by -you. He’s gone. Now I reckon you see why I don’t like the looks o’ yore -clothes. Then jest see heer.” She flounced into a corner of the room, -jerked a trunk open and brought to him the soiled uniform of a Federal -soldier. “This was what Brother Jasper had on when he died. That hole -in the breast is where the ball went in. He come home a week ago on a -furlough to git over his wound, an’ died a-settin’ thar in that door. Do -you wonder that I never want to lay eyes on a dirty gray coat again?” - -Ericson’s slouched hat hid the piteous glare in his eyes. He rested his -two hands on the arms of the chair and tried to draw himself up, but -that effort was the signal for his collapse. The girl laid the uniform -on the table and stared at him, the lines of her face softening and -betraying vague disquietude. - -“Look a heer,” she blurted out, suddenly, “are--are you wounded?” - -He tried to speak, but his lips seemed paralyzed. - -“My God! Grandpa, look!” the girl cried. “He’s wounded! He’s dying, an’ -I’ve jest been a-standin’ heer--” - -The old man bent over the soldier, and turned his face upward. - -“Say, whar are you hit, Johnny?” - -Ericson tried to affect a careless smile, and managed to place his hand -on his wounded side. The old man unbuttoned his coat. - -“Well, I should think so!” he muttered. “He’s lost enough of the life -fluid to paint a barn. Quick, Sally, put down a quilt fer ’im to lie on -in front o’ the fire!” - -The girl obeyed as by clock-work, the whiteness of terror and regret -in her face. She brought an armful of straw and some quilts and hastily -patted out a crude bed for the soldier. - -“Now,” said the old man, “you must lie down, Johnny.” - -Ericson sat up erect. - -“I don’t want to--to be helpless heer,” he stammered. “All through the -war I’ve never thought o’ one single thing except Sally, an’ now--” - -The girl cowered down on the hearth in front of him, and hid her face -with her hands. - -“I didn’t dream you was wounded,” she said. “Ef I’d ‘a’ knowed that, I’d -never ‘a’ said what I did. Grandpa told the truth jest now, he did. Lie -down, please do!” - -He raised his eyes to her with a grateful glance. At this juncture the -small, remote blast of a bugle fell on their ears, and it struck the -tenderness from her great moist eyes. She rose and went to the door. - -“It’s a searchin’ squad,” she cried, her voice vibrating with fear. -“They are at Joe French’s house now. They are shore to come heer next. -Ef they take John away he ’ll die!” - -The old man stared at her rigidly. - -“We must hide ‘im,” he said. “Sally, he’s an old friend an’ a neighbor. -We must hide ‘im!” - -The wounded soldier stood up, grasped the edge of the mantel-piece and -swayed back and forth. There was a sweet comfort in her startled concern -that rendered him impervious to fear. - -“Thar ain’t no place to hide ‘im,” said the girl, with an agonized -glance through the doorway toward French’s house. - -Ericson’s knees began to bend, and he sank into his chair again. - -“No use,” he muttered. “I ‘lowed I mought git to the woods, but I’d -hobble so slow they’d be shore to see me. When they git heer I ’ll tell -‘em you wasn’t harborin’ of me.” - -The girl turned from the door. - -“They are a-comin’,” she said. Then her eyes fell on her brother’s -uniform. She started, clutched it, and held it toward her grandfather, -fired with a sudden hope. - -“Dress ’im in it,” she said. “I ’ll go out an’ meet ’em an’ tell ‘em -nobody ain’t heer except you an’ my wounded brother home on a furlough. -The permit is in t’other room. I ’ll show ’em that. They ’ll never dream -he ain’t brother when they read the furlough an’ see ’im in the blue -uniform.” - -A sickly smile worked its way through the grimy surface of the soldier’s -face as he raised his hand to signify opposition to her suggestion. - -“I couldn’t do that, Sally,” he said. “Not to save my life, I couldn’t. -Somehow I think the chances o’ my seein’ another sunrise is dead ag’in’ -me, an’ I don’t want to die in any other uniform except the one me an’ -my comrades has fought in. I’d as soon wear the clothes of a brother -o’ yor ’n as anybody else alive, but I can’t put on blue even to escape -arrest. I jest can’t! It would be exactly the same as bein’ a spy, an’ -the Lord only knows how a fightin’ man hates that sort of a character.” - -“But you must,” urged the girl, frantically. “Oh, you must!” - -“I simply can’t. That’s all. I’d a sight ruther be tuk as a wounded -soldier unable to stir a single peg than to sneak into another man’s -clothes an’ deny the side I fit on. Huh, you are a woman! War makes -men mighty indifferent to anything except duty.” A picture of baffled -despair, the girl peered through the doorway at the approaching men. - -“You once said you’d do anything I asked ef I’d consent to marry you. -John, now will you let grandpa put it on you?” - -A warm scarlet wave had passed over her. She had never looked so -beautiful. He hesitated for some time, and then shook his head. “I can’t -put on blue clothes, Sally.” - -The air was still as death. Above the beat of her strumming pulse she -could hear the “hep! hep!” of the soldiers as they marched toward the -cabin. Ericson staggered to his feet and stood swaying beside her. - -“I mought as well go out an’ meet ‘em,” he said, his face awry with pain -and utter exhaustion. “Ef I don’t they ’ll think you are harborin’ a reb, -an’ it mought go ag’in’ you-uns.” - -Then he threw out his hands and clutched her shoulders, and sank to the -floor. - -“He has fainted, grandpa,” said the girl. - -“Quick! Put the uniform on ‘im. I ’ll try to detain ’em out thar till you -are ready.” - -“I mought just as well take off his suit an’ kiver ’im with quilts,” - suggested the old man. “It ’ll save time.” - -“No, the uniform!” cried the girl. “Ef he has that on they won’t ask -no questions--along with the furlough. You know Jake McLain tried that -trick on ’em an’ failed. Put it on ‘im, for the Lord’s sake. Don’t stand -thar idle!” - -The steady tramp of feet was now audible, and the occasional command of -the officer in charge. Darting from the back door the girl crossed the -entry, went into the next room, and emerged with the permit of absence -in her belt. Picking up a pail near the door, she went to the pig-pen in -a corner of the zigzag rail fence, and with no eyes for the approaching -men, slowly poured the food into the animal’s trough. - -Stopping the squad a few yards from her, the captain doffed his cap and -bowed. - -“I have come to search your house for possible fugitives from the -Confederate ranks last night,” he said, politely. “A good many have been -found hiding in farmhouses in the vicinity.” - -The girl set her pail down at her feet. - -“We are Union,” she said, simply. - -“I was told so,” the captain answered. “Nevertheless, I have orders to -search your premises. Is there any one within?” - -“Nobody but grandpa an’ my wounded brother, a Union soldier home on -a furlough.” She took the paper from her belt and unfolded it very -deliberately. “Thar’s his permit. I fetched it out to show it so’s you -wouldn’t have to wake ’im up ef you could help it. He couldn’t sleep -last nigh fer the shootin’, an’ the truth is, he is as nigh dead as kin -be. I wisht you would let ’im rest.” The officer perused the furlough -through his eyeglasses. - -“That’s all right,” he said, handing it back. “But you see I have to -obey orders.” - -There was a pause. The maiden felt the captain’s eyes resting on her -admiringly. She could hear the hobnailed soles of her grandparent’s -shoes grinding on the puncheon floor, and knew that the old man was -still engaged in dressing or undressing the fugitive. - -“That’s so,” she said, in a tone which plainly intimated that the -question was not positively settled. “But it looks like a shame, for -brother is powerful low, an’ any noise mought do ’im lots o’ harm.” - -“I ’ll leave my men here, and go in myself,” compromised the officer. -“I ’ll walk very lightly.” - -The heart of the girl sank. She could still hear the crunching of her -grandfather’s shoes in the cabin. - -“I ’ll be much obleeged ef you will be careful,” she said. And as he -started to the cabin she joined him. “Please go in here first,” pointing -to the room across the entry from the one containing the two men, “an’ -I ’ll run in an’ see ef brother is fit to be seen.” - -He complied, with a bow, and went into the room indicated. Reappearing -in a moment, he found her crouching down on the grass, a look of pain on -her face. - -“What’s the matter?” he asked, with concern. - -“Nothin’,” she winced. “I set my foot on that rock an’ it kinder twisted -my ankle.” - -He gave her his hand and aided her to rise. - -“Please wait jest one minute,” she said, putting her foot down -tentatively. “I was in sech a hurry jest now that I almost broke my -ankle-bone.” - -He bowed assent. His eyes lit with admiration for her physical charms, -and she limped around to the rear of the cabin and went in. Just as she -did so the noise of her grandfather’s shoes on the floor ceased. The -old man, thinking she was accompanied by the soldiers, was enacting his -part. He had flung himself into a chair, and sat nodding as if asleep. -On the bed of straw lay Ericson, still unconscious, completely clothed -in blue uniform. The discarded gray suit lay in a bundle in a corner. - -“Quick, that will never do!” she cried, causing the old man to look up -with a start. Taking a case from a pillow on the bed, she filled it with -the gray uniform and crushed it into the bottom of the old man’s chair. - -“Set on it,” she said. “An’ don’t git up, whatever you do.” Then she -wrung her hands despairfully as she surveyed the room. A twitching of -Ericson’s yellow face warned her that he was returning to consciousness, -and a new terror pierced her heart. - -“Ef he comes to,” she thought, “he ’ll deny being a Union soldier, an’ -then they ’ll take ‘im--my God, have pity on the pore boy!” - -She turned from the door and limped smilingly toward the waiting -officer. - -“Ef brother wakes,” she said, “I hope you won’t git mad at nothin’ he -says. Fer the last two days he has been clean out ’n his head. Once he -declared to us that he was actu’ly President Jeff Davis. Thar’s no -tellin’ what idea may strike ’im next.” - -“I ’ll try not to wake him,” said the captain. “I ’ll merely step inside -very carefully. I wouldn’t do that if--if my men were not watching. You -see they’d wonder--” - -“Come on, then.” The rigidity of a crisis held her features. She entered -first, and pushed the great cumbersome door open before her. The old man -regarded them with sleepy looks and began to nod again. - -The officer stood over the form in blue a moment, then peered under the -bed, and even up the funnel-shaped chimney. - -“It’s all right,” he whispered to Sally. - -Ericson opened his eyes and smiled faintly. - -The girl comprehended his frame of mind; he had not noticed that his -clothes had been changed. - -“You’ve run me in a hole,” he said to the captain. “I’m ready to go, but -I don’t want you to think that these folks are a-harborin’ of me. I come -heer uninvited. The truth is, that young lady ordered me off, an’ I’d -‘a’ gone, but I keeled over in the door.” - -He put a hand on either side of him, and with a strenuous effort managed -to sit up. Then he noticed his change of uniform, and as he plucked -distastefully at his coat-sleeve, he stared first at the girl and then -at the captain. - -“Why, who’s done this heer?” he asked. “I ain’t no Yankee soldier. I’m a -rebel dyed in the wool.” - -The girl laid her hand on the officer’s arm. - -“Come on, please, sir; he’s gittin’ excited. Ef we dispute with ‘im -he ’ll git to rantin’ awful.” - -Without a word the officer followed her from the cabin and down toward -where his men stood. She walked rapidly, her steps quickened by the -rising tones of Ericson’s voice behind her. She put her handkerchief to -her dry eyes, and said, plaintively: - -“I hardly know what to do. We’ve had no end of trouble. First the news -come that pa had fell, an’ then brother come home like he is now.” - -“He looks like a very sick man,” said the officer, with a bluntness -peculiar to times of war. “Perhaps I ought to ask our surgeon to run -over and take a look at him.” - -She started, her face fell. - -“Old Doctor Stone, nigh us, is a-lookin’ after ‘im,” was the hasty -product of her bewildered invention. “He ’ll do all that can be -done--an’--an’ I want to keep brother from thinkin’ about army folks as -much as I can. Will you-uns camp nigh us long?” - -“We leave inside of an hour.” He raised his cap, saluted his men, gave -an order, and they whirled and tramped away. - -She went back into the cabin and sat down by the side of Ericson’s -pallet. There was something in his dumb glance and subdued air that -quenched the warmth of her recent success. As he looked at her steadily -his eyes became moist and his powder-stained lips began to quiver. - -“I didn’t ’low you’d play sech a dog-mean trick on me, Sally,” he -muttered. “I’d ruther a thousand times ‘a’ been shot like a soldier than -to hide in Yankee clothes.” Under her warm rush of love and pity for him -she completely lost the touch of hauteur that had clung to her since -his return. She took his hand in hers and bent her body down till his -fingers lay against her cheek. He could feel that she was deeply moved. - -“I couldn’t stand to see ’em take you off,” she sobbed. “Because you are -all I got on earth to keer fer. It would ‘a’ killed you, an’ me, too.” - Her voice took on the gentle cadences of a mother consoling a sick -child. “Grandpa will take off the mean old blue suit an’ put you up in -the big bed, and I ’ll make you some good chicken soup with boiled rice -in it.” - -He pressed her hand. - -“Do you raily want me heer, Sally?” - -Her reply was a moment’s hesitation, a convulsive motion of the vocal -cords, a failure of speech, and a final pressure of her lips on his -fingers. - -“Beca’se ef I ‘lowed you did, Sally, I wouldn’t keer much which side -beat. I wouldn’t be able to think about any livin’ thing but you.” - -“Well, you can, then,” she said; and she rose quickly. “Grandpa, I’m -goin’ in t’other room to fix ’im some chicken soup. Undress ’im an’ put -‘im to bed, an’ then go fetch Doctor Stone.” - -An hour later the old physician arrived and examined the patient. - -“A flesh wound only,” he said. “But he has lost mighty nigh every bit o’ -blood in ‘im. Nuss ’im good, Sally, an’ he ’ll be able to make plenty o’ -corn and taters fer you the rest o’ yore life--that is, if the war ever -ends.’’ Ericson was convalescing when the news of Lee’s surrender came -floating over the devastated land. - -“I’m awfully glad it’s all over,” he said. “I’m satisfied. I was shot -by a Yankee ball an’ nussed back to life by a Union gal, so I reckon my -account is even.” - - - - -THE HERESY OF ABNER CALIHAN - - -|Neil Filmore’s store was at the crossing of the Big Cabin and Rock -Valley roads. Before the advent of Sherman into the South it had been a -grist-mill, to which the hardy mountaineers had regularly brought their -grain to be ground, in wagons, on horseback, or on their shoulders, -according to their conditions. But the Northern soldiers had -appropriated the miller’s little stock of toll, had torn down the long -wooden sluice which had conveyed the water from the race to the mill, -had burnt the great wheel and crude wooden machinery, and rolled the -massive grinding-stones into the deepest part of the creek. - -After the war nobody saw any need for a mill at that point, and Neil -Filmore had bought the property from its impoverished owner and turned -the building into a store. It proved to be a fair location, for there -was considerable travel along the two main roads, and as Filmore was -postmaster his store became the general meeting-point for everybody -living within ten miles of the spot. He kept for sale, as he expressed -it, “a little of everything, from shoe-eyes to a sack of guano.” Indeed, -a sight of his rough shelves and unplaned counters, filled with cakes of -tallow, beeswax and butter, bolts of calico, sheeting and ginghams, and -the floor and porch heaped with piles of skins, cases of eggs, coops -of chickens, and cans of lard, was enough to make an orderly housewife -shudder with horror. - -But Mrs. Filmore had grown accustomed to this state of affairs in the -front part of the house, for she confined her domestic business, and -whatever neatness and order were possible, to the room in the rear, -where, as she often phrased it, she did the “eatin’ an’ cookin’, an’ -never interfeer with pap’s part except to lend ’im my cheers when thar -is more ’n common waitin’ fer the mail-carrier.” - -And her chairs were often in demand, for Filmore was a deacon in Big -Cabin Church, which stood at the foot of the green-clad mountain a -mile down the road, and it was at the store that his brother deacons -frequently met to transact church business. - -One summer afternoon they held an important meeting. Abner Calihan, a -member of the church and a good, industrious citizen, was to be tried -for heresy. - -“It has worried me more ’n anything that has happened sence them two -Dutchmen over at Cove Spring swapped wives an’ couldn’t be convinced -of the’r error,” said long, lean Bill Odell, after he had come in and -borrowed a candle-box to feed his mule in, and had given the animal -eight ears of corn from the pockets of his long-tailed coat, and left -the mule haltered at a hitching-post in front of the store. - -“Ur sence the widder Dill swore she was gwine to sue Hank Dobb’s wife -fer witchcraft,” replied Filmore, in a hospitable tone. “Take a cheer; -it must be as hot as a bake-oven out thar in the sun.” - -Bill Odell took off his coat and folded it carefully and laid it across -the beam of the scales, and unbuttoned his vest and sat down, and -proceeded to mop his perspiring face with a red bandanna. Toot Bailey -came in next, a quiet little man of about fifty, with a dark face, -straggling gray hair, and small, penetrating eyes. His blue jean -trousers were carelessly stuck into the tops of his clay-stained boots, -and he wore a sack-coat, a “hickory” shirt, and a leather belt. Mrs. -Filmore put her red head and broad, freckled face out of the door of her -apartment to see who had arrived, and the next moment came out dusting a -“split-bottomed” chair with her apron. - -“How are ye, Toot?” was her greeting as she placed the chair for him -between a jar of fresh honey and a barrel of sorghum molasses. “How is -the sore eyes over yore way?” - -“Toler’ble,” he answered, as he leaned back against the counter and -fanned himself with his slouch hat. “Mine is about through it, but the -Tye childern is a sight. Pizen-oak hain’t a circumstance.” - -“What did ye use?” - -“Copperas an’ sweet milk. It is the best thing I’ve struck. I don’t want -any o’ that peppery eye-wash ’bout my place. It’d take the hide off ’n a -mule’s hind leg.” - -“Now yore a-talkin’,” and Bill Odell went to the water-bucket on the end -of the counter. He threw his tobacco-quid away, noisily washed out his -mouth, and took a long drink from the gourd dipper. Then Bart Callaway -and Amos Sanders, who had arrived half an hour before and had walked -down to take a look at Filmore’s fish-pond, came in together. Both were -whittling sticks and looking cool and comfortable. - -“We are all heer,” said Odell, and he added his hat to his coat and the -pile of weights on the scale-beam, and put his right foot on the rung of -his chair. “I reckon we mought as well proceed.” At these words the men -who had arrived last carefully stowed their hats away under their chairs -and leaned forward expectantly. Mrs. Filmore glided noiselessly to a -corner behind the counter, and with folded arms stood ready to hear all -that was to be said. - -“Did anybody inform Ab of the object of this meeting?” asked Odell. - -They all looked at Filmore, and he transferred their glances to his -wife. She flushed under their scrutiny and awkwardly twisted her fat -arms together. - -“Sister Calihan wuz in here this mornin’,” she deposed in an uneven -tone. “I ‘lowed somebody amongst ’em ort to know what you-uns wuz up to, -so I up an’ told ‘er.” - -“What did she have to say?” asked Odell, bending over the scales to spit -at a crack in the floor, but not removing his eyes from the witness. - -“Law, I hardly know what she didn’t say! I never seed a woman take on -so. Ef the last bit o’ kin she had on earth wuz suddenly wiped from the -face o’ creation, she couldn’t ‘a’ tuk it more to heart. Sally wuz with -‘er, an’ went on wuss ‘an her mammy.” - -“What ailed Sally?” - -Mrs. Filmore smiled irrepressibly. “I reckon you ort to know, Brother -Odell,” she said, under the hand she had raised to hide her smile. “Do -you reckon she hain’t heerd o’ yore declaration that Eph cayn’t marry in -no heretic family while yo ‘re above ground? It wuz goin’ the round -at singin’-school two weeks ago, and thar hain’t been a thing talked -sence.” - -“I hain’t got a ioty to retract,” replied Odell, looking down into the -upturned faces for approval. “I’d as soon see a son o’ mine in his box. -Misfortune an’ plague is boun’ to foller them that winks at infidelity -in any disguise ur gyarb.” - -“Oh, shucks! don’t fetch the young folks into it, Brother Odell,” gently -protested Bart Callaway. “Them two has been a-settin’ up to each other -ever sence they wuz knee-high to a duck. They hain’t responsible fer the -doin’s o’ the old folks.” - -“I hain’t got nothin’ to take back, an’ Eph knows it,” thundered the -tall deacon, and his face flushed angrily. “Ef the membership sees fit -to excommunicate Ab Calihan, none o’ his stock ’ll ever come into my -family. But this is dilly-dallyin’ over nothin’. You fellers ’ll set thar -cocked up, an’ chaw an’ spit, an’ look knowin’, an’ let the day pass -‘thout doin’ a single thing. Ab Calihan is either fitten or unfitten, -one ur t’other. Brother Filmore, you’ve seed ’im the most, now what’s he -let fall that’s undoctrinal?” - -Filmore got up and laid his clay pipe on the counter and kicked back his -chair with his foot. - -“The fust indications I noticed,” he began, in a raised voice, as if he -were speaking to some one outside, “wuz the day Liz Wambush died. Bud -Thorn come in while I wuz weighing up a side o’ bacon fur Ab, an’ ‘lowed -that Liz couldn’t live through the night. I axed ’im ef she had made her -peace, and he ‘lowed she had, entirely, that she wuz jest a-lyin’ thar -shoutin’ Glory ever’ breath she drawed, an’ that they all wuz glad to -see her reconciled, fer you know she wuz a hard case speritually. Well, -it wuz right back thar at the fireplace while Ab wuz warmin’ hisse’f -to start home that he ‘lowed that he hadn’t a word to say agin Liz’s -marvelous faith, nur her sudden speritual spurt, but that in his opinion -the doctrine o’ salvation through faith without actual deeds of the -flesh to give it backbone wuz all shucks, an’ a dangerous doctrine -to teach to a risin’ gineration. Them wuz his words as well as I can -remember, an’ he cited a good many cases to demonstrate that the members -o’ Big Cabin wuzn’t any more ready to help a needy neighbor than a equal -number outside the church. He wuz mad kase last summer when his wheat -wuz spilin’ everybody that come to he’p wuz uv some other denomination, -an’ the whole lot o’ Big Cabin folks made some excuse ur other. He -‘lowed that you--” - -Filmore hesitated, and the tall man opposite him changed countenance. - -“Neil, hain’t you got a bit o’ sense?” put in Mrs. Filmore, sharply. - -“What did he say ag’in’ me--the scamp?” asked Odell, firing up. - -Filmore turned his back to his scowling wife, and took an egg from a -basket on the counter and looked at it closely, as he rolled it over and -over in his fingers. - -“Lots that he ortn’t to, I reckon,” he said, evasively. - -“Well, what wuz _some_ of it? I hain’t a-keerin’ what he says about me.” - -“He ‘lowed, fer one thing, that yore strict adheerance to doctrine had -hardened you some, wharas religious conviction, ef thar wuz any divine -intention in it, ort, in reason, to have a contrary effect. He ‘lowed -you wuz money-lovin’ an’ uncharitable an’ unfergivin’ an’, a heap o’ -times, un-Christian in yore persecution o’ the weak an’ helpless--them -that has no food an’ raiment--when yore crib an’ smokehouse is always -full. Ab is a powerful talker, an’--” - -“It’s the devil in ’im a-talkin’,” interrupted Odell, angrily, “an’ it’s -plain enough that he ort to be churched. Brother Sanders, you intimated -that you’d have a word to say; let us have it.” - -Sanders, a heavy-set man, bald-headed and red-bearded, rose. He took a -prodigious quid of tobacco from his mouth and dropped it on the floor at -the side of his chair. His remarks were crisp and to the point. - -“My opinion is that Ab Calihan hain’t a bit more right in our church -than Bob Inglesel. He’s got plumb crooked.” - -“What have you heerd ’im say? That’s what we want to git at,” said -Odell, his leathery face brightening. - -“More ’n I keered to listen at. He has been readin’ stuff he ortn’t to. -He give up takin’ the _Advocate_, an’ wouldn’t go in Mary Bank’s club -when they’ve been takin’ it in his family fer the last five year, an’ -has been subscribin’ fer the _True Light_ sence Christmas. The last time -I met ’im at Big Cabin, I think it wuz the second Sunday, he couldn’t -talk o’ nothin’ else but what this great man an’ t’other had writ -somewhar up in Yankeedom, an’ that ef we all keep along in our little -rut we ’ll soon be the laughin’-stock of all the rest of the enlightened -world. Ab is a slippery sort of a feller, an’ it’s mighty hard to ketch -‘im, but I nailed ’im on one vital p’int.” Sanders paused for a moment, -stroked his beard, and then continued: “He got excited sorter, an’ -‘lowed that he had come to the conclusion that hell warn’t no literal, -burnin’ one nohow, that he had too high a regyard fer the Almighty to -believe that He would amuse Hisse’f roastin’ an’ feedin’ melted lead to -His creatures jest to see ’em squirm.” - -“He disputes the Bible, then,” said Odell, conclusively, looking first -into one face and then another. “He sets his puny self up ag’in’ -the Almighty. The Book that has softened the pillers o’ thousands; -the Word that has been the consolation o’ millions an’ quintillions o’ -mortals of sense an’ judgment in all ages an’ countries is a pack o’ -lies from kiver to kiver. I don’t see a bit o’ use goin’ furder with -this investigation.” - -Just then Mrs. Filmore stepped out from her corner. - -“I hain’t been axed to put in,” she said, warmly; “but ef I wuz you-uns -I’d go slow with Abner Calihan. He’s nobody’s fool. He’s too good a -citizen to be hauled an’ drug about like a dog with a rope round his -neck. He fit on the right side in the war, an’ to my certain knowledge -has done more to ‘ds keepin’ peace an’ harmony in this community than any -other three men in it. He has set up with the sick an’ toted medicine -to ‘em, an’ fed the pore an’ housed the homeless. Here only last week -he got hisse’f stung all over the face an’ neck helpin’ that lazy Joe -Sebastian hive his bees, an’ Joe an’ his triflin’ gang didn’t git a -scratch. You may see the day you ’ll regret it ef you run dry shod over -that man.” - -“We simply intend to do our duty, Sister Filmore,” said Odell, slightly -taken aback; “but you kin see that church rules must be obeyed. I move -we go up thar in a body an’ lay the case squar before ‘im. Ef he is -willin’ to take back his wild assertions an’ go’long quietly without -tryin’ to play smash with the religious order of the whole community, he -may stay in on probation. What do you-uns say?” - -“It’s all we kin do now,” said Sanders; and they all rose and reached -for their hats. - -“You’d better stay an’ look atter the store,” Filmore called back to his -wife from the outside; “somebody mought happen along.” With a reluctant -nod of her head she acquiesced, and came out on the little porch and -looked after them as they trudged along the hot road toward Abner -Calihan’s farm. When they were out of sight she turned back into the -store. “Well,” she muttered, “Abner Calihan _may_ put up with that -triflin’ layout a-interfeerin’ with ’im when he is busy a-savin’ his -hay, but ef he don’t set his dogs on ’em he is a better Christian ‘an -I think he is’ an’ he’s a good un. They are a purty-lookin’ set to be -a-dictatin’ to a man like him.” - -A little wagon-way, which was not used enough to kill the stubbly grass -that grew on it, ran from the main road out to Calihan’s house. The -woods through which the little road had been cut were so thick and the -foliage so dense that the overlapping branches often hid the sky. - -Calihan’s house was a four-roomed log building which had been -weather-boarded on the outside with upright unpainted planks. On the -right side of the house was an orchard, and beneath some apple-trees -near the door stood an old-fashioned cider-press, a pile of acid-stained -rocks which had been used as weights in the press, and numerous tubs, -barrels, jugs, and jars, and piles of sour-smelling refuse, over which -buzzed a dense swarm of honey-bees, wasps, and yellow-jackets. On the -other side of the house, in a chip-strewn yard, stood cords upon cords -of wood, and several piles of rich pine-knots and charred pine-logs, -which the industrious farmer had on rainy days hauled down from the -mountains for kindling-wood. Behind the house was a great log barn and -a stable-yard, and beyond them lay the cornfields and the lush green -meadow, where a sinuous line of willows and slender cane-brakes marked -the course of a little creek. - -The approach of the five visitors was announced to Mrs. Calihan and her -daughter by a yelping rush toward the gate of half a dozen dogs which -had been napping and snapping at flies on the porch. Mrs. Calihan ran -out into the yard and vociferously called the dogs off, and with awed -hospitality invited the men into the little sitting-room. - -Those of them who cared to inspect their surroundings saw a rag carpet, -walls of bare, hewn logs, the cracks of which had been filled with -yellow mud, a little table in the center of the room, and a cottage -organ against the wall near the small window. On the mantel stood a new -clock and a glass lamp, the globe of which held a piece of red flannel -and some oil. The flannel was to give the lamp color. Indeed, lamps with -flannel in them were very much in vogue in that part of the country. - -“Me an’ Sally wuz sorter expectin’ ye,” said Mrs. Calihan, as she gave -them seats and went around and took their hats from their knees and -laid them on a bed in the next room. “I don’t know what to make of Mr. -Calihan,” she continued, plaintively. “He never wuz this away before. -When we wuz married he could offer up the best prayer of any young man -in the settlement. The Mount Zion meetin’-house couldn’t hold protracted -meetin’ without ‘im. He fed more preachers an’ the’r hosses than anybody -else, an’ some ‘lowed that he wuz jest too natcherly good to pass away -like common folks, an’ that when his time come he’d jest disappear body -an’ all.” She was now wiping her eyes on her apron, and her voice had -the suggestion of withheld emotions. “I never calculated on him bringin’ -sech disgrace as this on his family.” - -“Whar is he now?” asked Odell, preliminarily. - -“Down thar stackin’ hay. Sally begun on ’im ag’in at dinner about yore -orders to Eph, an’ he went away ‘thout finishin’ his dinner. She’s been -a-cryin’ an’ a-poutin’ an’ takin’ on fer a week, an’ won’t tech a bite -to eat. I never seed a gal so bound up in anybody as she is in Eph. It -has mighty nigh driv her pa distracted, kase he likes Eph, an’ Sally’s -his pet.” Mrs. Calihan turned her head toward the adjoining room: -“Sally, oh, Sally! are ye listenin’? Come heer a minute!” - -There was silence for a moment, then a sound of heavy shoes on the floor -of the next room, and a tall rather good-looking girl entered. Her eyes -and cheeks were red, and she hung her head awkwardly, and did not look -at any one but her mother. - -“Did you call me, ma?” - -“Yes, honey; run an’ tell yore pa they are all heer,--the last one -of ‘em, an’ fer him to hurry right on to the house an’ not keep ‘em -a-waitin’.” - -“Yes-sum!” And without any covering for her head the visitors saw her -dart across the back yard toward the meadow. - -With his pitchfork on his shoulder, a few minutes later Abner Calihan -came up to the back door of his house. He wore no coat, and but one -frayed suspender supported his patched and baggy trousers. His broad, -hairy breast showed through the opening in his shirt. His tanned cheeks -and neck were corrugated, his hair and beard long and reddish brown. His -brow was high and broad, and a pair of blue eyes shone serenely beneath -his shaggy brows. - -“Good evenin’,” he said, leaning his pitchfork against the door-jamb -outside and entering. Without removing his hat he went around and gave -a damp hand to each visitor. “It is hard work savin’ hay sech weather as -this.” - -No one replied to this remark, though they all nodded and looked as -if they wanted to give utterance to something struggling within them. -Calihan swung a chair over near the door, and sat down and leaned back -against the wall, and looked out at the chickens in the yard and the -gorgeous peacock strutting about in the sun. No one seemed quite ready -to speak, so, to cover his embarrassment, he looked farther over in the -yard to his potato-bank and pig-pens, and then up into the clear sky for -indications of rain. - -“I reckon you know our business, Brother Calihan,” began Odell, in a -voice that broke the silence harshly. - -“I reckon I could make a purty good guess,” and Calihan spit over his -left shoulder into the yard. “I hain’t heerd nothin’ else fer a week. -From all the talk, a body’d ’low I’d stole somebody’s hawgs.” - -“We jest _had_ to take action,” affirmed the self-constituted speaker -for the others. “The opinions you have expressed,” and Odell at once -began to warm up to his task, “are so undoctrinal an’ so p’int blank -ag’in’ the articles of faith that, believin’ as you seem to believe, -you are plumb out o’ j’int with Big Cabin Church, an’ a resky man in -any God-feerin’ community. God Almighty”--and those who saw Odell’s -twitching upper lip and indignantly flashing eye knew that the noted -“exhorter” was about to become mercilessly personal and vindictive--“God -Almighty is the present ruler of the universe, but sence you have set up -to run ag’in’ Him it looks like you’d need a wider scope of territory to -transact business in than jest heer in this settlement.” - -The blood had left Calihan’s face. His eyes swept from one stern, -unrelenting countenance to another till they rested on his wife and -daughter, who sat side by side, their faces in their aprons, their -shoulders quivering with soundless sobs. They had forsaken him. He was -an alien in his own house, a criminal convicted beneath his own roof. -His rugged breast rose and fell tumultuously as he strove to command his -voice. - -“I hain’t meant no harm--not a speck,” he faltered, as he wiped the -perspiration from his quivering chin. “I hain’t no hand to stir up -strife in a community. I’ve tried to be law-abidin’ an’ honest, but it -don’t seem like a man kin he’p thinkin’. He--” - -“But he kin keep his thinkin’ to hisse’f,” interrupted Odell, sharply; -and a pause came after his words. - -In a jerky fashion Calihan spit over his shoulder again. He looked at -his wife and daughter for an instant, and nodded several times as if -acknowledging the force of Odell’s words. Bart Callaway took out his -tobacco-quid and nervously shuffled it about in his palm as if he had -half made up his mind that Odell ought not to do all the talking, but he -remained mute, for Mrs. Calihan had suddenly looked up. - -“That’s what I told him,” she whimpered, bestowing a tearful glance on -her husband. “He mought ‘a’ kep’ his idees to hisse’f ef he had to have -‘em, and not ‘a’ fetched calumny an’ disgrace down on me an’ Sally. When -he used to set thar atter supper an’ pore over the _True Light_ when -ever’body else wuz in bed, I knowed it’d bring trouble, kase some o’ the -doctrine wuz scand’lous. The next thing I knowed he had lost intrust in -prayer-meetin’, an’ ‘lowed that Brother Washburn’s sermons wuz the same -thing over an’ over, an’ that they mighty nigh put him to sleep. An’ -then he give up axin’ the blessin’ at the table--somethin’ that has been -done in my fam’ly as fur back as the oldest one kin remember. An’ he -talked his views, too, fer it got out, an’ me nur Sally narry one never -cheeped it, fer we wuz ashamed. An’ then ever’ respectable woman in Big -Cabin meetin’-house begun to sluff away from us as ef they wuz afeerd o’ -takin’ some dreadful disease. It wuz hard enough on Sally at the -start, but when Eph up an’ tol’ her that you had give him a good -tongue-lashin’, an’ had refused to deed him the land you promised him ef -he went any further with her, it mighty nigh prostrated her. She hain’t -done one thing lately but look out at the road an’ pine an’ worry. The -blame is all on her father. My folks has all been good church members as -fur back as kin be traced, an’ narry one wuz ever turned out.” - -Mrs. Calihan broke down and wept. Calihan was deeply touched; he could -not bear to see a woman cry. He cleared his throat and tried to look -unconcerned. - -“What step do you-uns feel called on to take next to--to what you are -a-doin’ of now?” he stammered. - -“We ‘lowed,” replied Odell, “ef we couldn’t come to some sort o’ -understandin’ with you now, we’d fetch up the case before preachin’ -to-morrow an’ let the membership vote on it. The verdict would go ag’in’ -you, Ab, fer thar hain’t a soul in sympathy with you.” - -The sobbing of the two women broke out in renewed volume at the mention -of this dreadful ultimatum, which, despite their familiarity with -the rigor of Big Cabin Church discipline, they had up to this moment -regarded as a vague contingent rather than a tangible certainty. - -Calihan’s face grew paler. Whatever struggle might have been going on in -his mind was over. He was conquered. - -“I am ag’in’ bringin’ reproach on my wife an’ child,” he conceded, a -lump in his throat and a tear in his eye. “You all know best. I reckon I -have been too forward an’ too eager to heer myself talk.” He got up -and looked out toward the towering cliffy mountains and into the blue -indefiniteness above them, and without looking at the others he finished -awkwardly: “Ef it’s jest the same to you-uns you may let the charge -drap, an’--an’ in future I ’ll give no cause fer complaint.” - -“That’s the talk,” said Odell, warmly, and he got up and gave his hand to -Calihan. The others followed his example. - -“I ’ll make a little speech before preachin’ in the mornin’,” confided -Odell to Calihan after congratulations were over. “You needn’t be thar -unless you want to. I ’ll fix you up all right.” - -Calihan smiled faintly and looked shamefacedly toward the meadow, and -reached outside and took hold of the handle of his pitchfork. - -“I want to try to git through that haystack ‘fore dark,” he said, -awkwardly. “Ef you-uns will be so kind as to excuse me now I ’ll run down -and finish up. I’d sorter set myself a task to do, an’ I don’t like to -fall short o’ my mark.” - -Down in the meadow Calihan worked like a tireless machine, not pausing -for a moment to rest his tense muscles. He was trying to make up for -the time he had lost with his guests. Higher and smaller grew the great -haystack as it slowly tapered toward its apex. The red sun sank behind -the mountain and began to draw in its long streamers of light. The gray -of dusk, as if fleeing from its darker self, the monster night, crept -up from the east, and with a thousand arms extended moved on after the -receding light. - -Calihan worked on till the crickets began to shrill and the frogs in the -marshes to croak, and the hay beneath his feet felt damp with dew. -The stack was finished. He leaned on his fork and inspected his work -mechanically. It was a perfect cone. Every outside straw and blade of -grass lay smoothly downward, like the hair on a well-groomed horse. Then -with his fork on his shoulder he trudged slowly up the narrow field-road -toward the house. He was vaguely grateful for the darkness; a strange, -new, childish embarrassment was on him. For the first time in life he -was averse to meeting his wife and child. - -“I’ve been spanked an’ told to behave ur it ’ud go wuss with me,” he -muttered. “I never wuz talked to that away before by nobody, but I jest -had to take it. Sally an’ her mother never would ‘a’ heerd the last of -it ef I had let out jest once. No man, I reckon, has a moral right to -act so as to make his family miserable. I crawfished, I know, an’ on -short notice; but law me! I wouldn’t have Bill Odell’s heart in me fer -ever’ acre o’ bottom-lan’ in this valley. I wouldn’t ‘a’ talked to a -houn’ dog as he did to me right before Sally an’ her mother.” - -He was very weary when he leaned his fork against the house and turned -to wash his face and hands in the tin basin on the bench at the side of -the steps. Mrs. Calihan came to the door, her face beaming. - -“I wuz afeerd you never would come,” she said, in a sweet, winning tone. -“I got yore beans warmed over an’ some o’ yore brag yam taters cooked. -Come on in ‘fore the coffee an’ biscuits git cold.” - -“I ’ll be thar in a minute,” he said; and he rolled up his sleeves and -plunged his hot hands and face into the cold spring-water. - -“Here’s a clean towel, pa; somebody has broke the roller.” It was Sally. -She had put on her best white muslin gown and braided her rich, heavy -hair into two long plaits which hung down her back. There was no trace -of the former redness about her eyes, and her face was bright and full -of happiness. He wiped his hands and face on the towel she held, and -took a piece of a comb from his vest pocket and hurriedly raked his -coarse hair backward. He looked at her tenderly and smiled in an abashed -sort of way. - -“Anybody comin’ to-night?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Eph Odell, I ’ll bet my hat!” - -The girl nodded, and blushed and hung her head. - -“How do you know?” - -“Mr. Odell ‘lowed I mought look fer him.” - -Abner Calihan laughed slowly and put his arm around his daughter, and -together they went toward the steps of the kitchen door. - -“You seed yore old daddy whipped clean out to-day,” he said, -tentatively. “I reckon yo ‘re ashamed to see him sech a coward an’ have -him sneak away like a dog with his tail tucked ’tween his legs. Bill -Odell is a power in this community.” - -She laughed with him, but she did not understand his banter, and -preceded him into the kitchen. It was lighted by a large tallow-dip in -the center of the table. There was much on the white cloth to tempt a -hungry laborer’s appetite--a great dish of greasy string-beans, with -pieces of bacon, a plate of smoking biscuits, and a platter of fried ham -in brown gravy. But he was not hungry. Slowly and clumsily he drew -up his chair and sat down opposite his wife and daughter. He slid a -quivering thumb under the edge of his inverted plate and turned it -half over, but noticing that they had their hands in their laps and had -reverently bowed their heads, he cautiously replaced it. In a flash he -comprehended what was expected of him. The color surged into his homely -face. He played with his knife for a moment, and then stared at them -stubbornly, almost defiantly. They did not look up, but remained -motionless and patiently expectant. The dread of the protracted silence, -for which he was becoming more and more responsible, conquered him. He -lowered his head and spoke in a low, halting tone: - -“Good Lord, Father of us all, have mercy on our sins, and make us -thankful fer these, Thy many blessings. Amen.” - - - - -THE TENDER LINK - - -I - -|Several customers were gathered in Mark Wyndham’s store at the -cross-roads. They were rough farmers, wearing jean clothing, slouch -hats, and coarse, dusty brogans. - -A stranger, a man of quite a different type, came in and sat down near -the side door. At first the crowd gazed at him curiously, but after a -while he seemed to pass out of their minds. When he had waited on all -his customers, Mark approached the stranger. - -“By hookey!” he exclaimed, pausing in astonishment, and then extending -his hand, “as the Lord is my Maker, it’s Luke King! Who’d ever expect to -see you turn up?” - -“Yes; Luke King it will have to be, since you, like all the rest, won’t -call me by my right name.” - -Mark laughed apologetically. “Oh, I forgot you never could bear to be -called by yore step-daddy’s name; but you wuz raised up with the King -layout, an’ Laramore is not a easy word to handle. Well, I reckon you -are follerin’ what you started--writin’ books?” - -“Yes.” - -“I ‘lowed you’d stick to it. I never seed a feller study harder an’ want -to do a thing as bad.” - -Lucian Laramore smiled. “Did any one here ever find out that I had -adopted that profession?” - -“Not a soul, Luke. I never let on to anybody that I knowed it, an’ the -folks round heer don’t read much. They mought ‘a’ suspected some ‘n’ ef -Luke King had been signed to yore books and stories, but nobody ever -called you by yore right name. What on earth ever made you come home?” - -“It was my mother that brought me here, Mark--not the others,” said -Laramore. “If a man is a man, no sort of fame or prosperity can make him -forget his mother. I planned to come back several times, but something -always prevented it. However, when you wrote me that the last time you -saw her she was not looking well, I decided to come at once.” - -Mark was critically surveying his old friend from head to foot while he -was speaking. Laramore smiled, and added, “You are wondering why I am so -plainly dressed, Mark; you needn’t deny it.” - -Mark flushed when he replied: “Well, I did ’low you fellers ’ud put on -more style ’n we-uns down here.” - -“It’s an old suit I have worn out hunting in Canada. I put it on because -I intended to do a good deal of walking; and then, to tell the truth, I -thought it would look better for me to go back very simply dressed.” - -“That’s a fact, now I think of it; well, I wish you luck over thar. -Goin’ ter foot it over?” - -“Yes; it is only three miles, and I have plenty of time.” - -But the walk was longer than Laramore thought it would be, and he was -hot, damp with perspiration, and covered with dust when he reached the -four-roomed cabin among the stunted pines and wild cedars. - -Old Sam King sat out in front of the door. He wore no shoes nor coat, -and his hickory shirt and jean trousers had been patched many times. His -hair was long, sun-burned, and tangled, and the corrugated skin of his -cheek and neck was covered with straggling hairs. - -As the stranger came in view from behind the pine-pole pig-pen, the old -man uttered a grunt of surprise that brought to the door two young women -in homespun dresses, and a tall, lank young man in his shirt-sleeves. - -“I suppose you don’t remember me,” said Laramore, and he put his satchel -on a wash-bench by a tub and a piggin of lye soap. - -“Well, I reckon nobody in this shack is gwine to ’spute with you,” - rumbled the old man, as with his chin in his hand, he lazily looked at -the face before him. - -“I might not have known you either if I had not been told that you lived -here. I am the fellow you used to call Luke King.” - -“By Jacks!” After that ejaculation the old man and the others stared -speechlessly. - -“Yes, that’s who I am,” continued Laramore. “How do you do, Jake?” (to -the lank young man in the door). “We might as well shake hands. You -girls have grown into women since I left. I’ve stayed away a long time, -and been nearly all over the world, but I’ve always wanted to get back. -Where is mother?” - -Neither of the girls could summon up the courage to answer, and they -seemed under stress of great embarrassment. - -“She is porely,” said the old man, inhospitably keeping his seat. “She’s -had a hurtin’ in ’er side from usin’ that thar battlin’-stick too much -on dirty clothes, an’ her cold has settled on ’er chest. Mary, go tell -yore maw Luke’s got back. Huh, we all ‘lowed you wuz dead ‘cept her. She -al’ays contended you wuz alive som ‘ers. How’s times been a-servin’ uv -you?” - -“Pretty well.” Laramore put his satchel on the ground and sat down -wearily on the bench by the tub. - -“Things is awful slow heer. Whar have you been hangin’ out?” - -“Nowhere in particular--that is, I have lived in a good many places.” - -“Huh! ’bout as I expected; an’ I reckon you hain’t got nothin’ at all -ter show fer it ‘cept what you’ve got on yore back.” - -“That’s about all.” - -“What you been a-follerin’?” - -Laramore colored sensitively. - -“Writing for papers and magazines.” - -“I ‘lowed you mought go at some ‘n’ o’ that sort; you used to try mighty -hard to write a good hand; you never would work. Married?” - -“No.” - -“Hain’t able to support a woman I reckon. Well, you showed a great lot -of good sense thar; a feller can sorter manage to shift fer hisse’f ef -he hain’t hampered by a pack o’ children an’ er sick woman.” - -At that juncture Mary returned. She flushed as she caught Laramore’s -expectant glance. She spoke to her father. - -“Maw said tell ’im ter come in thar.” Laramore went into the front room -and turned into a small apartment adjoining. It was windowless and dark, -the only light filtering through the front room. On a low, narrow bed -beneath a ladder leading to a trap-door above, lay a woman. - -“Here I am, Luke,” she cried out, excitedly. “Don’t stumble over that -pan o’ water! I’ve been taking a mustard footbath to try an’ git my -blood warm. La, me! How you did take me by surprise! I’ve prayed for -little else in many er yeer, an’ I was jest about ter give it up.” - -His foot touched a three-legged stool, and he drew it to the head of her -bed and sat down. He took one of her hard, thin hands and bent over her. -Should he kiss her? She had not taught him to do so when he was a child, -and he had never kissed her in his life, but he had seen the world and -grown wiser. He turned her face toward him and pressed his lips to hers. -She was much surprised, and drew herself from him and wiped her mouth -with a corner of the sheet, but he knew she was pleased. - -“Why, Luke, what on earth do you mean? Have you gone plumb crazy?” she -said, quickly. - -“I wanted to kiss you, that’s all,” he said, awkwardly. They were -both silent for a moment, then she spoke, tremblingly: “You al’ays was -womanish an’ tender-like; it don’t do a body any harm; none o’ the rest -ain’t that way. But, my stars! I cayn’t tell a bit how you look in this -pitch dark. Mary! oh, Mary!” - -Laramore released his mother’s hand, and sat up erect as the girl came -to the door. - -“What you want, maw?” - -“I cayn’t see my hand’fore me; I wish you’d fetch a light heer. You ‘ll -find a piece o’ candle in the clock; I hid it there to keep Jake from -usin’ it in his lantern.” - -The girl lit the bit of tallow-dip, and fastened it in the neck of a -bottle. She brought it in, stood it on a box filled with cotton-seed -and ears of corn, and shambled out. Laramore’s heart sank as he looked -around him. The room was nothing but a lean-to shed walled with upright -slabs and floored with puncheons. The bedstead was a crude wooden frame -supported by perpendicular saplings fastened to floor and rafters. The -cracks in the wall were filled with mud, rags, and newspapers. Bunches -of dried herbs hung above his head, and piles of old clothing and -agricultural implements lay about indiscriminately. Disturbed by the -light, a hen flew from her nest behind a dismantled loom, and with a -loud cackling went out at the door. - -The old woman gazed at him eagerly. “You hain’t altered so overly much,” - she observed, “‘cept yore skin looks mighty white, and yore hands feel -soft.” - -Then she lowered her voice into a whisper, and glanced furtively toward -the door. “You favor yore father--I don’t mean Sam, but Mr. Laramore. -Yore as like as two peas. He helt his head that away, an’ had yore way -o’ bein’ gentle with womenfolks. You’ve got his high temper, too. La, -me! that last night you was at home, an’ Sam cussed you, an’ kicked yore -books into the fire, I didn’t sleep a wink. I thought you’d gone off to -borrow a gun. It was almost a relief to know you’d left, kase I seed you -an’ Sam couldn’t git along. Yore father was a different sort of a man, -Luke; he loved books an’ study, like you. He had good blood in ‘im; his -father was a teacher an’ a circuit-rider. I don’t know why I married -Sam, ’less it was ’kase I was young an’ helpless, an’ you was a baby.” - -There was a low whimper in her voice, and the lines about her mouth -tightened. Lara-more’s breast heaved, and he suddenly put out his hand -and began to stroke her thin, gray hair. A strange, restful feeling -stole over him. The spell was on her, too; she closed her eyes, and a -blissful smile lighted her wan face. Then her lips began to quiver, and -she turned her face from him. - -“I’m er simpleton,” she sobbed, “but I cayn’t he’p it. Nobody hain’t -petted me nur tuk on over me a bit sence yore paw died. I never treated -you right, nuther, Luke; I ort never to ‘a’ let Sam run over you like he -did.” - -“Never mind that,” Laramore replied, tenderly; “but you must not lie -here in this dingy hole; you need medicine and good food.” - -“I’m gwine ter git up,” she answered. “I’m not sick; I jest laid down -ter rest. I must git the house straight. Mary and Jane hain’t no hands -at housework ‘thout I stand over ‘em, and Jake an’ his paw is -continually a-fussin’. I feel stronger already; ef you ’ll go in t’other -room I ’ll rise. They ’ll never fix you nothin’ ter eat, nur nowhar to -sleep. I reckon you ’ll have to lie with Jake, like you useter, tel I can -fix better. Things is in a awful mess sence I got porely.” - -He went into the front room. The old man had brought his satchel in. He -had opened it in a chair, and was coolly examining the contents in the -firelight. Jake and the two girls stood looking on. Laramore stared -at the old man, but the latter did not seem at all abashed. Finally he -closed the satchel and put it on the floor. - -In a few minutes Mrs. King came in. She blew out the candle, and as she -crossed to the mantelpiece she carefully extinguished the smoking wick. -The change in her was more noticeable to her son than it had been a -few minutes before. She looked very frail and white in her faded black -cotton gown. Her shoes were worn and her bare feet showed through the -holes. - -“Mary,” she asked, “have you put on the supper?” - -“Yes’m; but it hain’t tuk up yit.” The girl went into the next room, -which was used for kitchen and dining-room in one, and her mother -followed her. In a few minutes the old woman came to the door. - -“Walk out, all of you,” she said, wearily. “Luke, you ’ll have to put up -with what is set before you; hog-meat is mighty sca’ce this yeer. Just -at fattenin’ time our hogs tuk the cholera an’ six was found dead in one -day. Meat is fetchin’ fifteen cents a pound in town.” - - -II - -|After supper Laramore left his mother and sisters removing the dishes -from the table and went out. He did not want to be left alone with his -stepfather. - -He crossed the little brook that ran behind the cabin, and leaned -against the rail fence which surrounded the pine-pole corn-crib. He -could easily leave them in their poverty and ignorance, and return to -the great intellectual world from which he had come--the world which -understood and honored him; but, after all, could he do it now that he -had seen his mother? - -The cabin door shone out a square of red light against the blackness of -the hill and the silent pines beyond. He heard Jake whistling a tune he -had whistled long ago when they had worked in the fields together, and -the creaking of the puncheon floor as the family moved about within. - -A figure appeared in the door. It was his mother, and she was coming out -to search for him. - -“Here I am, mother,” he said, as she advanced through the darkness; -“look out and don’t get your feet wet!” - -She chuckled childishly as she stepped across the brook on the stones. -When she reached him she put her hand on his arm and laughed: “La, me, -boy, a little wet won’t hurt me--I’m used to it; I’ve milked the cows in -that thar lot when the mire was shoe-mouth deep. I ‘lowed I’d find you -heer some’rs. You used to be a mighty hand to sneak off from the rest, -an’ you hain’t got over it. But you have changed. You don’t talk our way -exactly, an’ I reckon that’s what aggravates Sam. He was goin’ on jest -now about yore bein’ stuck up in yore talk an’ eatin’.” - -He looked past her at the full moon which was rising above the trees. - -“Mother,” said he, abruptly, and he put his arm around her neck, and his -eyes filled--“mother, I don’t see how I can stay here long. Your health -is bad and you are not comfortable; the others are strong and can stand -it, but you can’t. Come away with me, for a while anyway. I ’ll put you -under a doctor and make you comfortable.” - -She looked up into his eyes steadily for a moment, then she slapped him -playfully on the breast and drew away from him. “How foolish you talk!” - she laughed; “why, you know I couldn’t leave Sam an’ the children. He’d -go stark crazy ‘thout me round, an’ they’d be ‘thout advice an’ counsel. -La, me! What makes you think I ain’t comfortable? This house is a sight -better ’n the last one we had, an’ dryer, an’ a heap warmer inside. Hard -times is likely to come anywhar an’ any time. It strikes rich an’ pore -alike. Thar’s ‘Squire Loften offerin’ his big river-bottom plantation -an’ the best new house in the county at a awful sacrifice, kase he is -obliged to raise money to pay out ’n debt. He offers it fer ten thousand -dollars, an’ it’s wuth every dollar of twenty. Now, ef we-all jest had -sech a place as that we’d ax nobody any odds. Sam an’ Jake are hard -workers, but they’ve had ’nough bad luck to dishearten anybody.” - -“Ten thousand dollars!” Laramore’s heart bounded suddenly. It was -exactly the amount he had in a Boston bank--all that he had ever been -able to save. He had calculated on investing it with some literary -friends in a magazine of which he was to be the editor. - -“Do you think they could manage the place successfully, mother?” he -asked, after a moment. - -“Why, you know they could,” she returned. “A body could make a livin’ on -that land and never half try. ‘Squire Loften spent his money like water, -an’ let a gang o’ triflin’ darkies eat ’im up alive.” - -“I remember the farm and the old house very well,” he said, -reflectively. - -“They turned that into a barn,” she ran on, enthusiastically. “The new -house is jest splendid--green blinds to the winders, an’ cyarpets on -the floors, a spring-house, an’ a windmill to keep the house an’ barn in -water.” - -“We’d better go in,” he said, abruptly; “you ’ll catch cold out here in -the dew.” - -She laughed childishly as she walked back to the cabin by his side. A -thick smoke and an unpleasant odor met them at the door. - -“It’s Sam a-burnin’ rags to oust the mosquitoes, so he kin sleep,” she -explained; “they are wuss this yeer’an I ever seed ‘em. Jake an’ the -gals grease the’r faces with lamp-oil when they have any, but I jest -kiver up my head with a rag an’ never know they are about. I reckon we’d -better go to bed. Jake has fixed him a bed up in the loft, so you kin -sleep by yorese’f. He’s been jowerin? at his paw ever sence supper fer -treatin’ you so bad.” - -The next morning, after breakfast, Jake threw a bag of shelled corn on -the bare back of his old bay mare and started to mill down the valley, -and his father shouldered an ax and went up on the hill to cut wood. - -“Whar are you gwine?” asked Mrs. King, following Laramore to the door. - -“I thought I would walk over to the Loften place and see the -improvements. I used to hunt over that land.” - -“Well, be shore to git back by dinner, whatever you do. Me an’ Jane -caught a hen on the roost last night, an’ I’m gwine to make you a -chicken pie, kase you used to love ’em so much.” - -Half a mile up the road, which ran along the side of the hill, he came -into view of the rich, level lands of the Loften plantation. He stood -in the shade of a tall poplar and looked thoughtfully at the lush green -meadows, the well-tilled fields of corn, cotton, and sorghum, and the -large two-storied house with its dormer windows, tall, fluted columns, -and broad verandas--at the numerous outhouses, barns, and stables, and -the white-graveled drives and walks from the house to the road. Then he -turned and looked back at the cabin--the home of his mother. - -It was hardly discernible in the gray morning mist that hung over the -little vale in which it stood. He saw Jake, far away, riding along, in -and out among the sassafras and sumac bushes that bordered a worn-out -wheat-field, his long legs dangling at the sides of the mare. There was -a bent figure in the wood-yard picking up chips; it was his mother or -one of the girls. - -“Poor souls!” he exclaimed; “they have been in a dreary treadmill all -their lives, and have never known the joy of one gratified ambition. If -only I could conquer my own selfish desires I could give them comforts -they never dreamed of possessing--a taste of happiness. It would take my -last dollar, and Chamberlain and Gilraith would never understand. They -would look elsewhere for capital and for an editor, and it would be like -them to say they could get along without my contributions.” - -It was dusk when he returned to the cabin. Jake sat on his bag of -meal in the door. Old Sam had taken off his shoes, and sat out under a -persimmon tree “coolin’ off,” and yelling angrily at his wife to “hurry -up supper.” - -When she heard that Laramore had returned she came to the door. “We -didn’t know what had become of you,” she said, as she emerged from the -cabin. - -“I got interested in the Loften farm, and before I realized it the sun -was down; I am sorry.” - -“Oh, it don’t matter; I saved yore piece o’ pie, an’ I’m just warmin’ it -over. I bet you didn’t get a single bite o’ dinner.” - -“Yes, I did; but I am ready for supper.” - -As they were rising from the table Laramore said: “I have got something -to say to you all.” - -They dragged their chairs back to the front room and sat down with -awkward ceremony. They stared at him in open-mouthed wonder as he placed -his chair in front of them. Old Sam seemed embarrassed by the formality -of the proceedings, and endeavored to relieve himself by assuming -indifference. He coughed conspicuously and hitched his chair back till -it leaned against the door-jamb. - -There was a tremor in Laramore’s voice, and all the time he was speaking -he did not look up from the floor. - -“Since I went away from you,” he began, “I have studied hard and applied -myself to a profession, and though I have wandered about a good deal I -have managed to save a little money. I am not rich, but I am worth more -than you think I am. You have never had any luck, and you have worked -hard, and deserve more than has fallen to your lot. You never could make -anything on this poor land. The Loften property is worth twice what he -asked for it. I happened to have the money to spare and bought it. I -have the deed for it.” - -There was a profound silence in the room. The occupants of the row of -chairs stared at him with widened eyes, mute and motionless. A sudden -breeze came in at the door and turned the flame of the candle on -the mantel toward the wall, and caused black ropes of smoke from the -pine-knots in the chimney to curl out into the room like pyrotechnic -snakes. Mrs. King bent forward and looked into Lara-more’s face and -smiled and winked, then she glanced at the serious faces of the others -and broke out into a childish laugh of genuine merriment. - -“La, me! Ef you-uns ain’t settin’ thar and swallowin’ down every word -that boy says jest ez ef it was so much law and gospel!” - -But none of them entered into her mood; indeed, they gave her not so -much as a glance. Without replying, Laramore arose and took the candle -from the mantelpiece. He stood it on the table and laid a folded paper -beside it. “There’s the deed,” he said. “It is made out to my mother to -hold as long as she lives, and to fall eventually to her daughters and -her son Jake.” - -He left the paper on the table and went back to his chair. An awkward -silence ensued. It was broken by old Sam. He coughed and threw his -tobacco-quid out at the door, and smiling to hide his agitation he went -to the table. His back was to them, and his face went out of view when -he bent to hold the paper in the light. - -“That’s what it is, by Jacks!” he blurted out. “Thar’s no shenanigan -about it. The Loften place is Mariar Habersham King’s ef I kin read -writin’.” - -With a great clatter of shoes and chairs they rose and gathered around -him, leaving their benefactor submerged in their shadow. Each took the -paper and examined it silently, and then they slowly dispersed, leaving -the document on the table. Sam King started aimlessly toward the -kitchen, but finally turned to the front door, where he stood -irresolute, staring out at the road. Mrs. King looked at Laramore -helplessly and went out into the kitchen, and exchanging glances, the -two girls followed her. Jake noticed that the wind was blowing the -paper from the table, and he rescued it and silently offered it to his -half-brother. - -Laramore motioned it from him. “Give it to mother,” he said. “She ‘ll -take care of it. By the way, Loften will get out at once. The price paid -includes the crops, and they are in very good condition.” - -He had Jake’s bed to himself again that night. For hours he lay awake -listening to the drone of excited conversation from the family which -had gathered under the trees in front of the cabin. About eleven o’clock -some one came softly into his room. The moon had risen and its beams -fell in at the open door. It was his mother, and she was moving toward -his bed with cat-like caution. “Is that you, mother?” he asked. - -For an instant she was so much startled at finding him awake that she -could not reply. - -“Oh, I tried not to wake you,” she stammered. “I just wanted to make -shore yore bed was comfortable.” - -“It is all right. I wasn’t asleep, anyway.” He could feel her trembling -as she sat down on the edge of his bed. - -“Seems like you couldn’t sleep, nuther,” she said. “Thar hain’t a shut -eye in this cabin. They’ve all laid down, an’ laid down an’ got -up ergin, over an’ over.” She laughed softly and twisted her hands -nervously in her lap. “We are all that excited we don’t know which way -to turn. Why, Luke, it ’ll be the talk o’ the county! Sech luck hain’t -fell to any family as pore as we are sence I can remember. La, me! It -‘ud make you split yore sides a-laughin’ jest to set out thar an’ listen -to all the plans they are makin’. But Sam has the least of all to say; -an’, Luke, I’m sorter sorry fer ‘im. He feels bad about the way he has -al’ays treated you. He’s too back’ard an’ shamefaced to ax yore pardon, -an’ he begged me jest now to do it fer ’im the fust time I got a chance. -He’s a good man, Luke, but he’s gittin’ old, an’ has been hounded to -death by debt an’ ill-luck.” - -“I know it; he is all right,” replied Lara-more, tremulously. “Tell him -I have not the slightest ill-will against him, and that I hope he will -get along better now.” - -“You talk like you don’t intend to stay.” - -“No; I shall have to return North pretty soon--that is, after I see you -moved into your new home. I can do better up there; you know I was not -cut out for a farmer.” - -“I reckon you know best ’bout your own arrangements, but I hate to have -you go ag’in. I’d like to have all my children with me ef I could.” - -“I ’ll come back every now and then; I won’t stay away so long next -time.” - -She went out to tell her husband what he had said and to let her son -sleep, but Laramore slept little. All night, at intervals, the buzz of -low voices and sudden outbursts of merriment reached him. - -His mother stole softly into his room. This time it was to bring a -shawl, which she cautiously spread over him, for the air had grown cold. -She thought him asleep, but as she was turning away he caught her hand, -and drew her down and kissed her. - -“Why, Luke!” she exclaimed; “don’t be foolish. Why, what’s got -in--?” But her voice had grown husky and her words died away in an -irrepressible sob of happiness. She did not stir for an instant; then -impulsively she put her arms around his neck and kissed him. And he felt -that her face was damp. - - - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg’s Northern Georgia Sketches, by Will N. 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