Project Gutenberg's The Trail of theLonesome Pine, by John Fox, Jr.

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Title: The Trail of the Lonesome Pine

Author: John Fox, Jr.

Illustrator: F.C. Yohn

Release Date: October 12, 2009 [EBook#5122]Last Updated: January 26, 2013

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOKTHE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE ***

Produced by Charles Franks and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team,and David Widger

THE TRAIL OFTHE LONESOME

PINE

BY JOHN FOX, JR.

ILLUSTRATED BY F. C.YOHN

To F. S.

CONTENTS

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

ILLUSTRATIONS

Frontispiece

Titlepage

"Don't, Dad!" Shrieked aVoice from the Bushes

You Hain't Never Goin' toMarry Him."

"Why Have You BroughtMe Here?"

"We'll Fight You Both!"

Keep It Safe Old Pine

She Made Him Tell ofEverything

THE TRAIL OFTHE LONESOME

PINE

IShe sat at the base of the big tree—her

little sunbonnet pushed back, her armslocked about her knees, her bare feetgathered under her crimson gown and herdeep eyes fixed on the smoke in the valleybelow. Her breath was still coming fastbetween her parted lips. There were tinydrops along the roots of her shining hair,for the climb had been steep, and now theshadow of disappointment darkened hereyes. The mountains ran in limitless bluewaves towards the mounting sun—but atbirth her eyes had opened on them as onthe white mists trailing up the steepsbelow her. Beyond them was a gap in the

next mountain chain and down in the littlevalley, just visible through it, weretrailing blue mists as well, and she knewthat they were smoke. Where was the greatglare of yellow light that the "circuitrider" had told about—and the leapingtongues of fire? Where was the shriekingmonster that ran without horses like thewind and tossed back rolling blackplumes all streaked with fire? For manydays now she had heard stories of the"furriners" who had come into those hillsand were doing strange things down there,and so at last she had climbed up throughthe dewy morning from the cove on theother side to see the wonders for herself.She had never been up there before. Shehad no business there now, and, if shewere found out when she got back, she

would get a scolding and maybesomething worse from her step-mother—and all that trouble and risk for nothing butsmoke. So, she lay back and rested—herlittle mouth tightening fiercely. It was abig world, though, that was spread beforeher and a vague awe of it seized herstraightway and held her motionless anddreaming. Beyond those white miststrailing up the hills, beyond the bluesmoke drifting in the valley, thoselimitless blue waves must run under thesun on and on to the end of the world! Herdead sister had gone into that far silenceand had brought back wonderful stories ofthat outer world: and she began to wondermore than ever before whether she wouldever go into it and see for herself whatwas there. With the thought, she rose

slowly to her feet, moved slowly to thecliff that dropped sheer ten feet aside fromthe trail, and stood there like a greatscarlet flower in still air. There was theway at her feet—that path that coiledunder the cliff and ran down loop by loopthrough majestic oak and poplar andmasses of rhododendron. She drew a longbreath and stirred uneasily—she'd bettergo home now—but the path had a snake-like charm for her and still she stood,following it as far down as she could withher eyes. Down it went, writhing this wayand that to a spur that had been swept bareby forest fires. Along this spur it travelledstraight for a while and, as her eyeseagerly followed it to where it sanksharply into a covert of maples, the littlecreature dropped of a sudden to the

ground and, like something wild, lay flat.A human figure had filled the leafy

mouth that swallowed up the trail and itwas coming towards her. With a thumpingheart she pushed slowly forward throughthe brush until her face, fox-like withcunning and screened by a blueberry bush,hung just over the edge of the cliff, andthere she lay, like a crouched panther-cub,looking down. For a moment, all that washuman seemed gone from her eyes, but, asshe watched, all that was lost came backto them, and something more. She had seenthat it was a man, but she had dropped soquickly that she did not see the big, blackhorse that, unled, was following him. Nowboth man and horse had stopped. Thestranger had taken off his gray slouchedhat and he was wiping his face with

something white. Something blue was tiedloosely about his throat. She had neverseen a man like that before. His face wassmooth and looked different, as did histhroat and his hands. His breeches weretight and on his feet were strange bootsthat were the colour of his saddle, whichwas deep in seat, high both in front andbehind and had strange long-hoodedstirrups. Starting to mount, the manstopped with one foot in the stirrup andraised his eyes towards her so suddenlythat she shrank back again with a quickerthrobbing at her heart and pressed closerto the earth. Still, seen or not seen, flightwas easy for her, so she could not forbearto look again. Apparently, he had seennothing—only that the next turn of the trailwas too steep to ride, and so he started

walking again, and his walk, as he strodealong the path, was new to her, as was theerect way with which he held his head andhis shoulders.

In her wonder over him, she almostforgot herself, forgot to wonder where hewas going and why he was coming intothose lonely hills until, as his horse turneda bend of the trail, she saw hanging fromthe other side of the saddle something thatlooked like a gun. He was a "raider"—thatman: so, cautiously and swiftly then, shepushed herself back from the edge of thecliff, sprang to her feet, dashed past thebig tree and, winged with fear, sped downthe mountain—leaving in a spot of sunlightat the base of the pine the print of one barefoot in the black earth.

IIHe had seen the big pine when he first

came to those hills—one morning, atdaybreak, when the valley was a sea ofmist that threw soft clinging spray to thevery mountain tops: for even above themists, that morning, its mighty head arose—sole visible proof that the earth stillslept beneath. Straightway, he wonderedhow it had ever got there, so far above thefew of its kind that haunted the green darkravines far below. Some whirlwind,doubtless, had sent a tiny cone circlingheavenward and dropped it there. It hadsent others, too, no doubt, but how had thistree faced wind and storm alone and alone

lived to defy both so proudly? Some dayhe would learn. Thereafter, he had seen it,at noon—but little less majestic among theoaks that stood about it; had seen itcatching the last light at sunset, clean-cutagainst the after-glow, and like a dark,silent, mysterious sentinel guarding themountain pass under the moon. He hadseen it giving place with sombre dignity tothe passing burst of spring—had seen itgreen among dying autumn leaves, green inthe gray of winter trees and still green in ashroud of snow—a changeless promisethat the earth must wake to life again. TheLonesome Pine, the mountaineers calledit, and the Lonesome Pine it alwayslooked to be. From the beginning it had acurious fascination for him, andstraightway within him—half exile that he

was—there sprang up a sympathy for it asfor something that was human and abrother. And now he was on the trail of itat last. From every point that morning ithad seemed almost to nod down to him ashe climbed and, when he reached theledge that gave him sight of it from base tocrown, the winds murmured among itsneedles like a welcoming voice. At once,he saw the secret of its life. On each siderose a cliff that had sheltered it fromstorms until its trunk had shot upwards sofar and so straight and so strong that itsgreen crown could lift itself on and on andbend—blow what might—as proudly andsecurely as a lily on its stalk in a morningbreeze. Dropping his bridle rein he putone hand against it as though on theshoulder of a friend.

"Old Man," he said, "You must bepretty lonesome up here, and I'm glad tomeet you."

For a while he sat against it—resting.He had no particular purpose that day—noparticular destination. His saddle-bagswere across the cantle of his cow-boysaddle. His fishing rod was tied under oneflap. He was young and his own master.Time was hanging heavy on his hands thatday and he loved the woods and the nooksand crannies of them where his own kindrarely made its way. Beyond, the covelooked dark, forbidding, mysterious, andwhat was beyond he did not know. Sodown there he would go. As he bent hishead forward to rise, his eye caught thespot of sunlight, and he leaned over it witha smile. In the black earth was a human

foot-print—too small and slender for thefoot of a man, a boy or a woman. Beyond,the same prints were visible—wider apart—and he smiled again. A girl had beenthere. She was the crimson flash that hesaw as he started up the steep and mistookfor a flaming bush of sumach. She hadseen him coming and she had fled. Stillsmiling, he rose to his feet.

IIIOn one side he had left the earth yellow

with the coming noon, but it was stillmorning as he went down on the otherside. The laurel and rhododendron stillreeked with dew in the deep, ever-shadedravine. The ferns drenched his stirrups, ashe brushed through them, and eachdripping tree-top broke the sunlight and letit drop in tent-like beams through theshimmering undermist. A bird flashed hereand there through the green gloom, butthere was no sound in the air but thefootfalls of his horse and the easy creakingof leather under him, the drip of dewoverhead and the running of water below.

Now and then he could see the sameslender foot-prints in the rich loam and hesaw them in the sand where the first tinybrook tinkled across the path from agloomy ravine. There the little creaturehad taken a flying leap across it and,beyond, he could see the prints no more.He little guessed that while he halted to lethis horse drink, the girl lay on a rockabove him, looking down. She was nearerhome now and was less afraid; so she hadslipped from the trail and climbed aboveit there to watch him pass. As he went on,she slid from her perch and with cat-footed quiet followed him. When hereached the river she saw him pull in hishorse and eagerly bend forward, lookinginto a pool just below the crossing. Therewas a bass down there in the clear water

—a big one—and the man whistledcheerily and dismounted, tying his horse toa sassafras bush and unbuckling a tinbucket and a curious looking net from hissaddle. With the net in one hand and thebucket in the other, he turned back up thecreek and passed so close to where shehad slipped aside into the bushes that shecame near shrieking, but his eyes werefixed on a pool of the creek above and, toher wonder, he strolled straight into thewater, with his boots on, pushing the net infront of him.

He was a "raider" sure, she thoughtnow, and he was looking for a"moonshine" still, and the wild little thingin the bushes smiled cunningly—there wasno still up that creek—and as he had lefthis horse below and his gun, she waited

for him to come back, which he did, byand by, dripping and soaked to his knees.Then she saw him untie the queer "gun" onhis saddle, pull it out of a case and—hereyes got big with wonder—take it topieces and make it into a long limber rod.In a moment he had cast a minnow into thepool and waded out into the water up tohis hips. She had never seen so queer afishing-pole—so queer a fisherman. Howcould he get a fish out with that littleswitch, she thought contemptuously? Byand by something hummed queerly, theman gave a slight jerk and a shining fishflopped two feet into the air. It was surelyvery queer, for the man didn't put his rodover his shoulder and walk ashore, as didthe mountaineers, but stood still, windingsomething with one hand, and again the

fish would flash into the air and then thathumming would start again while thefisherman would stand quiet and waitingfor a while—and then he would begin towind again. In her wonder, she roseunconsciously to her feet and a stonerolled down to the ledge below her. Thefisherman turned his head and she startedto run, but without a word he turned againto the fish he was playing. Moreover, hewas too far out in the water to catch her,so she advanced slowly—even to the edgeof the stream, watching the fish cut halfcircles about the man. If he saw her, hegave no notice, and it was well that he didnot. He was pulling the bass to and fronow through the water, tiring him out—drowning him—stepping backward at thesame time, and, a moment later, the fish

slid easily out of the edge of the water,gasping along the edge of a low sand-bank, and the fisherman reaching downwith one hand caught him in the gills. Thenhe looked up and smiled—and she hadseen no smile like that before.

"Howdye, Little Girl?"One bare toe went burrowing suddenly

into the sand, one finger went to her redmouth—and that was all. She merelystared him straight in the eye and hesmiled again.

"Cat got your tongue?"Her eyes fell at the ancient banter, but

she lifted them straightway and staredagain.

"You live around here?"She stared on.

"Where?"No answer."What's your name, little girl?"And still she stared."Oh, well, of course, you can't talk, if

the cat's got your tongue."The steady eyes leaped angrily, but

there was still no answer, and he bent totake the fish off his hook, put on a freshminnow, turned his back and tossed it intothe pool.

"Hit hain't!"He looked up again. She surely was a

pretty little thing—and more, now that shewas angry.

"I should say not," he said teasingly."What did you say your name was?"

"What's YO' name?"The fisherman laughed. He was just

becoming accustomed to the mountainetiquette that commands a stranger todivulge himself first.

"My name's—Jack.""An' mine's—Jill." She laughed now,

and it was his time for surprise—wherecould she have heard of Jack and Jill?

His line rang suddenly."Jack," she cried, "you got a bite!"He pulled, missed the strike, and wound

in. The minnow was all right, so he tossedit back again.

"That isn't your name," he said."If 'tain't, then that ain't your'n?""Yes 'tis," he said, shaking his head

affirmatively.A long cry came down the ravine:"J-u-n-e! eh—oh—J-u-n-e!" That was a

queer name for the mountains, and thefisherman wondered if he had heard aright—June.

The little girl gave a shrill answeringcry, but she did not move.

"Thar now!" she said."Who's that—your Mammy?""No, 'tain't—hit's my step-mammy. I'm a

goin' to ketch hell now." Her innocenteyes turned sullen and her baby mouthtightened.

"Good Lord!" said the fisherman,startled, and then he stopped—the wordswere as innocent on her lips as a

benediction."Have you got a father?" Like a flash,

her whole face changed."I reckon I have.""Where is he?""Hyeh he is!" drawled a voice from the

bushes, and it had a tone that made thefisherman whirl suddenly. A giantmountaineer stood on the bank above him,with a Winchester in the hollow of hisarm.

"How are you?" The giant's heavy eyeslifted quickly, but he spoke to the girl.

"You go on home—what you doin' hyehgassin' with furriners!"

The girl shrank to the bushes, but shecried sharply back:

"Don't you hurt him now, Dad. He ain'teven got a pistol. He ain't no—"

"Shet up!" The little creature vanishedand the mountaineer turned to thefisherman, who had just put on a freshminnow and tossed it into the river.

"Purty well, thank you," he said shortly."How are you?"

"Fine!" was the nonchalant answer. Fora moment there was silence and a puzzledfrown gathered on the mountaineer's face.

"That's a bright little girl of yours—What did she mean by telling you not tohurt me?"

"You haven't been long in thesemountains, have ye?"

"No—not in THESE mountains—why?"The fisherman looked around and was

almost startled by the fierce gaze of hisquestioner.

"Stop that, please," he said, with ahumourous smile. "You make menervous."

The mountaineer's bushy brows cametogether across the bridge of his nose andhis voice rumbled like distant thunder.

"What's yo' name, stranger, an' what'syo' business over hyeh?"

"Dear me, there you go! You can seeI'm fishing, but why does everybody inthese mountains want to know my name?"

"You heerd me!""Yes." The fisherman turned again and

saw the giant's rugged face stern and palewith open anger now, and he, too, grewsuddenly serious.

"Suppose I don't tell you," he saidgravely. "What—"

"Git!" said the mountaineer, with amove of one huge hairy hand up themountain. "An' git quick!"

The fisherman never moved and therewas the click of a shell thrown into placein the Winchester and a guttural oath fromthe mountaineer's beard.

"Damn ye," he said hoarsely, raising therifle. "I'll give ye—"

"Don't, Dad!" shrieked a voice from thebushes. "I know his name, hit's Jack—"the rest of the name was unintelligible.The mountaineer dropped the butt of hisgun to the ground and laughed.

"Oh, air YOU the engineer?"The fisherman was angry now. He had

not moved hand or foot and he saidnothing, but his mouth was set hard and hisbewildered blue eyes had a glint in themthat the mountaineer did not at the momentsee. He was leaning with one arm on themuzzle of his Winchester, his face hadsuddenly become suave and shrewd andnow he laughed again:

"So you're Jack Hale, air ye?"The fisherman spoke. "JOHN Hale,

except to my friends." He looked hard atthe old man.

"Do you know that's a pretty dangerousjoke of yours, my friend—I might have agun myself sometimes. Did you think youcould scare me?" The mountaineer stared

in genuine surprise."Twusn't no joke," he said shortly. "An'

I don't waste time skeering folks. I reckonyou don't know who I be?"

"I don't care who you are." Again themountaineer stared.

"No use gittin' mad, young feller," hesaid coolly. "I mistaken ye fer somebodyelse an' I axe yer pardon. When you gitthrough fishin' come up to the house rightup the creek thar an' I'll give ye a dram."

"Thank you," said the fisherman stiffly,and the mountaineer turned silently away.At the edge of the bushes, he looked back;the stranger was still fishing, and the oldman went on with a shake of his head.

"He'll come," he said to himself. "Oh,he'll come!"

That very point Hale was debating withhimself as he unavailingly cast hisminnow into the swift water and slowlywound it in again. How did that old manknow his name? And would the oldsavage really have hurt him had he notfound out who he was? The little girl wasa wonder: evidently she had muffled hislast name on purpose—not knowing itherself—and it was a quick and cunningruse. He owed her something for that—why did she try to protect him? Wonderfuleyes, too, the little thing had—deep anddark—and how the flame did dart fromthem when she got angry! He smiled,remembering—he liked that. And her hair—it was exactly like the gold-bronze onthe wing of a wild turkey that he had shotthe day before. Well, it was noon now, the

fish had stopped biting after the waywardfashion of bass, he was hungry and thirstyand he would go up and see the little girland the giant again and get that promiseddram. Once more, however, he let hisminnow float down into the shadow of abig rock, and while he was winding in, helooked up to see in the road two people ona gray horse, a man with a woman behindhim—both old and spectacled—all threemotionless on the bank and looking at him:and he wondered if all three had stoppedto ask his name and his business. No, theyhad just come down to the creek and boththey must know already.

"Ketching any?" called out the old man,cheerily.

"Only one," answered Hale with equal

cheer. The old woman pushed back herbonnet as he waded through the watertowards them and he saw that she waspuffing a clay pipe. She looked at thefisherman and his tackle with the naivewonder of a child, and then she said in acommanding undertone.

"Go on, Billy.""Now, ole Hon, I wish ye'd jes' wait a

minute." Hale smiled. He loved oldpeople, and two kinder faces he had neverseen—two gentler voices he had neverheard.

"I reckon you got the only green pyerchup hyeh," said the old man, chuckling, "butthar's a sight of 'em down thar below myold mill." Quietly the old woman hit thehorse with a stripped branch of elm and

the old gray, with a switch of his tail,started.

"Wait a minute, Hon," he said again,appealingly, "won't ye?" but calmly she hitthe horse again and the old man calledback over his shoulder:

"You come on down to the mill an' I'llshow ye whar you can ketch a mess."

"All right," shouted Hale, holding backhis laughter, and on they went, the old manremonstrating in the kindliest way—theold woman silently puffing her pipe andmaking no answer except to flay gently therump of the lazy old gray.

Hesitating hardly a moment, Haleunjointed his pole, left his minnow bucketwhere it was, mounted his horse and rodeup the path. About him, the beech leaves

gave back the gold of the autumn sunlight,and a little ravine, high under the crest ofthe mottled mountain, was on fire with thescarlet of maple. Not even yet had themorning chill left the densely shaded path.When he got to the bare crest of a littlerise, he could see up the creek a spiral ofblue rising swiftly from a stone chimney.Geese and ducks were hunting crawfish inthe little creek that ran from a milk-houseof logs, half hidden by willows at the edgeof the forest, and a turn in the path broughtinto view a log-cabin well chinked withstones and plaster, and with a well-builtporch. A fence ran around the yard andthere was a meat house near a littleorchard of apple-trees, under which weremany hives of bee-gums. This man hadthings "hung up" and was well-to-do.

Down the rise and through a thicket hewent, and as he approached the creek thatcame down past the cabin there was ashrill cry ahead of him.

"Whoa thar, Buck! Gee-haw, I tell ye!"An ox-wagon evidently was coming on,and the road was so narrow that he turnedhis horse into the bushes to let it pass.

"Whoa—Haw!—Gee—Gee—Buck,Gee, I tell ye! I'll knock yo' fool head offthe fust thing you know!"

Still there was no sound of ox or wagonand the voice sounded like a child's. So hewent on at a walk in the thick sand, andwhen he turned the bushes he pulled upagain with a low laugh. In the road acrossthe creek was a chubby, tow-haired boywith a long switch in his right hand, and a

pine dagger and a string in his left.Attached to the string and tied by one hindleg was a frog. The boy was using theswitch as a goad and driving the frog as anox, and he was as earnest as though bothwere real.

"I give ye a little rest now, Buck," hesaid, shaking his head earnestly. "Hit's apurty hard pull hyeh, but I know, by Gum,you can make hit—if you hain't too durnlazy. Now, git up, Buck!" he yelledsuddenly, flaying the sand with his switch."Git up—Whoa—Haw—Gee, Gee!" Thefrog hopped several times.

"Whoa, now!" said the little fellow,panting in sympathy. "I knowed you coulddo it." Then he looked up. For an instanthe seemed terrified but he did not run.

Instead he stealthily shifted the pinedagger over to his right hand and the stringto his left.

"Here, boy," said the fisherman withaffected sternness: "What are you doingwith that dagger?"

The boy's breast heaved and his dirtyfingers clenched tight around the whittledstick.

"Don't you talk to me that-a-way," hesaid with an ominous shake of his head."I'll gut ye!"

The fisherman threw back his head, andhis peal of laughter did what his sternnessfailed to do. The little fellow wheeledsuddenly, and his feet spurned the sandaround the bushes for home—theastonished frog dragged bumping after

him. "Well!" said the fisherman.

IVEven the geese in the creek seemed to

know that he was a stranger and to distrusthim, for they cackled and, spreading theirwings, fled cackling up the stream. As heneared the house, the little girl ran aroundthe stone chimney, stopped short, shadedher eyes with one hand for a moment andran excitedly into the house. A momentlater, the bearded giant slouched out,stooping his head as he came through thedoor.

"Hitch that 'ar post to yo' hoss and comeright in," he thundered cheerily. "I'mwaitin' fer ye."

The little girl came to the door, pushedone brown slender hand through hertangled hair, caught one bare foot behind adeer-like ankle and stood motionless.Behind her was the boy—his dagger stillin hand.

"Come right in!" said the old man, "weare purty pore folks, but you're welcometo what we have."

The fisherman, too, had to stoop as hecame in, for he, too, was tall. The interiorwas dark, in spite of the wood fire in thebig stone fireplace. Strings of herbs andred-pepper pods and twisted tobacco hungfrom the ceiling and down the wall oneither side of the fire; and in one corner,near the two beds in the room, hand-madequilts of many colours were piled several

feet high. On wooden pegs above the doorwhere ten years before would have beenbuck antlers and an old-fashioned rifle,lay a Winchester; on either side of thedoor were auger holes through the logs (hedid not understand that they were port-holes) and another Winchester stood in thecorner. From the mantel the butt of a big44-Colt's revolver protruded ominously.On one of the beds in the corner he couldsee the outlines of a figure lying under abrilliantly figured quilt, and at the foot ofit the boy with the pine dagger hadretreated for refuge. From the moment hestooped at the door something in the roomhad made him vaguely uneasy, and whenhis eyes in swift survey came back to thefire, they passed the blaze swiftly and meton the edge of the light another pair of

eyes burning on him."Howdye!" said Hale."Howdye!" was the low, unpropitiating

answer.The owner of the eyes was nothing but a

boy, in spite of his length: so much of aboy that a slight crack in his voice showedthat it was just past the throes of"changing," but those black eyes burned onwithout swerving—except once when theyflashed at the little girl who, with her chinin her hand and one foot on the top rung ofher chair, was gazing at the stranger withequal steadiness. She saw the boy'sglance, she shifted her knees impatientlyand her little face grew sullen. Halesmiled inwardly, for he thought he couldalready see the lay of the land, and he

wondered that, at such an age, suchfierceness could be: so every now andthen he looked at the boy, and every timehe looked, the black eyes were on him.The mountain youth must have been almostsix feet tall, young as he was, and whilehe was lanky in limb he was well knit. Hisjean trousers were stuffed in the top of hisboots and were tight over his knees whichwere well-moulded, and that is rare witha mountaineer. A loop of black haircurved over his forehead, down almost tohis left eye. His nose was straight andalmost delicate and his mouth was small,but extraordinarily resolute. Somewherehe had seen that face before, and he turnedsuddenly, but he did not startle the ladwith his abruptness, nor make him turn hisgaze.

"Why, haven't I—?" he said. And thenhe suddenly remembered. He had seen thatboy not long since on the other side of themountains, riding his horse at a gallopdown the county road with his reins in histeeth, and shooting a pistol alternately atthe sun and the earth with either hand.Perhaps it was as well not to recall theincident. He turned to the old mountaineer.

"Do you mean to tell me that a man can'tgo through these mountains without tellingeverybody who asks him what his nameis?"

The effect of his question was singular.The old man spat into the fire and put hishand to his beard. The boy crossed hislegs suddenly and shoved his muscularfingers deep into his pockets. The figure

shifted position on the bed and the infantat the foot of it seemed to clench his toy-dagger a little more tightly. Only the littlegirl was motionless—she still looked athim, unwinking. What sort of wild animalshad he fallen among?

"No, he can't—an' keep healthy." Thegiant spoke shortly.

"Why not?""Well, if a man hain't up to some

devilment, what reason's he got fer nottellin' his name?"

"That's his business.""Tain't over hyeh. Hit's mine. Ef a man

don't want to tell his name over hyeh, he'sa spy or a raider or a officer looking fersomebody or," he added carelessly, butwith a quick covert look at his visitor

—"he's got some kind o' business that hedon't want nobody to know about."

"Well, I came over here—just to—well, I hardly know why I did come."

"Jess so," said the old man dryly. "An'if ye ain't looking fer trouble, you'd bettertell your name in these mountains,whenever you're axed. Ef enough peopleair backin' a custom anywhar hit goes,don't hit?"

His logic was good—and Hale saidnothing. Presently the old man rose with asmile on his face that looked cynical,picked up a black lump and threw it intothe fire. It caught fire, crackled, blazed,almost oozed with oil, and Hale leanedforward and leaned back.

"Pretty good coal!"

"Hain't it, though?" The old man pickedup a sliver that had flown to the hearth andheld a match to it. The piece blazed andburned in his hand.

"I never seed no coal in these mountainslike that—did you?"

"Not often—find it around here?""Right hyeh on this farm—about five

feet thick!""What?""An' no partin'.""No partin'"—it was not often that he

found a mountaineer who knew what aparting in a coal bed was.

"A friend o' mine on t'other side,"—alight dawned for the engineer.

"Oh," he said quickly. "That's how you

knew my name.""Right you air, stranger. He tol' me you

was a—expert."The old man laughed loudly. "An' that's

why you come over hyeh.""No, it isn't.""Co'se not,"—the old fellow laughed

again. Hale shifted the talk."Well, now that you know my name,

suppose you tell me what yours is?""Tolliver—Judd Tolliver." Hale

started."Not Devil Judd!""That's what some evil folks calls me."

Again he spoke shortly. The mountaineersdo not like to talk about their feuds. Haleknew this—and the subject was dropped.

But he watched the huge mountaineer withinterest. There was no more famouscharacter in all those hills than the giantbefore him—yet his face was kind andwas good-humoured, but the nose and eyeswere the beak and eyes of some bird ofprey. The little girl had disappeared for amoment. She came back with a blue-backed spelling-book, a second readerand a worn copy of "Mother Goose," andshe opened first one and then the otheruntil the attention of the visitor was caught—the black-haired youth watching hermeanwhile with lowering brows.

"Where did you learn to read?" Haleasked. The old man answered:

"A preacher come by our house over onthe Nawth Fork 'bout three year ago, and

afore I knowed it he made me promise tosend her sister Sally to some school upthar on the edge of the settlements. Andafter she come home, Sal larned that littlegal to read and spell. Sal died 'bout a yearago."

Hale reached over and got the spelling-book, and the old man grinned at thequick, unerring responses of the little girl,and the engineer looked surprised. Sheread, too, with unusual facility, and herpronunciation was very precise and not atall like her speech.

"You ought to send her to the sameplace," he said, but the old fellow shookhis head.

"I couldn't git along without her."The little girl's eyes began to dance

suddenly, and, without opening "MotherGoose," she began:

"Jack and Jill went up a hill," and thenshe broke into a laugh and Hale laughedwith her.

Abruptly, the boy opposite rose to hisgreat length.

"I reckon I better be goin'." That was allhe said as he caught up a Winchester,which stood unseen by his side, and out hestalked. There was not a word of good-by,not a glance at anybody. A few minuteslater Hale heard the creak of a barn dooron wooden hinges, a cursing command toa horse, and four feet going in a gallopdown the path, and he knew there went anenemy.

"That's a good-looking boy—who is

he?"The old man spat into the fire. It seemed

that he was not going to answer and thelittle girl broke in:

"Hit's my cousin Dave—he lives overon the Nawth Fork."

That was the seat of the Tolliver-Falinfeud. Of that feud, too, Hale had heard,and so no more along that line of inquiry.He, too, soon rose to go.

"Why, ain't ye goin' to have somethingto eat?"

"Oh, no, I've got something in mysaddlebags and I must be getting back tothe Gap."

"Well, I reckon you ain't. You're jes'goin' to take a snack right here." Halehesitated, but the little girl was looking at

him with such unconscious eagerness inher dark eyes that he sat down again.

"All right, I will, thank you." At onceshe ran to the kitchen and the old man roseand pulled a bottle of white liquid fromunder the quilts.

"I reckon I can trust ye," he said. Theliquor burned Hale like fire, and the oldman, with a laugh at the face the strangermade, tossed off a tumblerful.

"Gracious!" said Hale, "can you do thatoften?"

"Afore breakfast, dinner and supper,"said the old man—"but I don't." Hale felt aplucking at his sleeve. It was the boy withthe dagger at his elbow.

"Less see you laugh that-a-way agin,"said Bub with such deadly seriousness

that Hale unconsciously broke into thesame peal.

"Now," said Bub, unwinking, "I ain'tafeard o' you no more."

VAwaiting dinner, the mountaineer and

the "furriner" sat on the porch while Bubcarved away at another pine dagger on thestoop. As Hale passed out the door, aquerulous voice said "Howdye" from thebed in the corner and he knew it was thestep-mother from whom the little girlexpected some nether-world punishmentfor an offence of which he was ignorant.He had heard of the feud that had beengoing on between the red Falins and theblack Tollivers for a quarter of a century,and this was Devil Judd, who had earnedhis nickname when he was the leader ofhis clan by his terrible strength, his

marksmanship, his cunning and hiscourage. Some years since the old manhad retired from the leadership, becausehe was tired of fighting or because he hadquarrelled with his brother Dave and hisfoster-brother, Bad Rufe—known as theterror of the Tollivers—or from someunknown reason, and in consequence therehad been peace for a long time—theFalins fearing that Devil Judd would beled into the feud again, the Tollivers waryof starting hostilities without his aid. Afterthe last trouble, Bad Rufe Tolliver hadgone West and old Judd had moved hisfamily as far away as possible. Halelooked around him: this, then, was thehome of Devil Judd Tolliver; the littlecreature inside was his daughter and hername was June. All around the cabin the

wooded mountains towered except where,straight before his eyes, Lonesome Creekslipped through them to the river, and theold man had certainly picked out the veryheart of silence for his home. There wasno neighbour within two leagues, Juddsaid, except old Squire Billy Beams, whoran a mill a mile down the river. Nowonder the spot was called LonesomeCove.

"You must ha' seed Uncle Billy and oleHon passin'," he said.

"I did." Devil Judd laughed and Halemade out that "Hon" was short for Honey.

"Uncle Billy used to drink right smart.Ole Hon broke him. She followed himdown to the grocery one day and walkedin. 'Come on, boys—let's have a drink';

and she set 'em up an' set 'em up untilUncle Billy most went crazy. He had hardwork gittin' her home, an' Uncle Billyhain't teched a drap since." And the oldmountaineer chuckled again.

All the time Hale could hear noisesfrom the kitchen inside. The old step-mother was abed, he had seen no otherwoman about the house and he wonderedif the child could be cooking dinner. Herflushed face answered when she openedthe kitchen door and called them in. Shehad not only cooked but now she servedas well, and when he thanked her, as hedid every time she passed something tohim, she would colour faintly. Once ortwice her hand seemed to tremble, and henever looked at her but her questioningdark eyes were full upon him, and always

she kept one hand busy pushing her thickhair back from her forehead. He had notasked her if it was her footprints he hadseen coming down the mountain for fearthat he might betray her, but apparently shehad told on herself, for Bub, after a while,burst out suddenly:

"June, thar, thought you was a raider."The little girl flushed and the old manlaughed.

"So'd you, pap," she said quietly."That's right," he said. "So'd anybody. I

reckon you're the first man that ever comeover hyeh jus' to go a-fishin'," and helaughed again. The stress on the lastwords showed that he believed no manhad yet come just for that purpose, andHale merely laughed with him. The old

fellow gulped his food, pushed his chairback, and when Hale was through, hewasted no more time.

"Want to see that coal?""Yes, I do," said Hale."All right, I'll be ready in a minute."The little girl followed Hale out on the

porch and stood with her back against therailing.

"Did you catch it?" he asked. Shenodded, unsmiling.

"I'm sorry. What were you doing upthere?" She showed no surprise that heknew that she had been up there, andwhile she answered his question, he couldsee that she was thinking of somethingelse.

"I'd heerd so much about what youfurriners was a-doin' over thar."

"You must have heard about a placefarther over—but it's coming over there,too, some day." And still she looked anunspoken question.

The fish that Hale had caught was lyingwhere he had left it on the edge of theporch.

"That's for you, June," he said, pointingto it, and the name as he spoke it wassweet to his ears.

"I'm much obleeged," she said, shyly."I'd 'a' cooked hit fer ye if I'd 'a' knowedyou wasn't goin' to take hit home."

"That's the reason I didn't give it to youat first—I was afraid you'd do that. Iwanted you to have it."

"Much obleeged," she said again, stillunsmiling, and then she suddenly lookedup at him—the deeps of her dark eyestroubled.

"Air ye ever comin' back agin, Jack?"Hale was not accustomed to the familiarform of address common in the mountains,independent of sex or age—and he wouldhave been staggered had not her face beenso serious. And then few women had evercalled him by his first name, and this timehis own name was good to his ears.

"Yes, June," he said soberly. "Not forsome time, maybe—but I'm coming backagain, sure." She smiled then with bothlips and eyes—radiantly.

"I'll be lookin' fer ye," she said simply.

VIThe old man went with him up the creek

and, passing the milk house, turned up abrush-bordered little branch in which theengineer saw signs of coal. Up the creekthe mountaineer led him some thirty yardsabove the water level and stopped. Anentry had been driven through the richearth and ten feet within was a shining bedof coal. There was no parting except twoinches of mother-of-coal—midway, whichwould make it but easier to mine. Whohad taught that old man to open coal insuch a way—to make such a facing? Itlooked as though the old fellow were insome scheme with another to get him

interested. As he drew closer, he sawradiations of some twelve inches, all overthe face of the coal, star-shaped, and healmost gasped. It was not only cannel coal—it was "bird's-eye" cannel. Heavens,what a find! Instantly he was the cautiousman of business, alert, cold,uncommunicative.

"That looks like a pretty good—" hedrawled the last two words—"vein ofcoal. I'd like to take a sample over to theGap and analyze it." His hammer, whichhe always carried—was in his saddlepockets, but he did not have to go down tohis horse. There were pieces on theground that would suit his purpose, leftthere, no doubt, by his predecessor.

"Now I reckon you know that I know

why you came over hyeh."Hale started to answer, but he saw it

was no use."Yes—and I'm coming again—for the

same reason.""Shore—come agin and come often."The little girl was standing on the porch

as he rode past the milk house. He wavedhis hand to her, but she did not move noranswer. What a life for a child—for thatkeen-eyed, sweet-faced child! But thatcoal, cannel, rich as oil, above water, fivefeet in thickness, easy to mine, with asolid roof and perhaps self-drainage, if hecould judge from the dip of the vein: and amarket everywhere—England, Spain,Italy, Brazil. The coal, to be sure, mightnot be persistent—thirty yards within it

might change in quality to ordinarybituminous coal, but he could settle thatonly with a steam drill. A steam drill! Hewould as well ask for the wagon that hehad long ago hitched to a star; and thenthere might be a fault in the formation. Butwhy bother now? The coal would staythere, and now he had other plans thatmade even that find insignificant. And yetif he bought that coal now—what abargain! It was not that the ideals of hiscollege days were tarnished, but he was aman of business now, and if he would takethe old man's land for a song—it wasbecause others of his kind would do thesame! But why bother, he asked himselfagain, when his brain was in a fermentwith a colossal scheme that would makedizzy the magnates who would some day

drive their roadways of steel into thosewild hills. So he shook himself free of thequestion, which passed from his mind onlywith a transient wonder as to who it wasthat had told of him to the oldmountaineer, and had so paved his wayfor an investigation—and then he wheeledsuddenly in his saddle. The bushes hadrustled gently behind him and out fromthem stepped an extraordinary humanshape—wearing a coon-skin cap, beltedwith two rows of big cartridges, carryinga big Winchester over one shoulder and acircular tube of brass in his left hand.With his right leg straight, his left thighdrawn into the hollow of his saddle andhis left hand on the rump of his horse,Hale simply stared, his eyes dropping byand by from the pale-blue eyes and

stubbly red beard of the stranger, downpast the cartridge-belts to the man's feet,on which were moccasins—with the heelsforward! Into what sort of a world had hedropped!

"So nary a soul can tell which way I'mgoing," said the red-haired stranger, witha grin that loosed a hollow chuckle farbehind it.

"Would you mind telling me whatdifference it can make to me which wayyou are going?" Every moment he wasexpecting the stranger to ask his name, butagain that chuckle came.

"It makes a mighty sight o' difference tosome folks."

"But none to me.""I hain't wearin' 'em fer you. I know

YOU.""Oh, you do." The stranger suddenly

lowered his Winchester and turned hisface, with his ear cocked like an animal.There was some noise on the spur above.

"Nothin' but a hickory nut," said thechuckle again. But Hale had been studyingthat strange face. One side of it was calm,kindly, philosophic, benevolent; but, whenthe other was turned, a curious twitch ofthe muscles at the left side of the mouthshowed the teeth and made a snarl therethat was wolfish.

"Yes, and I know you," he said slowly.Self-satisfaction, straightway, was ardentin the face.

"I knowed you would git to know me intime, if you didn't now."

This was the Red Fox of the mountains,of whom he had heard so much—"yarb"doctor and Swedenborgian preacher;revenue officer and, some said, cold-blooded murderer. He would walk twentymiles to preach, or would start at any hourof the day or night to minister to the sick,and would charge for neither service. Atother hours he would be searching formoonshine stills, or watching his enemiesin the valley from some mountain top, withthat huge spy-glass—Hale could see nowthat the brass tube was a telescope—thathe might slip down and unawares take apot-shot at them. The Red Foxcommunicated with spirits, had visionsand superhuman powers of locomotion—stepping mysteriously from the bushes,people said, to walk at the traveller's side

and as mysteriously disappearing intothem again, to be heard of in a few hoursan incredible distance away.

"I've been watchin' ye from up thar," hesaid with a wave of his hand. "I seed yego up the creek, and then the bushes hidye. I know what you was after—but didyou see any signs up thar of anything youwasn't looking fer?"

Hale laughed."Well, I've been in these mountains long

enough not to tell you, if I had."The Red Fox chuckled."I wasn't sure you had—" Hale coughed

and spat to the other side of his horse.When he looked around, the Red Fox wasgone, and he had heard no sound of hisgoing.

"Well, I be—" Hale clucked to hishorse and as he climbed the last steep anddrew near the Big Pine he again heard anoise out in the woods and he knew thistime it was the fall of a human foot and notof a hickory nut. He was right, and, as herode by the Pine, saw again at its base theprint of the little girl's foot—wonderingafresh at the reason that led her up there—and dropped down through the afternoonshadows towards the smoke and steamand bustle and greed of the TwentiethCentury. A long, lean, black-eyed boy,with a wave of black hair over hisforehead, was pushing his horse the otherway along the Big Black and droppingdown through the dusk into the MiddleAges—both all but touching on either sidethe outstretched hands of the wild little

creature left in the shadows of LonesomeCove.

VIIPast the Big Pine, swerving with a

smile his horse aside that he might notobliterate the foot-print in the black earth,and down the mountain, his brain busywith his big purpose, went John Hale, byinstinct, inheritance, blood and tradition—pioneer.

One of his forefathers had been withWashington on the Father's first historicexpedition into the wilds of Virginia. Hisgreat-grandfather had accompanied Boonewhen that hunter first penetrated the "Darkand Bloody Ground," had gone back toVirginia and come again with a surveyor's

chain and compass to help wrest it fromthe red men, among whom there had beenan immemorial conflict for possession anda never-recognized claim of ownership.That compass and that chain hisgrandfather had fallen heir to and with thatcompass and chain his father had earnedhis livelihood amid the wrecks of theCivil War. Hale went to the oldTransylvania University at Lexington, thefirst seat of learning planted beyond theAlleghanies. He was fond of history, ofthe sciences and literature, was unusuallyadept in Latin and Greek, and had apassion for mathematics. He wasgraduated with honours, he taught twoyears and got his degree of Master of Arts,but the pioneer spirit in his blood wouldstill out, and his polite learning he then

threw to the winds.Other young Kentuckians had gone West

in shoals, but he kept his eye on his ownState, and one autumn he added a pick tothe old compass and the ancestral chain,struck the Old Wilderness Trail that hisgrandfather had travelled, to look for hisown fortune in a land which that oldgentleman had passed over as worthless.At the Cumberland River he took a canoeand drifted down the river into the wildcoal-swollen hills. Through the winter hefroze, starved and prospected, and a yearlater he was opening up a region thatbecame famous after his trust andinexperience had let others worm out ofhim an interest that would have made himeasy for life.

With the vision of a seer, he was asinnocent as Boone. Stripped clean, he gotout his map, such geological reports as hecould find and went into a studious trancefor a month, emerging mentally with thefreshness of a snake that has shed its skin.What had happened in Pennsylvania musthappen all along the great Alleghany chainin the mountains of Virginia, WestVirginia, Kentucky, Alabama, Tennessee.Some day the avalanche must sweepsouth, it must—it must. That he might be aquarter of a century too soon in hiscalculations never crossed his mind. Someday it must come.

Now there was not an ounce of coalimmediately south-east of the CumberlandMountains—not an ounce of iron oreimmediately north-east; all the coal lay to

the north-east; all of the iron ore to thesouth-east. So said Geology. For threehundred miles there were only four gapsthrough that mighty mountain chain—threeat water level, and one at historicCumberland Gap which was not at waterlevel and would have to be tunnelled. Sosaid Geography.

All railroads, to east and to west,would have to pass through those gaps;through them the coal must be brought tothe iron ore, or the ore to the coal.Through three gaps water flowed betweenore and coal and the very hills betweenwere limestone. Was there any suchjuxtaposition of the four raw materials forthe making of iron in the known world?When he got that far in his logic, the sweatbroke from his brows; he felt dizzy and he

got up and walked into the open air. Asthe vastness and certainty of the scheme—what fool could not see it?—rushedthrough him full force, he could scarcelyget his breath. There must be a town inone of those gaps—but in which? Nomatter—he would buy all of them—all ofthem, he repeated over and over again; forsome day there must be a town in one, andsome day a town in all, and from all hewould reap his harvest. He optioned thosefour gaps at a low purchase price that wasabsurd. He went back to the Bluegrass; hewent to New York; in some way hemanaged to get to England. It had nevercrossed his mind that other eyes could notsee what he so clearly saw and yeteverywhere he was pronounced crazy. Hefailed and his options ran out, but he was

undaunted. He picked his choice of thefour gaps and gave up the other three. Thisfavourite gap he had just finishedoptioning again, and now again he meantto keep at his old quest. That gap he wasentering now from the north side and theNorth Fork of the river was hurrying toenter too. On his left was a great grayrock, projecting edgewise, covered withlaurel and rhododendron, and under it wasthe first big pool from which the streampoured faster still. There had been aterrible convulsion in that gap when theearth was young; the strata had beentossed upright and planted almost verticalfor all time, and, a little farther, onemighty ledge, moss-grown, bush-covered,sentinelled with grim pines, their basesunseen, seemed to be making a heavy

flight toward the clouds.Big bowlders began to pop up in the

river-bed and against them the waterdashed and whirled and eddied backwardin deep pools, while above him the songof a cataract dropped down a tree-chokedravine. Just there the drop came, and for along space he could see the river lashingrock and cliff with increasing fury asthough it were seeking shelter from somerelentless pursuer in the dark thicketwhere it disappeared. Straight in front ofhim another ledge lifted itself. Beyond thatloomed a mountain which stopped in mid-air and dropped sheer to the eye. Itscrown was bare and Hale knew that upthere was a mountain farm, the refuge of aman who had been involved in thatterrible feud beyond Black Mountain

behind him. Five minutes later he was atthe yawning mouth of the gap and there laybefore him a beautiful valley shut intightly, for all the eye could see, withmighty hills. It was the heaven-born sitefor the unborn city of his dreams, and hiseyes swept every curve of the valleylovingly. The two forks of the river ranaround it—he could follow their courseby the trees that lined the banks of each—curving within a stone's throw of eachother across the valley and then loopingaway as from the neck of an ancient luteand, like its framework, coming togetheragain down the valley, where they surgedtogether, slipped through the hills andsped on with the song of a sweeping river.Up that river could come the track ofcommerce, out the South Fork, too, it

could go, though it had to turn eastward:back through that gap it could be tracednorth and west; and so none could come asheralds into those hills but their footprintscould be traced through that wild, rocky,water-worn chasm. Hale drew breath andraised in his stirrups.

"It's a cinch," he said aloud. "It's ashame to take the money."

Yet nothing was in sight now but avalley farmhouse above the ford where hemust cross the river and one log cabin onthe hill beyond. Still on the other riverwas the only woollen mill in milesaround; farther up was the only grist mill,and near by was the only store, the onlyblacksmith shop and the only hotel. Thatmuch of a start the gap had had for three-

quarters of a century—only from the southnow a railroad was already coming; fromthe east another was travelling like awounded snake and from the north stillanother creeped to meet them. Every roadmust run through the gap and several hadalready run through it lines of survey. Thecoal was at one end of the gap, and theiron ore at the other, the cliffs betweenwere limestone, and the other elements tomake it the iron centre of the worldflowed through it like a torrent.

"Selah! It's a shame to take the money."He splashed into the creek and his big

black horse thrust his nose into the clearrunning water. Minnows were playingabout him. A hog-fish flew for shelterunder a rock, and below the ripples a two-

pound bass shot like an arrow into deepwater.

Above and below him the stream wasarched with beech, poplar and watermaple, and the banks were thick withlaurel and rhododendron. His eye hadnever rested on a lovelier stream, and onthe other side of the town site, whichnature had kindly lifted twenty feet abovethe water level, the other fork was ofequal clearness, swiftness and beauty.

"Such a drainage," murmured hisengineering instinct. "Such a drainage!" Itwas Saturday. Even if he had forgotten hewould have known that it must beSaturday when he climbed the bank on theother side. Many horses were hitchedunder the trees, and here and there was a

farm-wagon with fragments of paper, bitsof food and an empty bottle or two lyingaround. It was the hour when the alcoholicspirits of the day were usually most high.Evidently they were running quite high thatday and something distinctly was going on"up town." A few yells—the high, clear,penetrating yell of a fox-hunter—rent theair, a chorus of pistol shots rang out, andthe thunder of horses' hoofs started beyondthe little slope he was climbing. When hereached the top, a merry youth, with a red,hatless head was splitting the dirt roadtoward him, his reins in his teeth, and apistol in each hand, which he was lettingoff alternately into the inoffensive earthand toward the unrebuking heavens—thatseemed a favourite way in thosemountains of defying God and the devil—

and behind him galloped a dozenhorsemen to the music of throat, pistol andiron hoof.

The fiery-headed youth's horse swervedand shot by. Hale hardly knew that therider even saw him, but the coming onessaw him afar and they seemed to becharging him in close array. Hale stoppedhis horse a little to the right of the centreof the road, and being equally helplessagainst an inherited passion formaintaining his own rights and a similardisinclination to get out of anybody's way—he sat motionless. Two of the cominghorsemen, side by side, were a little inadvance.

"Git out o' the road!" they yelled. Hadhe made the motion of an arm, they might

have ridden or shot him down, but thesimple quietness of him as he sat withhands crossed on the pommel of hissaddle, face calm and set, eyesunwavering and fearless, had the effectthat nothing else he could have donewould have brought about—and theyswerved on either side of him, while therest swerved, too, like sheep, one stirrupbrushing his, as they swept by. Hale rodeslowly on. He could hear the mountaineersyelling on top of the hill, but he did notlook back. Several bullets sang over hishead. Most likely they were simply"bantering" him, but no matter—he rodeon.

The blacksmith, the storekeeper and onepassing drummer were coming in from thewoods when he reached the hotel.

"A gang o' those Falins," said thestorekeeper, "they come over lookin' foryoung Dave Tolliver. They didn't findhim, so they thought they'd have some fun";and he pointed to the hotel sign which waspunctuated with pistol-bullet periods.Hale's eyes flashed once but he saidnothing. He turned his horse over to astable boy and went across to the littleframe cottage that served as office andhome for him. While he sat on the verandathat almost hung over the mill-pond of theother stream three of the Falins cameriding back. One of them had leftsomething at the hotel, and while he wasgone in for it, another put a bullet throughthe sign, and seeing Hale rode over tohim. Hale's blue eye looked anything thanfriendly.

"Don't ye like it?" asked the horseman."I do not," said Hale calmly. The

horseman seemed amused."Well, whut you goin' to do about it?""Nothing—at least not now.""All right—whenever you git ready.

You ain't ready now?""No," said Hale, "not now." The fellow

laughed."Hit's a damned good thing for you that

you ain't."Hale looked long after the three as they

galloped down the road. "When I start tobuild this town," he thought gravely andwithout humour, "I'll put a stop to all that."

VIIIOn a spur of Black Mountain, beyond

the Kentucky line, a lean horse was tied toa sassafras bush, and in a clump ofrhododendron ten yards away, a leanblack-haired boy sat with a Winchesterbetween his stomach and thighs—waitingfor the dusk to drop. His chin was in bothhands, the brim of his slouch hat wascurved crescent-wise over his forehead,and his eyes were on the sweeping bendof the river below him. That was the "BadBend" down there, peopled with ancestralenemies and the head-quarters of theirleader for the last ten years. Though theyhad been at peace for some time now, it

had been Saturday in the county town tenmiles down the river as well, and nobodyever knew what a Saturday might bringforth between his people and them. So hewould not risk riding through that bend bythe light of day.

All the long way up spur after spur andalong ridge after ridge, all along the still,tree-crested top of the Big Black, he hadbeen thinking of the man—the "furriner"whom he had seen at his uncle's cabin inLonesome Cove. He was thinking of himstill, as he sat there waiting for darknessto come, and the two vertical little lines inhis forehead, that had hardly relaxed onceduring his climb, got deeper and deeper,as his brain puzzled into the problem thatwas worrying it: who the stranger was,what his business was over in the Cove

and his business with the Red Fox withwhom the boy had seen him talking.

He had heard of the coming of the"furriners" on the Virginia side. He hadseen some of them, he was suspicious ofall of them, he disliked them all—but thisman he hated straightway. He hated hisboots and his clothes; the way he sat andtalked, as though he owned the earth, andthe lad snorted contemptuously under hisbreath:

"He called pants 'trousers.'" It was afearful indictment, and he snorted again:"Trousers!"

The "furriner" might be a spy or arevenue officer, but deep down in theboy's heart the suspicion had beenworking that he had gone over there to see

his little cousin—the girl whom, boy thathe was, he had marked, when she waseven more of a child than she was now,for his own. His people understood it asdid her father, and, child though she was,she, too, understood it. The differencebetween her and the "furriner"—difference in age, condition, way of life,education—meant nothing to him, and ashis suspicion deepened, his handsdropped and gripped his Winchester, andthrough his gritting teeth came vaguely:

"By God, if he does—if he just does!"Away down at the lower end of the

river's curving sweep, the dirt road wasvisible for a hundred yards or more, andeven while he was cursing to himself, agroup of horsemen rode into sight. All

seemed to be carrying something acrosstheir saddle bows, and as the boy's eyescaught them, he sank sidewise out of sightand stood upright, peering through a bushof rhododendron. Something had happenedin town that day—for the horsemencarried Winchesters, and every foreignthought in his brain passed like breathfrom a window pane, while his dark, thinface whitened a little with anxiety andwonder. Swiftly he stepped backward,keeping the bushes between him and hisfar-away enemies. Another knot he gavethe reins around the sassafras bush andthen, Winchester in hand, he droppednoiseless as an Indian, from rock to rock,tree to tree, down the sheer spur on theother side. Twenty minutes later, he laybehind a bush that was sheltered by the

top boulder of the rocky point under whichthe road ran. His enemies were in theirown country; they would probably betalking over the happenings in town thatday, and from them he would learn whatwas going on.

So long he lay that he got tired and outof patience, and he was about to creeparound the boulder, when the clink of ahorseshoe against a stone told him theywere coming, and he flattened to the earthand closed his eyes that his ears might bemore keen. The Falins were ridingsilently, but as the first two passed underhim, one said:

"I'd like to know who the hell warned'em!"

"Whar's the Red Fox?" was the

significant answer.The boy's heart leaped. There had been

deviltry abroad, but his kinsmen hadescaped. No one uttered a word as theyrode two by two, under him, but one voicecame back to him as they turned the point.

"I wonder if the other boys ketchedyoung Dave?" He could not catch theanswer to that—only the oath that was init, and when the sound of the horses' hoofsdied away, he turned over on his back andstared up at the sky. Some trouble hadcome and through his own caution, and themercy of Providence that had kept himaway from the Gap, he had had his escapefrom death that day. He would tempt thatProvidence no more, even by climbingback to his horse in the waning light, and

it was not until dusk had fallen that he wasleading the beast down the spur and into aravine that sank to the road. There hewaited an hour, and when anotherhorseman passed he still waited a while.Cautiously then, with ears alert, eyesstraining through the darkness andWinchester ready, he went down the roadat a slow walk. There was a light in thefirst house, but the front door was closedand the road was deep with sand, as heknew; so he passed noiselessly. At thesecond house, light streamed through theopen door; he could hear talking on theporch and he halted. He could neithercross the river nor get around the house bythe rear—the ridge was too steep—so hedrew off into the bushes, where he had towait another hour before the talking

ceased. There was only one more housenow between him and the mouth of thecreek, where he would be safe, and hemade up his mind to dash by it. Thathouse, too, was lighted and the sound offiddling struck his ears. He would givethem a surprise; so he gathered his reinsand Winchester in his left hand, drew hisrevolver with his right, and within thirtyyards started his horse into a run, yellinglike an Indian and firing his pistol in theair. As he swept by, two or three figuresdashed pell-mell indoors, and he shoutedderisively:

"Run, damn ye, run!" They were runningfor their guns, he knew, but the tauntwould hurt and he was pleased. As heswept by the edge of a cornfield, therewas a flash of light from the base of a cliff

straight across, and a bullet sang over him,then another and another, but he sped on,cursing and yelling and shooting his ownWinchester up in the air—all harmless,useless, but just to hurl defiance and tauntthem with his safety. His father's housewas not far away, there was no sound ofpursuit, and when he reached the river hedrew down to a walk and stopped short ina shadow. Something had clicked in thebushes above him and he bent over hissaddle and lay close to his horse's neck.The moon was rising behind him and itslight was creeping toward him through thebushes. In a moment he would be full in itsyellow light, and he was slipping from hishorse to dart aside into the bushes, when avoice ahead of him called sharply:

"That you, Dave?"

It was his father, and the boy's answerwas a loud laugh. Several men steppedfrom the bushes—they had heard firingand, fearing that young Dave was thecause of it, they had run to his help.

"What the hell you mean, boy, kickin' upsuch a racket?"

"Oh, I knowed somethin'd happened an'I wanted to skeer 'em a leetle."

"Yes, an' you never thought o' thetrouble you might be causin' us."

"Don't you bother about me. I can takekeer o' myself."

Old Dave Tolliver grunted—though atheart he was deeply pleased.

"Well, you come on home!"All went silently—the boy getting

meagre monosyllabic answers to his eagerquestions but, by the time they reachedhome, he had gathered the story of whathad happened in town that day. Therewere more men in the porch of the houseand all were armed. The women of thehouse moved about noiselessly and withdrawn faces. There were no lights lit, andnobody stood long even in the light of thefire where he could be seen through awindow; and doors were opened andpassed through quickly. The Falins hadopened the feud that day, for the boy'sfoster-uncle, Bad Rufe Tolliver, contraryto the terms of the last truce, had comehome from the West, and one of hiskinsmen had been wounded. The boy toldwhat he had heard while he lay over theroad along which some of his enemies had

passed and his father nodded. The Falinshad learned in some way that the lad wasgoing to the Gap that day and had sent menafter him. Who was the spy?

"You TOLD me you was a-goin' to theGap," said old Dave. "Whar was ye?"

"I didn't git that far," said the boy.The old man and Loretta, young Dave's

sister, laughed, and quiet smiles passedbetween the others.

"Well, you'd better be keerful 'boutgittin' even as far as you did git—wharever that was—from now on."

"I ain't afeered," the boy said sullenly,and he turned into the kitchen. Still sullen,he ate his supper in silence and his motherasked him no questions. He was worriedthat Bad Rufe had come back to the

mountains, for Rufe was always teasingJune and there was something in his bold,black eyes that made the lad furious, evenwhen the foster-uncle was looking atLoretta or the little girl in LonesomeCove. And yet that was nothing to his newtrouble, for his mind hung persistently tothe stranger and to the way June hadbehaved in the cabin in Lonesome Cove.Before he went to bed, he slipped out tothe old well behind the house and sat onthe water-trough in gloomy unrest, lookingnow and then at the stars that hung over theCove and over the Gap beyond, where thestranger was bound. It would havepleased him a good deal could he haveknown that the stranger was pushing hisbig black horse on his way, under thosestars, toward the outer world.

IXIt was court day at the county seat

across the Kentucky line. Hale had risenearly, as everyone must if he would get hisbreakfast in the mountains, even in thehotels in the county seats, and he sat withhis feet on the railing of the hotel porchwhich fronted the main street of the town.He had had his heart-breaking failuressince the autumn before, but he was ingood cheer now, for his feverishenthusiasm had at last clutched a man whowould take up not only his options on thegreat Gap beyond Black Mountain but onthe cannel-coal lands of Devil JuddTolliver as well. He was riding across

from the Bluegrass to meet this man at therailroad in Virginia, nearly two hundredmiles away; he had stopped to examinesome titles at the county seat and he meantto go on that day by way of LonesomeCove. Opposite was the brick CourtHouse—every window lacking at leastone pane, the steps yellow with dirt andtobacco juice, the doorway and the bricksabout the upper windows bullet-dentedand eloquent with memories of the feudwhich had long embroiled the wholecounty. Not that everybody took part in itbut, on the matter, everybody, as an oldwoman told him, "had feelin's." It hadbegun, so he learned, just after the war.Two boys were playing marbles in theroad along the Cumberland River, and onehad a patch on the seat of his trousers. The

other boy made fun of it and the boy withthe patch went home and told his father.As a result there had already been thirtyyears of local war. In the last race forlegislature, political issues weresubmerged and the feud was the soleissue. And a Tolliver had carried thatboy's trouser-patch like a flag to victoryand was sitting in the lower House at thattime helping to make laws for the rest ofthe State. Now Bad Rufe Tolliver was inthe hills again and the end was not yet.Already people were pouring in, men,women and children—the men slouch-hatted and stalking through the mud in therain, or filing in on horseback—ridingdouble sometimes—two men or twowomen, or a man with his wife ordaughter behind him, or a woman with a

baby in her lap and two more childrenbehind—all dressed in homespun or store-clothes, and the paint from artificialflowers on her hat streaking the face ofevery girl who had unwisely scanned theheavens that morning. Soon the squarewas filled with hitched horses, and anauctioneer was bidding off cattle, sheep,hogs and horses to the crowd ofmountaineers about him, while the womensold eggs and butter and bought things foruse at home. Now and then, an openfeudsman with a Winchester passed andmany a man was belted with cartridges forthe big pistol dangling at his hip. Whencourt opened, the rain ceased, the suncame out and Hale made his way throughthe crowd to the battered temple ofjustice. On one corner of the square he

could see the chief store of the townmarked "Buck Falin—GeneralMerchandise," and the big man in the doorwith the bushy redhead, he guessed, wasthe leader of the Falin clan. Outside thedoor stood a smaller replica of the samefigure, whom he recognized as the leaderof the band that had nearly ridden himdown at the Gap when they were lookingfor young Dave Tolliver, the autumnbefore. That, doubtless, was young Buck.For a moment he stood at the door of thecourt-room. A Falin was on trial and thegrizzled judge was speaking angrily:

"This is the third time you've had thistrial postponed because you hain't got nolawyer. I ain't goin' to put it off. Have yougot you a lawyer now?"

"Yes, jedge," said the defendant."Well, whar is he?""Over thar on the jury."The judge looked at the man on the jury."Well, I reckon you better leave him

whar he is. He'll do you more good tharthan any whar else."

Hale laughed aloud—the judge glaredat him and he turned quickly upstairs to hiswork in the deed-room. Till noon heworked and yet there was no trouble.After dinner he went back and in twohours his work was done. An atmosphericdifference he felt as soon as he reachedthe door. The crowd had melted from thesquare. There were no women in sight, buteight armed men were in front of the doorand two of them, a red Falin and a black

Tolliver—Bad Rufe it was—werequarrelling. In every doorway stood a mancautiously looking on, and in a hotelwindow he saw a woman's frightenedface. It was so still that it seemedimpossible that a tragedy could beimminent, and yet, while he was trying totake the conditions in, one of thequarrelling men—Bad Rufe Tolliver—whipped out his revolver and before hecould level it, a Falin struck the muzzle ofa pistol into his back. Another Tolliverflashed his weapon on the Falin. ThisTolliver was covered by another Falinand in so many flashes of lightning theeight men in front of him were coveringeach other—every man afraid to be thefirst to shoot, since he knew that the flashof his own pistol meant instantaneous

death for him. As Hale shrank back, hepushed against somebody who thrust himaside. It was the judge:

"Why don't somebody shoot?" he askedsarcastically. "You're a purty set o' fools,ain't you? I want you all to stop thisdamned foolishness. Now when I give theword I want you, Jim Falin and RufeTolliver thar, to drap yer guns."

Already Rufe was grinning like a devilover the absurdity of the situation.

"Now!" said the judge, and the two gunswere dropped.

"Put 'em in yo' pockets."They did."Drap!" All dropped and, with those

two, all put up their guns—each man,however, watching now the man who had

just been covering him. It is not wise forthe stranger to show too much interest inthe personal affairs of mountain men, andHale left the judge berating them and wentto the hotel to get ready for the Gap, littledreaming how fixed the faces of some ofthose men were in his brain and how,later, they were to rise in his memoryagain. His horse was lame—but he mustgo on: so he hired a "yaller" mule from thelandlord, and when the beast was broughtaround, he overheard two men talking atthe end of the porch.

"You don't mean to say they've madepeace?"

"Yes, Rufe's going away agin and theyshuk hands—all of 'em." The otherlaughed.

"Rufe ain't gone yit!"The Cumberland River was rain-

swollen. The home-going people werehelping each other across it and, as Haleapproached the ford of a creek half a milebeyond the river, a black-haired girl wasstanding on a boulder looking helplesslyat the yellow water, and two boys were onthe ground below her. One of them lookedup at Hale:

"I wish ye'd help this lady 'cross.""Certainly," said Hale, and the girl

giggled when he laboriously turned his oldmule up to the boulder. Not accustomed tohave ladies ride behind him, Hale hadturned the wrong side. Again helaboriously wheeled about and then intothe yellow torrent he went with the girl

behind him, the old beast stumbling overthe stones, whereat the girl, unafraid,made sounds of much merriment. Across,Hale stopped and said courteously:

"If you are going up this way, you arequite welcome to ride on."

"Well, I wasn't crossin' that crick jes'exactly fer fun," said the girl demurely,and then she murmured something abouther cousins and looked back. They hadgone down to a shallower ford, and whenthey, too, had waded across, they saidnothing and the girl said nothing—so Halestarted on, the two boys following. Themule was slow and, being in a hurry, Haleurged him with his whip. Every time hestruck, the beast would kick up and oncethe girl came near going off.

"You must watch out, when I hit him,"said Hale.

"I don't know when you're goin' to hithim," she drawled unconcernedly.

"Well, I'll let you know," said Halelaughing. "Now!" And, as he whacked thebeast again, the girl laughed and they werebetter acquainted. Presently they passedtwo boys. Hale was wearing riding-bootsand tight breeches, and one of the boys ranhis eyes up boot and leg and if they werelifted higher, Hale could not tell.

"Whar'd you git him?" he squeaked.The girl turned her head as the mule

broke into a trot."Ain't got time to tell. They are my

cousins," explained the girl."What is your name?" asked Hale.

"Loretty Tolliver." Hale turned in hissaddle.

"Are you the daughter of DaveTolliver?"

"Yes.""Then you've got a brother named

Dave?""Yes." This, then, was the sister of the

black-haired boy he had seen in theLonesome Cove.

"Haven't you got some kinfolks over themountain?"

"Yes, I got an uncle livin' over thar.Devil Judd, folks calls him," said the girlsimply. This girl was cousin to little Junein Lonesome Cove. Every now and thenshe would look behind them, and whenHale turned again inquiringly she

explained:"I'm worried about my cousins back

thar. I'm afeered somethin' mought happento 'em."

"Shall we wait for them?""Oh, no—I reckon not."Soon they overtook two men on

horseback, and after they passed and werefifty yards ahead of them, one of the menlifted his voice jestingly:

"Is that your woman, stranger, or haveyou just borrowed her?" Hale shoutedback:

"No, I'm sorry to say, I've justborrowed her," and he turned to see howshe would take this answering pleasantry.She was looking down shyly and she didnot seem much pleased.

"They are kinfolks o' mine, too," shesaid, and whether it was in explanation oras a rebuke, Hale could not determine.

"You must be kin to everybody aroundhere?"

"Most everybody," she said simply.By and by they came to a creek."I have to turn up here," said Hale."So do I," she said, smiling now

directly at him."Good!" he said, and they went on—

Hale asking more questions. She wasgoing to school at the county seat thecoming winter and she was fifteen yearsold.

"That's right. The trouble in themountains is that you girls marry so early

that you don't have time to get aneducation." She wasn't going to marryearly, she said, but Hale learned now thatshe had a sweetheart who had been intown that day and apparently the two hadhad a quarrel. Who it was, she would nottell, and Hale would have been amazedhad he known the sweetheart was noneother than young Buck Falin and that thequarrel between the lovers had sprungfrom the opening quarrel that day betweenthe clans. Once again she came near goingoff the mule, and Hale observed that shewas holding to the cantel of his saddle.

"Look here," he said suddenly, "hadn'tyou better catch hold of me?" She shookher head vigorously and made two not-to-be-rendered sounds that meant:

"No, indeed.""Well, if this were your sweetheart

you'd take hold of him, wouldn't you?"Again she gave a vigorous shake of the

head."Well, if he saw you riding behind me,

he wouldn't like it, would he?""She didn't keer," she said, but Hale

did; and when he heard the galloping ofhorses behind him, saw two men coming,and heard one of them shouting—"Hyeh,you man on that yaller mule, stop thar"—he shifted his revolver, pulled in andwaited with some uneasiness. They cameup, reeling in their saddles—neither onethe girl's sweetheart, as he saw at oncefrom her face—and began to ask what thegirl characterized afterward as

"unnecessary questions": who he was,who she was, and where they were going.Hale answered so shortly that the girlthought there was going to be a fight, andshe was on the point of slipping from themule.

"Sit still," said Hale, quietly. "There'snot going to be a fight so long as you arehere."

"Thar hain't!" said one of the men."Well"—then he looked sharply at the girland turned his horse—"Come on, Bill—that's ole Dave Tolliver's gal." The girl'sface was on fire.

"Them mean Falins!" she saidcontemptuously, and somehow the merefact that Hale had been even for themoment antagonistic to the other faction

seemed to put him in the girl's mind atonce on her side, and straightway shetalked freely of the feud. Devil Judd hadtaken no active part in it for a long time,she said, except to keep it down—especially since he and her father had hada "fallin' out" and the two families did notvisit much—though she and her cousinJune sometimes spent the night with eachother.

"You won't be able to git over thar tilllong atter dark," she said, and she caughther breath so suddenly and so sharply thatHale turned to see what the matter was.She searched his face with her black eyes,which were like June's without the depthsof June's.

"I was just a-wonderin' if mebbe you

wasn't the same feller that was over inLonesome last fall."

"Maybe I am—my name's Hale." Thegirl laughed. "Well, if this ain't thebeatenest! I've heerd June talk about you.My brother Dave don't like youovermuch," she added frankly. "I reckonwe'll see Dave purty soon. If this ain't thebeatenest!" she repeated, and she laughedagain, as she always did laugh, it seemedto Hale, when there was any prospect ofgetting him into trouble.

"You can't git over thar till long atterdark," she said again presently.

"Is there any place on the way where Ican get to stay all night?"

"You can stay all night with the RedFox on top of the mountain."

"The Red Fox," repeated Hale."Yes, he lives right on top of the

mountain. You can't miss his house.""Oh, yes, I remember him. I saw him

talking to one of the Falins in town to-day,behind the barn, when I went to get myhorse."

"You—seed—him—a-talkin'—to aFalin AFORE the trouble come up?" thegirl asked slowly and with suchsignificance that Hale turned to look ather. He felt straightway that he ought notto have said that, and the day was to comewhen he would remember it to his cost.He knew how foolish it was for thestranger to show sympathy with, orinterest in, one faction or another in amountain feud, but to give any kind of

information of one to the other—that wasunwise indeed. Ahead of them now, alittle stream ran from a ravine across theroad. Beyond was a cabin; in the doorwaywere several faces, and sitting on a horseat the gate was young Dave Tolliver.

"Well, I git down here," said the girl,and before his mule stopped she slid frombehind him and made for the gate withouta word of thanks or good-by.

"Howdye!" said Hale, taking in thegroup with his glance, but leaving his eyeson young Dave. The rest nodded, but theboy was too surprised for speech, and thespirit of deviltry took the girl when shesaw her brother's face, and at the gate sheturned:

"Much obleeged," she said. "Tell June

I'm a-comin' over to see her next Sunday.""I will," said Hale, and he rode on. To

his surprise, when he had gone a hundredyards, he heard the boy spurring after himand he looked around inquiringly as youngDave drew alongside; but the boy saidnothing and Hale, amused, kept still,wondering when the lad would openspeech. At the mouth of another littlecreek the boy stopped his horse as thoughhe was to turn up that way. "You've comeback agin," he said, searching Hale's facewith his black eyes.

"Yes," said Hale, "I've come backagain."

"You goin' over to Lonesome Cove?""Yes."The boy hesitated, and a sudden change

of mind was plain to Hale in his face. "Iwish you'd tell Uncle Judd about thetrouble in town to-day," he said, stilllooking fixedly at Hale.

"Certainly.""Did you tell the Red Fox that day you

seed him when you was goin' over to theGap last fall that you seed me at UncleJudd's?"

"No," said Hale. "But how did youknow that I saw the Red Fox that day?"The boy laughed unpleasantly.

"So long," he said. "See you agin someday." The way was steep and the sun wasdown and darkness gathering before Halereached the top of the mountain—so hehallooed at the yard fence of the Red Fox,who peered cautiously out of the door and

asked his name before he came to the gate.And there, with a grin on his curiousmismatched face, he repeated youngDave's words:

"You've come back agin." And Halerepeated his:

"Yes, I've come back again.""You goin' over to Lonesome Cove?""Yes," said Hale impatiently, "I'm going

over to Lonesome Cove. Can I stay hereall night?"

"Shore!" said the old man hospitably."That's a fine hoss you got thar," he addedwith a chuckle. "Been swappin'?" Halehad to laugh as he climbed down from thebony ear-flopping beast.

"I left my horse in town—he's lame."

"Yes, I seed you thar." Hale could notresist: "Yes, and I seed you." The old manalmost turned.

"Whar?" Again the temptation was toogreat.

"Talking to the Falin who started therow." This time the Red Fox wheeledsharply and his pale-blue eyes filled withsuspicion.

"I keeps friends with both sides," hesaid. "Ain't many folks can do that."

"I reckon not," said Hale calmly, but inthe pale eyes he still saw suspicion.

When they entered the cabin, a little oldwoman in black, dumb and noiseless, wascooking supper. The children of the two,he learned, had scattered, and they livedthere alone. On the mantel were two

pistols and in one corner was the bigWinchester he remembered and behind itwas the big brass telescope. On the tablewas a Bible and a volume of Swedenborg,and among the usual strings of pepper-pods and beans and twisted long greentobacco were drying herbs and roots of allkinds, and about the fireplace were bottlesof liquids that had been stewed from them.The little old woman served, and openedher lips not at all. Supper was eaten withno further reference to the doings in townthat day, and no word was said about theirmeeting when Hale first went to LonesomeCove until they were smoking on theporch.

"I heerd you found some mighty finecoal over in Lonesome Cove."

"Yes.""Young Dave Tolliver thinks you found

somethin' else thar, too," chuckled the RedFox.

"I did," said Hale coolly, and the oldman chuckled again.

"She's a purty leetle gal—shore.""Who is?" asked Hale, looking calmly

at his questioner, and the Red Fox lapsedinto baffled silence.

The moon was brilliant and the nightwas still. Suddenly the Red Fox cockedhis ear like a hound, and without a wordslipped swiftly within the cabin. Amoment later Hale heard the galloping of ahorse and from out the dark woods lopeda horseman with a Winchester across hissaddle bow. He pulled in at the gate, but

before he could shout "Hello" the Red Foxhad stepped from the porch into themoonlight and was going to meet him.Hale had never seen a more easy,graceful, daring figure on horseback, andin the bright light he could make out thereckless face of the man who had been thefirst to flash his pistol in town that day—Bad Rufe Tolliver. For ten minutes thetwo talked in whispers—Rufe bentforward with one elbow on the withers ofhis horse but lifting his eyes every nowand then to the stranger seated in the porch—and then the horseman turned with anoath and galloped into the darknesswhence he came, while the Red Foxslouched back to the porch and droppedsilently into his seat.

"Who was that?" asked Hale.

"Bad Rufe Tolliver.""I've heard of him.""Most everybody in these mountains

has. He's the feller that's always causin'trouble. Him and Joe Falin agreed to goWest last fall to end the war. Joe waskilled out thar, and now Rufe claims Joedon't count now an' he's got the right tocome back. Soon's he comes back, thingsgit frolicksome agin. He swore hewouldn't go back unless another Falingoes too. Wirt Falin agreed, and that'show they made peace to-day. Now Rufesays he won't go at all—truce or no truce.My wife in thar is a Tolliver, but bothsides comes to me and I keeps peace withboth of 'em."

No doubt he did, Hale thought, keep

peace or mischief with or against anybodywith that face of his. That was a commontype of the bad man, that horseman whohad galloped away from the gate—but thisold man with his dual face, who preachedthe Word on Sundays and on other dayswas a walking arsenal; who dreameddreams and had visions and slippedthrough the hills in his mysteriousmoccasins on errands of mercy or chasingmen from vanity, personal enmity or forfun, and still appeared so sane—he was atype that confounded. No wonder for thesereasons and as a tribute to his infernalshrewdness he was known far and wide asthe Red Fox of the Mountains. But Halewas too tired for further speculation andpresently he yawned.

"Want to lay down?" asked the old man

quickly."I think I do," said Hale, and they went

inside. The little old woman had her faceto the wall in a bed in one corner and theRed Fox pointed to a bed in the other:

"Thar's yo' bed." Again Hale's eyes fellon the big Winchester.

"I reckon thar hain't more'n two otherslike it in all these mountains."

"What's the calibre?""Biggest made," was the answer, "a 50

x 75.""Centre fire?""Rim," said the Red Fox."Gracious," laughed Hale, "what do you

want such a big one for?""Man cannot live by bread alone—in

these mountains," said the Red Fox grimly.When Hale lay down he could hear the

old man quavering out a hymn or two onthe porch outside: and when, worn outwith the day, he went to sleep, the RedFox was reading his Bible by the light of atallow dip. It is fatefully strange whenpeople, whose lives tragically intersect,look back to their first meetings with oneanother, and Hale never forgot that night inthe cabin of the Red Fox. For had BadRufe Tolliver, while he whispered at thegate, known the part the quiet young mansilently seated in the porch would play inhis life, he would have shot him where hesat: and could the Red Fox have knownthe part his sleeping guest was to play inhis, the old man would have knifed himwhere he lay.

XHale opened his eyes next morning on

the little old woman in black, movingghost-like through the dim interior to thekitchen. A wood-thrush was singing whenhe stepped out on the porch and its coolnotes had the liquid freshness of themorning. Breakfast over, he concluded toleave the yellow mule with the Red Fox tobe taken back to the county town, and towalk down the mountain, but before he gotaway the landlord's son turned up with hisown horse, still lame, but well enough tolimp along without doing himself harm.So, leading the black horse, Hale starteddown.

The sun was rising over still seas ofwhite mist and wave after wave of blueVirginia hills. In the shadows below, itsmote the mists into tatters; leaf and bushglittered as though after a heavy rain, anddown Hale went under a trembling dew-drenched world and along a tumblingseries of water-falls that flashed throughtall ferns, blossoming laurel and shiningleaves of rhododendron. Once he heardsomething move below him and then thecrackling of brush sounded far to one sideof the road. He knew it was a man whowould be watching him from a covert and,straightway, to prove his innocence of anyhostile or secret purpose, he began towhistle. Farther below, two men withWinchesters rose from the bushes andasked his name and his business. He told

both readily. Everybody, it seemed, wasprepared for hostilities and, though thenews of the patched-up peace had spread,it was plain that the factions were stillsuspicious and on guard. Then theloneliness almost of Lonesome Cove itselfset in. For miles he saw nothing alive butan occasional bird and heard no sound butof running water or rustling leaf. At themouth of the creek his horse's lamenesshad grown so much better that he mountedhim and rode slowly up the river. Withinan hour he could see the still crest of theLonesome Pine. At the mouth of a creek amile farther on was an old gristmill withits water-wheel asleep, and whittling atthe door outside was the old miller, UncleBilly Beams, who, when he heard thecoming of the black horse's feet, looked up

and showed no surprise at all when hesaw Hale.

"I heard you was comin'," he shouted,hailing him cheerily by name. "Ain't fishin'this time!"

"No," said Hale, "not this time.""Well, git down and rest a spell. June'll

be here in a minute an' you can ride backwith her. I reckon you air goin' that a-way."

"June!""Shore! My, but she'll be glad to see ye!

She's always talkin' about ye. You told heryou was comin' back an' ever'body toldher you wasn't: but that leetle gal al'ayssaid she KNOWED you was, because youSAID you was. She's growed some—an' ifshe ain't purty, well I'd tell a man! You

jes' tie yo' hoss up thar behind the mill soshe can't see it, an' git inside the mill whenshe comes round that bend thar. My, buthit'll be a surprise fer her."

The old man chuckled so cheerily thatHale, to humour him, hitched his horse toa sapling, came back and sat in the door ofthe mill. The old man knew all about thetrouble in town the day before.

"I want to give ye a leetle advice. Keepyo' mouth plum' shut about this here war.I'm Jestice of the Peace, but that's the onlyway I've kept outen of it fer thirty years;an' hit's the only way you can keep outenit."

"Thank you, I mean to keep my mouthshut, but would you mind—"

"Git in!" interrupted the old man

eagerly. "Hyeh she comes." His kind oldface creased into a welcoming smile, andbetween the logs of the mill Hale, inside,could see an old sorrel horse slowlycoming through the lights and shadowsdown the road. On its back was a sack ofcorn and perched on the sack was a littlegirl with her bare feet in the hollowsbehind the old nag's withers. She waslooking sidewise, quite hidden by ascarlet poke-bonnet, and at the old man'sshout she turned the smiling face of littleJune. With an answering cry, she struckthe old nag with a switch and before theold man could rise to help her down,slipped lightly to the ground.

"Why, honey," he said, "I don't knowwhut I'm goin' to do 'bout yo' corn. Shaft'sbroke an' I can't do no grindin' till to-

morrow.""Well, Uncle Billy, we ain't got a pint

o' meal in the house," she said. "You jes'got to LEND me some."

"All right, honey," said the old man, andhe cleared his throat as a signal for Hale.

The little girl was pushing her bonnetback when Hale stepped into sight and,unstartled, unsmiling, unspeaking, shelooked steadily at him—one handmotionless for a moment on her bronzeheap of hair and then slipping down pasther cheek to clench the other tightly. UncleBilly was bewildered.

"Why, June, hit's Mr. Hale—why—-""Howdye, June!" said Hale, who was

no less puzzled—and still she gave nosign that she had ever seen him before

except reluctantly to give him her hand.Then she turned sullenly away and satdown in the door of the mill with herelbows on her knees and her chin in herhands.

Dumfounded, the old miller pulled thesack of corn from the horse and leaned itagainst the mill. Then he took out his pipe,filled and lighted it slowly and turned hisperplexed eyes to the sun.

"Well, honey," he said, as though hewere doing the best he could with adifficult situation, "I'll have to git you thatmeal at the house. 'Bout dinner time now.You an' Mr. Hale thar come on and gitsomethin' to eat afore ye go back."

"I got to get on back home," said June,rising.

"No you ain't—I bet you got dinner feryo' step-mammy afore you left, an' I jes'know you was aimin' to take a snack withme an' ole Hon." The little girl hesitated—she had no denial—and the old fellowsmiled kindly.

"Come on, now."Little June walked on the other side of

the miller from Hale back to the old man'scabin, two hundred yards up the road,answering his questions but not Hale's andnever meeting the latter's eyes with herown. "Ole Hon," the portly old womanwhom Hale remembered, with brass-rimmed spectacles and a clay pipe in hermouth, came out on the porch andwelcomed them heartily under thehoneysuckle vines. Her mouth and face

were alive with humour when she sawHale, and her eyes took in both him andthe little girl keenly. The miller and Haleleaned chairs against the wall while thegirl sat at the entrance of the porch.Suddenly Hale went out to his horse andtook out a package from his saddle-pockets.

"I've got some candy in here for you,"he said smiling.

"I don't want no candy," she said, stillnot looking at him and with a littlemovement of her knees away from him.

"Why, honey," said Uncle Billy again,"whut IS the matter with ye? I thought yewas great friends." The little girl rosehastily.

"No, we ain't, nuther," she said, and she

whisked herself indoors. Hale put thepackage back with some embarrassmentand the old miller laughed.

"Well, well—she's a quar little critter;mebbe she's mad because you stayed awayso long."

At the table June wanted to help oleHon and wait to eat with her, but UncleBilly made her sit down with him andHale, and so shy was she that she hardlyate anything. Once only did she look upfrom her plate and that was when UncleBilly, with a shake of his head, said:

"He's a bad un." He was speaking ofRufe Tolliver, and at the mention of hisname there was a frightened look in thelittle girl's eyes, when she quickly raisedthem, that made Hale wonder.

An hour later they were riding side byside—Hale and June—on through thelights and shadows toward LonesomeCove. Uncle Billy turned back from thegate to the porch.

"He ain't come back hyeh jes' fer coal,"said ole Hon.

"Shucks!" said Uncle Billy; "youwomen-folks can't think 'bout nothin' 'ceptone thing. He's too old fer her."

"She'll git ole enough fer HIM—an' youmenfolks don't think less—you jes' talkless." And she went back into the kitchen,and on the porch the old miller puffed on anew idea in his pipe.

For a few minutes the two rode insilence and not yet had June lifted her eyesto him.

"You've forgotten me, June.""No, I hain't, nuther.""You said you'd be waiting for me."

June's lashes went lower still."I was.""Well, what's the matter? I'm mighty

sorry I couldn't get back sooner.""Huh!" said June scornfully, and he

knew Uncle Billy in his guess as to thetrouble was far afield, and so he triedanother tack.

"I've been over to the county seat and Isaw lots of your kinfolks over there." Sheshowed no curiosity, no surprise, and stillshe did not look up at him.

"I met your cousin, Loretta, over thereand I carried her home behind me on an

old mule"—Hale paused, smiling at theremembrance—and still she betrayed nointerest.

"She's a mighty pretty girl, andwhenever I'd hit that old—-"

"She hain't!"—the words were soshrieked out that Hale was bewildered,and then he guessed that the falling outbetween the fathers was more serious thanhe had supposed.

"But she isn't as nice as you are," headded quickly, and the girl's quiveringmouth steadied, the tears stopped in hervexed dark eyes and she lifted them to himat last.

"She ain't?""No, indeed, she ain't."For a while they rode along again in

silence. June no longer avoided his eyesnow, and the unspoken question in herown presently came out:

"You won't let Uncle Rufe bother me nomore, will ye?"

"No, indeed, I won't," said Haleheartily. "What does he do to you?"

"Nothin'—'cept he's always a-teasin'me, an'—an' I'm afeered o' him."

"Well, I'll take care of Uncle Rufe.""I knowed YOU'D say that," she said.

"Pap and Dave always laughs at me," andshe shook her head as though she werealready threatening her bad uncle withwhat Hale would do to him, and she wasso serious and trustful that Hale wascuriously touched. By and by he lifted oneflap of his saddle-pockets again.

"I've got some candy here for a nicelittle girl," he said, as though the subjecthad not been mentioned before. "It's foryou. Won't you have some?"

"I reckon I will," she said with a happysmile.

Hale watched her while she munched astriped stick of peppermint. Her crimsonbonnet had fallen from her sunlit hair andstraight down from it to her bare little footwith its stubbed toe just darkening withdried blood, a sculptor would have lovedthe rounded slenderness in the curvinglong lines that shaped her brown throat,her arms and her hands, which wereprettily shaped but so very dirty as to thenails, and her dangling bare leg. Her teethwere even and white, and most of them

flashed when her red lips smiled. Herlashes were long and gave a touchingsoftness to her eyes even when she waslooking quietly at him, but there weretimes, as he had noticed already, when abrooding look stole over them, and thenthey were the lair for the mysteriousloneliness that was the very spirit ofLonesome Cove. Some day that little nosewould be long enough, and some day, hethought, she would be very beautiful.

"Your cousin, Loretta, said she wascoming over to see you."

June's teeth snapped viciously throughthe stick of candy and then she turned onhim and behind the long lashes and deepdown in the depth of those wonderful eyeshe saw an ageless something that

bewildered him more than her words."I hate her," she said fiercely."Why, little girl?" he said gently."I don't know—" she said—and then the

tears came in earnest and she turned herhead, sobbing. Hale helplessly reachedover and patted her on the shoulder, butshe shrank away from him.

"Go away!" she said, digging her fistinto her eyes until her face was calmagain.

They had reached the spot on the riverwhere he had seen her first, and beyond,the smoke of the cabin was rising abovethe undergrowth.

"Lordy!" she said, "but I do gitlonesome over hyeh."

"Wouldn't you like to go over to theGap with me sometimes?"

Straightway her face was a ray ofsunlight.

"Would—I like—to—go—over—"She stopped suddenly and pulled in her

horse, but Hale had heard nothing."Hello!" shouted a voice from the

bushes, and Devil Judd Tolliver issuedfrom them with an axe on his shoulder. "Iheerd you'd come back an' I'm glad to seeye." He came down to the road and shookHale's hand heartily.

"Whut you been cryin' about?" headded, turning his hawk-like eyes on thelittle girl.

"Nothin'," she said sullenly.

"Did she git mad with ye 'boutsomethin'?" said the old man to Hale. "Shenever cries 'cept when she's mad." Halelaughed.

"You jes' hush up—both of ye," said thegirl with a sharp kick of her right foot.

"I reckon you can't stamp the groundthat fer away from it," said the old mandryly. "If you don't git the better of thatall-fired temper o' yourn hit's goin' to gitthe better of you, an' then I'll have to spankyou agin."

"I reckon you ain't goin' to whoop meno more, pap. I'm a-gittin' too big."

The old man opened eyes and mouthwith an indulgent roar of laughter.

"Come on up to the house," he said toHale, turning to lead the way, the little girl

following him. The old step-mother wasagain a-bed; small Bub, the brother, stillunafraid, sat down beside Hale and theold man brought out a bottle of moonshine.

"I reckon I can still trust ye," he said."I reckon you can," laughed Hale.The liquor was as fiery as ever, but it

was grateful, and again the old man tooknearly a tumbler full plying Hale,meanwhile, about the happenings in townthe day before—but Hale could tell himnothing that he seemed not already toknow.

"It was quar," the old mountaineer said."I've seed two men with the drap on eachother and both afeerd to shoot, but I neverheerd of sech a ring-around-the-rosy aseight fellers with bead on one another and

not a shoot shot. I'm glad I wasn't thar."He frowned when Hale spoke of the

Red Fox."You can't never tell whether that ole

devil is fer ye or agin ye, but I've beenplum' sick o' these doin's a long time nowand sometimes I think I'll just pull upstakes and go West and git out of hit—altogether."

"How did you learn so much aboutyesterday—so soon?"

"Oh, we hears things purty quick inthese mountains. Little Dave Tollivercome over here last night."

"Yes," broke in Bub, "and he tol' ushow you carried Loretty from town on amule behind ye, and she jest a-sassin' you,an' as how she said she was a-goin' to git

you fer HER sweetheart."Hale glanced by chance at the little girl.

Her face was scarlet, and a light dawned."An' sis, thar, said he was a-tellin' lies

—an' when she growed up she said shewas a-goin' to marry—-"

Something snapped like a toy-pistol andBub howled. A little brown hand hadwhacked him across the mouth, and thegirl flashed indoors without a word. Bubgot to his feet howling with pain and rageand started after her, but the old mancaught him:

"Set down, boy! Sarved you right ferblabbin' things that hain't yo' business." Heshook with laughter.

Jealousy! Great heavens—Hale thought—in that child, and for him!

"I knowed she was cryin' 'boutsomething like that. She sets a great storeby you, an' she's studied them books yousent her plum' to pieces while you wasaway. She ain't nothin' but a baby, but insartain ways she's as old as her motherwas when she died." The amazing secretwas out, and the little girl appeared nomore until supper time, when she waitedon the table, but at no time would she lookat Hale or speak to him again. For a whilethe two men sat on the porch talking of thefeud and the Gap and the coal on the oldman's place, and Hale had no troublegetting an option for a year on the oldman's land. Just as dusk was setting he gothis horse.

"You'd better stay all night."

"No, I'll have to get along."The little girl did not appear to tell him

goodby, and when he went to his horse atthe gate, he called:

"Tell June to come down here. I've gotsomething for her."

"Go on, baby," the old man said, andthe little girl came shyly down to the gate.Hale took a brown-paper parcel from hissaddle-bags, unwrapped it and betrayedthe usual blue-eyed, flaxen-haired, rosy-cheeked doll. Only June did not know thelike of it was in all the world. And as shecaught it to her breast there were tearsonce more in her uplifted eyes.

"How about going over to the Gap withme, little girl—some day?"

He never guessed it, but there were a

child and a woman before him now andboth answered:

"I'll go with ye anywhar." * * * * * * *

Hale stopped a while to rest his horseat the base of the big pine. He waspractically alone in the world. The littlegirl back there was born for somethingelse than slow death in that God-forsakencove, and whatever it was—why not helpher to it if he could? With this thought inhis brain, he rode down from the luminousupper world of the moon and stars towardthe nether world of drifting mists andblack ravines. She belonged to just such anight—that little girl—she was a part ofits mists, its lights and shadows, its freshwild beauty and its mystery. Only oncedid his mind shift from her to his great

purpose, and that was when the roar of thewater through the rocky chasm of the Gapmade him think of the roar of iron wheels,that, rushing through, some day, woulddrown it into silence. At the mouth of theGap he saw the white valley lying atpeace in the moonlight and straightwayfrom it sprang again, as always, his castlein the air; but before he fell asleep in hiscottage on the edge of the millpond thatnight he heard quite plainly again:

"I'll go with ye—anywhar."

XISpring was coming: and, meanwhile,

that late autumn and short winter, thingswent merrily on at the gap in some ways,and in some ways—not.

Within eight miles of the place, forinstance, the man fell ill—the man whowas to take up Hale's options—and he hadto be taken home. Still Hale wasundaunted: here he was and here he wouldstay—and he would try again. Two otheryoung men, Bluegrass Kentuckians, Loganand Macfarlan, had settled at the gap—both lawyers and both of pioneer, Indian-fighting blood. The report of the State

geologist had been spread broadcast. Afamous magazine writer had come throughon horseback and had gone home andgiven a fervid account of the riches andthe beauty of the region. HelmetedEnglishmen began to prowl prospectivelyaround the gap sixty miles to thesouthwest. New surveying parties weredirecting lines for the rocky gatewaybetween the iron ore and the coal.Engineers and coal experts passed in andout. There were rumours of a furnace anda steel plant when the railroad shouldreach the place. Capital had flowed infrom the East, and already aPennsylvanian was starting a main entryinto a ten-foot vein of coal up through thegap and was coking it. His report was thathis own was better than the Connellsville

coke, which was the standard: it washigher in carbon and lower in ash. TheLudlow brothers, from Eastern Virginia,had started a general store. Two of theBerkley brothers had come over fromBluegrass Kentucky and their family wascoming in the spring. The bearded Senatorup the valley, who was also a preacher,had got his Methodist brethren interested—and the community was further enrichedby the coming of the Hon. Samuel Budd,lawyer and budding statesman. As arecreation, the Hon. Sam was ananthropologist: he knew the mountaineersfrom Virginia to Alabama and they werehis pet illustrations of his pet theories ofthe effect of a mountain environment onhuman life and character. Hale took agreat fancy to him from the first moment he

saw his smooth, ageless, kindly face,surmounted by a huge pair of spectaclesthat were hooked behind two large ears,above which his pale yellow hair, partedin the middle, was drawn back withplaster-like precision. A mayor and aconstable had been appointed, and theHon. Sam had just finished his first case—Squire Morton and the Widow Crane, whoran a boarding-house, each having laidclaim to three pigs that obstructed trafficin the town. The Hon. Sam was sitting bythe stove, deep in thought, when Halecame into the hotel and he lifted his greatglaring lenses and waited for nointroduction:

"Brother," he said, "do you knowtwelve reliable witnesses come on thestand and SWORE them pigs belonged to

the squire's sow, and twelve equallyreliable witnesses SWORE them pigsbelonged to the Widow Crane's sow? Ishorely was a heap perplexed."

"That was curious." The Hon. Samlaughed:

"Well, sir, them intelligent pigs usedboth them sows as mothers, and may bethey had another mother somewhere else.They would breakfast with the WidowCrane's sow and take supper with thesquire's sow. And so them witnesses, too,was naturally perplexed."

Hale waited while the Hon. Sam puffedhis pipe into a glow:

"Believin', as I do, that the mostimportant principle in law is mutuallyforgivin' and a square division o' spoils, I

suggested a compromise. The widow saidthe squire was an old rascal an' thief andhe'd never sink a tooth into one of themshoats, but that her lawyer was agentleman—meanin' me—and the squiresaid the widow had been blackguardin'him all over town and he'd see her inheaven before she got one, but that HISlawyer was a prince of the realm: so theother lawyer took one and I got the other."

"What became of the third?"The Hon. Sam was an ardent disciple of

Sir Walter Scott:"Well, just now the mayor is a-playin'

Gurth to that little runt for costs."Outside, the wheels of the stage rattled,

and as half a dozen strangers trooped in,the Hon. Sam waved his hand: "Things is

comin'."Things were coming. The following

week "the booming editor" brought in aprinting-press and started a paper. Anenterprising Hoosier soon established abrick-plant. A geologist—Hale'spredecessor in Lonesome Cove—madethe Gap his headquarters, and one by onethe vanguard of engineers, surveyors,speculators and coalmen drifted in. Thewings of progress began to sprout, but thenew town-constable soon tendered hisresignation with informality and violence.He had arrested a Falin, whosecompanions straightway took him fromcustody and set him free. Straightway theconstable threw his pistol and badge ofoffice to the ground.

"I've fit an' I've hollered fer help," heshouted, almost crying with rage, "an' I'vefit agin. Now this town can go to hell":and he picked up his pistol but left hissymbol of law and order in the dust. Nextmorning there was a new constable, andonly that afternoon when Hale steppedinto the Ludlow Brothers' store he foundthe constable already busy. A line of menwith revolver or knife in sight was drawnup inside with their backs to Hale, andbeyond them he could see the newconstable with a man under arrest. Halehad not forgotten his promise to himselfand he began now:

"Come on," he called quietly, and whenthe men turned at the sound of his voice,the constable, who was of sterner stuffthan his predecessor, pushed through them,

dragging his man after him."Look here, boys," said Hale calmly.

"Let's not have any row. Let him go to themayor's office. If he isn't guilty, the mayorwill let him go. If he is, the mayor willgive him bond. I'll go on it myself. Butlet's not have a row."

Now, to the mountain eye, Haleappeared no more than the ordinary man,and even a close observer would haveseen no more than that his face was clean-cut and thoughtful, that his eye was blueand singularly clear and fearless, and thathe was calm with a calmness that mightcome from anything else than stolidity oftemperament—and that, by the way, is theself-control which counts most against theunruly passions of other men—but

anybody near Hale, at a time whenexcitement was high and a crisis wasimminent, would have felt the resultant offorces emanating from him that werebeyond analysis. And so it was now—thecurious power he instinctively had overrough men had its way.

"Go on," he continued quietly, and theconstable went on with his prisoner, hisfriends following, still swearing and withtheir weapons in their hands. Whenconstable and prisoner passed into themayor's office, Hale stepped quickly afterthem and turned on the threshold with hisarm across the door.

"Hold on, boys," he said, still good-naturedly. "The mayor can attend to this. Ifyou boys want to fight anybody, fight me.

I'm unarmed and you can whip me easilyenough," he added with a laugh, "but youmustn't come in here," he concluded, asthough the matter was settled beyondfurther discussion. For one instant—thecrucial one, of course—the men hesitated,for the reason that so often makes superiornumbers of no avail among the lawless—the lack of a leader of nerve—and withoutanother word Hale held the door. But thefrightened mayor inside let the prisonerout at once on bond and Hale, combininglaw and diplomacy, went on the bond.

Only a day or two later themountaineers, who worked at the brick-plant with pistols buckled around them,went on a strike and, that night, shot outthe lights and punctured the chromos intheir boarding-house. Then, armed with

sticks, knives, clubs and pistols, they tooka triumphant march through town. Thatnight two knives and two pistols werewhipped out by two of them in the samestore. One of the Ludlows promptly blewout the light and astutely got under thecounter. When the combatants scrambledoutside, he locked the door and crawledout the back window. Next morning thebrick-yard malcontents marchedtriumphantly again and Hale called forvolunteers to arrest them. To his disgustonly Logan, Macfarlan, the Hon. SamBudd, and two or three others seemedwilling to go, but when the few whowould go started, Hale, leading them,looked back and the whole town seemedto be strung out after him. Below the hill,he saw the mountaineers drawn up in two

bodies for battle and, as he led hisfollowers towards them, the Hoosierowner of the plant rode out at a gallop,waving his hands and apparently besidehimself with anxiety and terror.

"Don't," he shouted; "somebody'll getkilled. Wait—they'll give up." So Halehalted and the Hoosier rode back. After ashort parley he came back to Hale to saythat the strikers would give up, but whenLogan started again, they broke and ran,and only three or four were captured. TheHoosier was delirious over his troublesand straightway closed his plant.

"See," said Hale in disgust. "We've gotto do something now."

"We have," said the lawyers, and thatnight on Hale's porch, the three, with the

Hon. Sam Budd, pondered the problem.They could not build a town without lawand order—they could not have law andorder without taking part themselves, andeven then they plainly would have theirhands full. And so, that night, on the tinyporch of the little cottage that was Hale'ssleeping-room and office, with thecreaking of the one wheel of their oneindustry—the old grist-mill—makingpatient music through the rhododendron-darkness that hid the steep bank of thestream, the three pioneers forged theirplan. There had been gentlemen-regulatorsa plenty, vigilance committees ofgentlemen, and the Ku-Klux clan had beenoriginally composed of gentlemen, as theyall knew, but they meant to hew to thestrict line of town-ordinance and common

law and do the rough everyday work ofthe common policeman. So volunteerpolicemen they would be and, in order toextend their authority as much as possible,as county policemen they would beenrolled. Each man would purchase hisown Winchester, pistol, billy, badge and awhistle—to call for help—and they wouldbegin drilling and target-shooting at once.The Hon. Sam shook his head dubiously:

"The natives won't understand.""We can't help that," said Hale."I know—I'm with you."Hale was made captain, Logan first

lieutenant, Macfarlan second, and the Hon.Sam third. Two rules, Logan, who, too,knew the mountaineer well, suggested asinflexible. One was never to draw a pistol

at all unless necessary, never to pretend todraw as a threat or to intimidate, andnever to draw unless one meant to shoot,if need be.

"And the other," added Logan, "alwaysgo in force to make an arrest—never aloneunless necessary." The Hon. Sam movedhis head up and down in hearty approval.

"Why is that?" asked Hale."To save bloodshed," he said. "These

fellows we will have to deal with have apride that is morbid. A mountaineerdoesn't like to go home and have to saythat one man put him in the calaboose—but he doesn't mind telling that it tookseveral to arrest him. Moreover, he willgive in to two or three men, when hewould look on the coming of one man as a

personal issue and to be met as such."Hale nodded."Oh, there'll be plenty of chances,"

Logan added with a smile, "for everyoneto go it alone." Again the Hon. Samnodded grimly. It was plain to him thatthey would have all they could do, but noone of them dreamed of the far-reachingeffect that night's work would bring.

They were the vanguard of civilization—"crusaders of the nineteenth centuryagainst the benighted of the Middle Ages,"said the Hon. Sam, and when Logan andMacfarlan left, he lingered and lit hispipe.

"The trouble will be," he said slowly,"that they won't understand our purpose orour methods. They will look on us as a lot

of meddlesome 'furriners' who have comein to run their country as we please, whenthey have been running it as they pleasefor more than a hundred years. You see,you mustn't judge them by the standards ofto-day—you must go back to the standardsof the Revolution. Practically, they are thepioneers of that day and hardly a bit havethey advanced. They are our contemporaryancestors." And then the Hon. Sam, havingdropped his vernacular, loungedponderously into what he was pleased tocall his anthropological drool.

"You see, mountains isolate people andthe effect of isolation on human life is tocrystallize it. Those people over the linehave had no navigable rivers, no lakes, nowagon roads, except often the beds ofstreams. They have been cut off from all

communication with the outside world.They are a perfect example of an arrestedcivilization and they are the closest linkwe have with the Old World. They wereUnionists because of the Revolution, asthey were Americans in the beginningbecause of the spirit of the Covenanter.They live like the pioneers; the axe andthe rifle are still their weapons and theystill have the same fight with nature. Thisfeud business is a matter of clan-loyaltythat goes back to Scotland. They argue thisway: You are my friend or my kinsman,your quarrel is my quarrel, and whoeverhits you hits me. If you are in trouble, Imust not testify against you. If you are anofficer, you must not arrest me; you mustsend me a kindly request to come intocourt. If I'm innocent and it's perfectly

convenient—why, maybe I'll come. Yes,we're the vanguard of civilization, allright, all right—but I opine we're goin' tohave a hell of a merry time."

Hale laughed, but he was to rememberthose words of the Hon. Samuel Budd.Other members of that vanguard began todrift in now by twos and threes from thebluegrass region of Kentucky and from thetide-water country of Virginia and fromNew England—strong, bold young menwith the spirit of the pioneer and the birth,breeding and education of gentlemen, andthe war between civilization and alawlessness that was the result ofisolation, and consequent ignorance andidleness started in earnest.

"A remarkable array," murmured the

Hon. Sam, when he took an inventory onenight with Hale, "I'm proud to be among'em."

Many times Hale went over toLonesome Cove and with every visit hisinterest grew steadily in the little girl andin the curious people over there, until heactually began to believe in the Hon. SamBudd's anthropological theories. In thecabin on Lonesome Cove was a craneswinging in the big stone fireplace, and hesaw the old step-mother and June puttingthe spinning wheel and the loom to actualuse. Sometimes he found a cabin ofunhewn logs with a puncheon floor,clapboards for shingles and wooden pinand auger holes for nails; a batten woodenshutter, the logs filled with mud and stonesand holes in the roof for the wind and the

rain. Over a pair of buck antlerssometimes lay the long heavy home-maderifle of the backwoodsman—sometimeseven with a flintlock and called by somepet feminine name. Once he saw thehominy block that the mountaineers hadborrowed from the Indians, and once ahandmill like the one from which the onewoman was taken and the other left inbiblical days. He struck communitieswhere the medium of exchange was stillbarter, and he found mountaineers drinkingmetheglin still as well as moonshine.Moreover, there were still log-rollings,house-warmings, corn-shuckings, andquilting parties, and sports were the sameas in pioneer days—wrestling, racing,jumping, and lifting barrels. Often he sawa cradle of beegum, and old Judd had in

his house a fox-horn made of hickory barkwhich even June could blow. He ranacross old-world superstitions, too, andmet one seventh son of a seventh son whocured children of rash by blowing intotheir mouths. And he got June to singingtransatlantic songs, after old Judd said oneday that she knowed the "miserablest songhe'd ever heerd"—meaning the mostsorrowful. And, thereupon, with quaintsimplicity, June put her heels on the rungof her chair, and with her elbows on herknees, and her chin on both bent thumbs,sang him the oldest version of "BarbaraAllen" in a voice that startled Hale by itspower and sweetness. She knew lots more"song-ballets," she said shyly, and the oldman had her sing some songs that wererather rude, but were as innocent as hymns

from her lips.Everywhere he found unlimited

hospitality."Take out, stranger," said one old

fellow, when there was nothing on thetable but some bread and a few potatoes,"have a tater. Take two of 'em—take damnnigh ALL of 'em."

Moreover, their pride was morbid, andthey were very religious. Indeed, theyused religion to cloak their deviltry, ashonestly as it was ever used in history. Hehad heard old Judd say once, when he wasspeaking of the feud:

"Well, I've al'ays laid out my enemies.The Lord's been on my side an' I gits abetter Christian every year."

Always Hale took some children's book

for June when he went to Lonesome Cove,and she rarely failed to know it almost byheart when he went again. She was sointelligent that he began to wonder if, inher case, at least, another of the Hon.Sam's theories might not be true—that themountaineers were of the same class asthe other westward-sweeping emigrants ofmore than a century before, that they hadsimply lain dormant in the hills and—acentury counting for nothing in the matterof inheritance—that their possibilitieswere little changed, and that the childrenof that day would, if given the chance,wipe out the handicap of a century in onegeneration and take their place abreastwith children of the outside world. TheTollivers were of good blood; they hadcome from Eastern Virginia, and the

original Tolliver had been a slave-owner.The very name was, undoubtedly, acorruption of Tagliaferro. So, when theWidow Crane began to build a brickhouse for her boarders that winter, and thefoundations of a school-house were laid atthe Gap, Hale began to plead with oldJudd to allow June to go over to the Gapand go to school, but the old man was firmin refusal:

"He couldn't git along without her," hesaid; "he was afeerd he'd lose her, an' hereckoned June was a-larnin' enoughwithout goin' to school—she was a-studyin' them leetle books o' hers so hard."But as his confidence in Hale grew and asHale stated his intention to take an optionon the old man's coal lands, he could seethat Devil Judd, though his answer never

varied, was considering the questionseriously.

Through the winter, then, Hale madeoccasional trips to Lonesome Cove andbided his time. Often he met young DaveTolliver there, but the boy usually leftwhen Hale came, and if Hale was alreadythere, he kept outside the house, until theengineer was gone.

Knowing nothing of the ethics ofcourtship in the mountains—how, whentwo men meet at the same girl's house,"they makes the gal say which one shelikes best and t'other one gits"—Hale littledreamed that the first time Dave stalkedout of the room, he threw his hat in thegrass behind the big chimney and executeda war-dance on it, cursing the blankety-

blank "furriner" within from Dan toBeersheba.

Indeed, he never suspected the fiercedepths of the boy's jealousy at all, and hewould have laughed incredulously, if hehad been told how, time after time as heclimbed the mountain homeward, the boy'sblack eyes burned from the bushes on him,while his hand twitched at his pistol-buttand his lips worked with noiseless threats.For Dave had to keep his heart-burnings tohimself or he would have been laughed atthrough all the mountains, and not only byhis own family, but by June's; so he, too,bided his time.

In late February, old Buck Falin and oldDave Tolliver shot each other down in theroad and the Red Fox, who hated both and

whom each thought was his friend,dressed the wounds of both with equalcare. The temporary lull of peace that BadRufe's absence in the West had broughtabout, gave way to a threatening stormthen, and then it was that old Judd gave hisconsent: when the roads got better, Junecould go to the Gap to school. A monthlater the old man sent word that he did notwant June in the mountains while thetrouble was going on, and that Hale couldcome over for her when he pleased: andHale sent word back that within three dayshe would meet the father and the little girlat the big Pine. That last day at home Junepassed in a dream. She went through herdaily tasks in a dream and she hardlynoticed young Dave when he came in atmid-day, and Dave, when he heard the

news, left in sullen silence. In theafternoon she went down to the mill to tellUncle Billy and ole Hon good-by and thethree sat in the porch a long time and withfew words. Ole Hon had been to the Gaponce, but there was "so much bustle overthar it made her head ache." Uncle Billyshook his head doubtfully over June'sgoing, and the two old people stood at thegate looking long after the little girl whenshe went homeward up the road. Beforesupper June slipped up to her little hiding-place at the pool and sat on the old logsaying good-by to the comforting spiritthat always brooded for her there, and,when she stood on the porch at sunset, anew spirit was coming on the wings of theSouth wind. Hale felt it as he stepped intothe soft night air; he heard it in the piping

of frogs—"Marsh-birds," as he alwayscalled them; he could almost see it in theflying clouds and the moonlight and eventhe bare trees seemed tremulouslyexpectant. An indefinable happinessseemed to pervade the whole earth andHale stretched his arms lazily. Over inLonesome Cove little June felt it morekeenly than ever in her life before. She didnot want to go to bed that night, and whenthe others were asleep she slipped out tothe porch and sat on the steps, her eyesluminous and her face wistful—lookingtowards the big Pine which pointed theway towards the far silence into whichshe was going at last.

XIIJune did not have to be awakened that

morning. At the first clarion call of the oldrooster behind the cabin, her eyes openedwide and a happy thrill tingled her fromhead to foot—why, she didn't at first quiterealize—and then she stretched herslender round arms to full length aboveher head and with a little squeal of joybounded out of the bed, dressed as shewas when she went into it, and with nochanges to make except to push back hertangled hair. Her father was out feedingthe stock and she could hear her step-mother in the kitchen. Bub still sleptsoundly, and she shook him by the

shoulder."Git up, Bub.""Go 'way," said Bub fretfully. Again

she started to shake him but stopped—Bubwasn't going to the Gap, so she let himsleep. For a little while she looked downat him—at his round rosy face and hisfrowsy hair from under which protrudedone dirty fist. She was going to leave him,and a fresh tenderness for him made herbreast heave, but she did not kiss him, forsisterly kisses are hardly known in thehills. Then she went out into the kitchen tohelp her step-mother.

"Gittin' mighty busy, all of a sudden,ain't ye," said the sour old woman, "nowthat ye air goin' away."

"'Tain't costin' you nothin'," answered

June quietly, and she picked up a pail andwent out into the frosty, shiveringdaybreak to the old well. The chain frozeher fingers, the cold water splashed herfeet, and when she had tugged her heavyburden back to the kitchen, she held herred, chapped hands to the fire.

"I reckon you'll be mighty glad to gitshet o' me." The old woman sniffled, andJune looked around with a start.

"Pears like I'm goin' to miss ye rightsmart," she quavered, and June's facecoloured with a new feeling towards herstep-mother.

"I'm goin' ter have a hard time doin' allthe work and me so poorly."

"Lorrety is a-comin' over to he'p ye, ifye git sick," said June, hardening again.

"Or, I'll come back myself." She got outthe dishes and set them on the table.

"You an' me don't git along very welltogether," she went on placidly. "I neverheerd o' no step-mother and children asdid, an' I reckon you'll be might glad to gitshet o' me."

"Pears like I'm going to miss ye a rightsmart," repeated the old woman weakly.

June went out to the stable with themilking pail. Her father had spread fodderfor the cow and she could hear the raspingof the ears of corn against each other as hetumbled them into the trough for the oldsorrel. She put her head against the cow'ssoft flank and under her sinewy fingerstwo streams of milk struck the bottom ofthe tin pail with such thumping loudness

that she did not hear her father's step; butwhen she rose to make the beast put backher right leg, she saw him looking at her.

"Who's goin' ter milk, pap, atter I'mgone?"

"This the fust time you thought o' that?"June put her flushed cheek back to theflank of the cow. It was not the first timeshe had thought of that—her step-motherwould milk and if she were ill, her fatheror Loretta. She had not meant to ask thatquestion—she was wondering when theywould start. That was what she meant toask and she was glad that she hadswerved. Breakfast was eaten in the usualsilence by the boy and the man—June andthe step-mother serving it, and waiting onthe lord that was and the lord that was to

be—and then the two females sat down."Hurry up, June," said the old man,

wiping his mouth and beard with the backof his hand. "Clear away the dishes an' gitready. Hale said he would meet us at thePine an' hour by sun, fer I told him I had togit back to work. Hurry up, now!"

June hurried up. She was too excited toeat anything, so she began to wash thedishes while her step-mother ate. Then shewent into the living-room to pack herthings and it didn't take long. She wrappedthe doll Hale had given her in an extrapetticoat, wound one pair of yarnstockings around a pair of coarse shoes,tied them up into one bundle and she wasready. Her father appeared with the sorrelhorse, caught up his saddle from the

porch, threw it on and stretched theblanket behind it as a pillion for June toride on.

"Let's go!" he said. There is little or nodemonstrativeness in the domesticrelations of mountaineers. The kiss ofcourtship is the only one known. Therewere no good-bys—only that short "Let'sgo!"

June sprang behind her father from theporch. The step-mother handed her thebundle which she clutched in her lap, andthey simply rode away, the step-motherand Bub silently gazing after them. ButJune saw the boy's mouth working, andwhen she turned the thicket at the creek,she looked back at the two quiet figures,and a keen pain cut her heart. She shut her

mouth closely, gripped her bundle moretightly and the tears streamed down herface, but the man did not know. Theyclimbed in silence. Sometimes her fatherdismounted where the path was steep, butJune sat on the horse to hold the bundleand thus they mounted through the mist andchill of the morning. A shout greeted themfrom the top of the little spur whence thebig Pine was visible, and up there theyfound Hale waiting. He had reached thePine earlier than they and was comingdown to meet them.

"Hello, little girl," called Halecheerily, "you didn't fail me, did you?"

June shook her head and smiled. Herface was blue and her little legs, danglingunder the bundle, were shrinking from the

cold. Her bonnet had fallen to the back ofher neck, and he saw that her hair wasparted and gathered in a Psyche knot at theback of her head, giving her a quaint oldlook when she stood on the ground in hercrimson gown. Hale had not forgotten apillion and there the transfer was made.Hale lifted her behind his saddle andhanded up her bundle.

"I'll take good care of her," he said."All right," said the old man."And I'm coming over soon to fix up

that coal matter, and I'll let you know howshe's getting on."

"All right.""Good-by," said Hale."I wish ye well," said the mountaineer.

"Be a good girl, Juny, and do what Mr.

Hale thar tells ye.""All right, pap." And thus they parted.

June felt the power of Hale's big blackhorse with exultation the moment hestarted.

"Now we're off," said Hale gayly, andhe patted the little hand that was about hiswaist. "Give me that bundle."

"I can carry it.""No, you can't—not with me," and when

he reached around for it and put it on thecantle of his saddle, June thrust her lefthand into his overcoat pocket and Halelaughed.

"Loretta wouldn't ride with me thisway."

"Loretty ain't got much sense," drawledJune complacently. "'Tain't no harm. But

don't you tell me! I don't want to hearnothin' 'bout Loretty noway." Again Halelaughed and June laughed, too. Imp thatshe was, she was just pretending to bejealous now. She could see the big Pineover his shoulder.

"I've knowed that tree since I was alittle girl—since I was a baby," she said,and the tone of her voice was new toHale. "Sister Sally uster tell me lots aboutthat ole tree." Hale waited, but shestopped again.

"What did she tell you?""She used to say hit was curious that hit

should be 'way up here all alone—that shereckollected it ever since SHE was ababy, and she used to come up here andtalk to it, and she said sometimes she

could hear it jus' a whisperin' to her whenshe was down home in the cove."

"What did she say it said?""She said it was always a-whisperin'

'come—come—come!'" June crooned thewords, "an' atter she died, I heerd thefolks sayin' as how she riz up in bed withher eyes right wide an' sayin' "I hears it!It's a-whisperin'—I hears it—come—come—come'!" And still Hale kept quietwhen she stopped again.

"The Red Fox said hit was the sperits,but I knowed when they told me that shewas a thinkin' o' that ole tree thar. But Inever let on. I reckon that's ONE reasonmade me come here that day." They wereclose to the big tree now and Haledismounted to fix his girth for the descent.

"Well, I'm mighty glad you came, littlegirl. I might never have seen you."

"That's so," said June. "I saw the printof your foot in the mud right there."

"Did ye?""And if I hadn't, I might never have

gone down into Lonesome Cove." Junelaughed.

"You ran from me," Hale went on."Yes, I did: an' that's why you follered

me." Hale looked up quickly. Her facewas demure, but her eyes danced. She wasan aged little thing.

"Why did you run?""I thought yo' fishin' pole was a rifle-

gun an' that you was a raider." Halelaughed—"I see."

"'Member when you let yo' horsedrink?" Hale nodded. "Well, I was on arock above the creek, lookin' down at ye.An' I seed ye catchin' minners an' thoughtyou was goin' up the crick lookin' fer astill."

"Weren't you afraid of me then?""Huh!" she said contemptuously. "I

wasn't afeared of you at all, 'cept fer whatyou mought find out. You couldn't do noharm to nobody without a gun, and Iknowed thar wasn't no still up that crick. Iknow—I knowed whar it was." Halenoticed the quick change of tense.

"Won't you take me to see it sometime?"

"No!" she said shortly, and Hale knewhe had made a mistake. It was too steep

for both to ride now, so he tied the bundleto the cantle with leathern strings andstarted leading the horse. June pointed tothe edge of the cliff.

"I was a-layin' flat right thar and I seedyou comin' down thar. My, but you lookedfunny to me! You don't now," she addedhastily. "You look mighty nice to me now—!"

"You're a little rascal," said Hale,"that's what you are." The little girlbubbled with laughter and then she grewmock-serious.

"No, I ain't.""Yes, you are," he repeated, shaking his

head, and both were silent for a while.June was going to begin her educationnow and it was just as well for him to

begin with it now. So he started vaguelywhen he was mounted again:

"June, you thought my clothes werefunny when you first saw them—didn'tyou?"

"Uh, huh!" said June."But you like them now?""Uh, huh!" she crooned again."Well, some people who weren't used

to clothes that people wear over in themountains might think THEM funny for thesame reason—mightn't they?" June wassilent for a moment.

"Well, mebbe, I like your clothes better,because I like you better," she said, andHale laughed.

"Well, it's just the same—the way

people in the mountains dress and talk isdifferent from the way people outsidedress and talk. It doesn't make muchdifference about clothes, though, I guessyou will want to be as much like peopleover here as you can—"

"I don't know," interrupted the little girlshortly, "I ain't seed 'em yit."

"Well," laughed Hale, "you will want totalk like them anyhow, because everybodywho is learning tries to talk the sameway." June was silent, and Hale plungedunconsciously on.

"Up at the Pine now you said, 'I SEEDyou when I was A-LAYIN on the edge ofthe cliff'; now you ought to have said, 'ISAW you when I was LYING—'"

"I wasn't," she said sharply, "I don't tell

lies—" her hand shot from his waist andshe slid suddenly to the ground. He pulledin his horse and turned a bewildered face.She had lighted on her feet and waspoised back above him like an enragedeaglet—her thin nostrils quivering, hermouth as tight as a bow-string, and hereyes two points of fire.

"Why—June!""Ef you don't like my clothes an' the

way I talk, I reckon I'd better go backhome." With a groan Hale tumbled fromhis horse. Fool that he was, he hadforgotten the sensitive pride of themountaineer, even while he was thinkingof that pride. He knew that fun might bemade of her speech and her garb by herschoolmates over at the Gap, and he was

trying to prepare her—to save hermortification, to make her understand.

"Why, June, little girl, I didn't mean tohurt your feelings. You don't understand—you can't now, but you will. Trust me,won't you? I like you just as you are. ILOVE the way you talk. But other people—forgive me, won't you?" he pleaded."I'm sorry. I wouldn't hurt you for theworld."

She didn't understand—she hardlyheard what he said, but she did know hisdistress was genuine and his sorrow: andhis voice melted her fierce little heart.The tears began to come, while shelooked, and when he put his arms abouther, she put her face on his breast andsobbed.

"There now!" he said soothingly. "It'sall right now. I'm so sorry—so verysorry," and he patted her on the shoulderand laid his hand across her temple andhair, and pressed her head tight to hisbreast. Almost as suddenly she stoppedsobbing and loosening herself turned awayfrom him.

"I'm a fool—that's what I am," she saidhotly.

"No, you aren't! Come on, little girl!We're friends again, aren't we?" June wasdigging at her eyes with both hands.

"Aren't we?""Yes," she said with an angry little

catch of her breath, and she turnedsubmissively to let him lift her to her seat.Then she looked down into his face.

"Jack," she said, and he started again atthe frank address, "I ain't NEVER GOIN'TO DO THAT NO MORE."

"Yes, you are, little girl," he saidsoberly but cheerily. "You're goin' to do itwhenever I'm wrong or whenever youthink I'm wrong." She shook her headseriously.

"No, Jack."In a few minutes they were at the foot of

the mountain and on a level road."Hold tight!" Hale shouted, "I'm going

to let him out now." At the touch of hisspur, the big black horse sprang into agallop, faster and faster, until he waspounding the hard road in a swift run likethunder. At the creek Hale pulled in andlooked around. June's bonnet was down,

her hair was tossed, her eyes weresparkling fearlessly, and her face wasflushed with joy.

"Like it, June?""I never did know nothing like it.""You weren't scared?""Skeered o' what?" she asked, and Hale

wondered if there was anything of whichshe would be afraid.

They were entering the Gap now andJune's eyes got big with wonder over themighty up-shooting peaks and the rushingtorrent.

"See that big rock yonder, June?" Junecraned her neck to follow with her eyeshis outstretched finger.

"Uh, huh."

"Well, that's called Bee Rock, becauseit's covered with flowers—purplerhododendrons and laurel—and bearsused to go there for wild honey. They saythat once on a time folks around here putwhiskey in the honey and the bears got sodrunk that people came and knocked 'emin the head with clubs."

"Well, what do you think o' that!" saidJune wonderingly.

Before them a big mountain loomed,and a few minutes later, at the mouth of theGap, Hale stopped and turned his horsesidewise.

"There we are, June," he said.June saw the lovely little valley rimmed

with big mountains. She could follow thecourse of the two rivers that encircled it

by the trees that fringed their banks, andshe saw smoke rising here and there andthat was all. She was a little disappointed.

"It's mighty purty," she said, "I neverseed"—she paused, but went on withoutcorrecting herself—"so much level land inall my life."

The morning mail had just come in asthey rode by the post-office and severalmen hailed her escort, and all stared withsome wonder at her. Hale smiled tohimself, drew up for none and put on aface of utter unconsciousness that he wasdoing anything unusual. June felt vaguelyuncomfortable. Ahead of them, when theyturned the corner of the street, her eyesfell on a strange tall red house withyellow trimmings, that was not built of

wood and had two sets of windows oneabove the other, and before that Haledrew up.

"Here we are. Get down, little girl.""Good-morning!" said a voice. Hale

looked around and flushed, and Junelooked around and stared—transfixed asby a vision from another world—at thedainty figure behind them in a walkingsuit, a short skirt that showed two littlefeet in laced tan boots and a cap with aplume, under which was a pair of wideblue eyes with long lashes, and a mouththat suggested active mischief and gentlemockery.

"Oh, good-morning," said Hale, and headded gently, "Get down, June!"

The little girl slipped to the ground and

began pulling her bonnet on with bothhands—but the newcomer had caught sightof the Psyche knot that made June looklike a little old woman strangely young,and the mockery at her lips was gentlyaccentuated by a smile. Hale swung fromhis saddle.

"This is the little girl I told you about,Miss Anne," he said. "She's come over togo to school." Instantly, almost, MissAnne had been melted by the forlornlooking little creature who stood beforeher, shy for the moment and dumb, and shecame forward with her gloved handoutstretched. But June had seen that smile.She gave her hand, and Miss Annestraightway was no little surprised; therewas no more shyness in the dark eyes thatblazed from the recesses of the sun-

bonnet, and Miss Anne was so startledwhen she looked into them that all shecould say was: "Dear me!" A portlywoman with a kind face appeared at thedoor of the red brick house and came tothe gate.

"Here she is, Mrs. Crane," called Hale."Howdye, June!" said the Widow Crane

kindly. "Come right in!" In her June knewstraightway she had a friend and shepicked up her bundle and followedupstairs—the first real stairs she had everseen—and into a room on the floor ofwhich was a rag carpet. There was a bedin one corner with a white counterpaneand a washstand with a bowl and pitcher,which, too, she had never seen before.

"Make yourself at home right now,"

said the Widow Crane, pulling open adrawer under a big looking-glass—"andput your things here. That's your bed," andout she went.

How clean it was! There were someflowers in a glass vase on the mantel.There were white curtains at the bigwindow and a bed to herself—her ownbed. She went over to the window. Therewas a steep bank, lined withrhododendrons, right under it. There was amill-dam below and down the stream shecould hear the creaking of a water-wheel,and she could see it dripping and shiningin the sun—a gristmill! She thought ofUncle Billy and ole Hon, and in spite of alittle pang of home-sickness she felt noloneliness at all.

"I KNEW she would be pretty," saidMiss Anne at the gate outside.

"I TOLD you she was pretty," saidHale.

"But not so pretty as THAT," said MissAnne. "We will be great friends."

"I hope so—for her sake," said Hale.

* * * * * * *Hale waited till noon-recess was nearly

over, and then he went to take June to theschool-house. He was told that she was inher room and he went up and knocked atthe door. There was no answer—for onedoes not knock on doors for entrance inthe mountains, and, thinking he had made amistake, he was about to try another room,when June opened the door to see what thematter was. She gave him a glad smile.

"Come on," he said, and when she wentfor her bonnet, he stepped into the room.

"How do you like it?" June noddedtoward the window and Hale went to it.

"That's Uncle Billy's mill out thar.""Why, so it is," said Hale smiling.

"That's fine."

The school-house, to June's wonder,had shingles on the OUTSIDE around allthe walls from roof to foundation, and abig bell hung on top of it under a littleshingled roof of its own. A pale little manwith spectacles and pale blue eyes metthem at the door and he gave June a pale,slender hand and cleared his throat beforehe spoke to her.

"She's never been to school," said Hale;"she can read and spell, but she's not verystrong on arithmetic."

"Very well, I'll turn her over to theprimary." The school-bell sounded; Haleleft with a parting prophecy—"You'll beproud of her some day"—at which Juneblushed and then, with a beating heart, shefollowed the little man into his office. A

few minutes later, the assistant came in,and she was none other than the wonderfulyoung woman whom Hale had called MissAnne. There were a few instructions in ahalting voice and with much clearing ofthe throat from the pale little man; and amoment later June walked the gauntlet ofthe eyes of her schoolmates, every one ofwhom looked up from his book or hers towatch her as she went to her seat. MissAnne pointed out the arithmetic lessonand, without lifting her eyes, June bentwith a flushed face to her task. It reddenedwith shame when she was called to theclass, for she sat on the bench, taller by ahead and more than any of the boys andgirls thereon, except one awkward youthwho caught her eye and grinned withunashamed companionship. The teacher

noticed her look and understood with asudden keen sympathy, and naturally shewas struck by the fact that the new pupilwas the only one who never missed ananswer.

"She won't be there long," Miss Annethought, and she gave June a smile forwhich the little girl was almost grateful.June spoke to no one, but walked throughher schoolmates homeward, when schoolwas over, like a haughty young queen.Miss Anne had gone ahead and wasstanding at the gate talking with Mrs.Crane, and the young woman spoke toJune most kindly.

"Mr. Hale has been called away onbusiness," she said, and June's heart sank—"and I'm going to take care of you until

he comes back.""I'm much obleeged," she said, and

while she was not ungracious, her mannerindicated her belief that she could takecare of herself. And Miss Anne feltuncomfortably that this extraordinaryyoung person was steadily measuring herfrom head to foot. June saw the smartclose-fitting gown, the dainty little boots,and the carefully brushed hair. She noticedhow white her teeth were and her hands,and she saw that the nails looked polishedand that the tips of them were like littlewhite crescents; and she could still seeevery detail when she sat at her window,looting down at the old mill. She SAWMr. Hale when he left, the young lady hadsaid; and she had a headache now and wasgoing home to LIE down. She understood

now what Hale meant, on themountainside when she was so angry withhim. She was learning fast, and most fromthe two persons who were not consciouswhat they were teaching her. And shewould learn in the school, too, for theslumbering ambition in her suddenlybecame passionately definite now. Shewent to the mirror and looked at her hair—she would learn how to plait that in twobraids down her back, as the other school-girls did. She looked at her hands andstraightway she fell to scrubbing themwith soap as she had never scrubbed thembefore. As she worked, she heard hername called and she opened the door.

"Yes, mam!" she answered, for alreadyshe had picked that up in the school-room.

"Come on, June, and go down the streetwith me."

"Yes, mam," she repeated, and shewiped her hands and hurried down. Mrs.Crane had looked through the girl'spathetic wardrobe, while she was atschool that afternoon, had told Halebefore he left and she had a surprise forlittle June. Together they went down thestreet and into the chief store in town and,to June's amazement, Mrs. Crane beganordering things for "this little girl."

"Who's a-goin' to pay fer all thesethings?" whispered June, aghast.

"Don't you bother, honey. Mr. Hale saidhe would fix all that with your pappy. It'ssome coal deal or something—don't youbother!" And June in a quiver of happiness

didn't bother. Stockings, petticoats, somesoft stuff for a new dress and TAN shoesthat looked like the ones that wonderfulyoung woman wore and then some longwhite things.

"What's them fer?" she whispered, butthe clerk heard her and laughed, whereatMrs. Crane gave him such a glance that heretired quickly.

"Night-gowns, honey.""You SLEEP in 'em?" said June in an

awed voice."That's just what you do," said the good

old woman, hardly less pleased than June."My, but you've got pretty feet.""I wish they were half as purty as—""Well, they are," interrupted Mrs.

Crane a little snappishly; apparently shedid not like Miss Anne.

"Wrap 'em up and Mr. Hale will attendto the bill."

"All right," said the clerk looking muchmystified.

Outside the door, June looked up intothe beaming goggles of the Hon. SamuelBudd.

"Is THIS the little girl? Howdye, June,"he said, and June put her hand in the Hon.Sam's with a sudden trust in his voice.

"I'm going to help take care of you,too," said Mr. Budd, and June smiled athim with shy gratitude. How kindeverybody was!

"I'm much obleeged," she said, and sheand Mrs. Crane went on back with their

bundles.June's hands so trembled when she

found herself alone with her treasures thatshe could hardly unpack them. When shehad folded and laid them away, she had tounfold them to look at them again. Shehurried to bed that night merely that shemight put on one of those wonderful night-gowns, and again she had to look all hertreasures over. She was glad that she hadbrought the doll because HE had given itto her, but she said to herself "I'm a-gittin'too big now fer dolls!" and she put itaway. Then she set the lamp on themantel-piece so that she could see herselfin her wonderful night-gown. She let hershining hair fall like molten gold aroundher shoulders, and she wondered whethershe could ever look like the dainty

creature that just now was the model sheso passionately wanted to be like. Thenshe blew out the lamp and sat a while bythe window, looking down through therhododendrons, at the shining water and atthe old water-wheel sleepily at rest in themoonlight. She knelt down then at herbedside to say her prayers—as her deadsister had taught her to do—and she askedGod to bless Jack—wondering as sheprayed that she had heard nobody else callhim Jack—and then she lay down with herbreast heaving. She had told him shewould never do that again, but she couldn'thelp it now—the tears came and fromhappiness she cried herself softly to sleep.

XIIIHale rode that night under a brilliant

moon to the worm of a railroad that hadbeen creeping for many years toward theGap. The head of it was just protrudingfrom the Natural Tunnel twenty milesaway. There he sent his horse back, sleptin a shanty till morning, and then the traincrawled through a towering bench of rock.The mouth of it on the other side openedinto a mighty amphitheatre with solid rockwalls shooting vertically hundreds of feetupward. Vertically, he thought—with theback of his head between his shoulders ashe looked up—they were more thanvertical—they were actually concave. The

Almighty had not only stored richesimmeasurable in the hills behind him—Hehad driven this passage Himself to helppuny man to reach them, and yet thewretched road was going toward themlike a snail. On the fifth night, thereafter hewas back there at the tunnel again fromNew York—with a grim mouth and ahappy eye. He had brought success withhim this time and there was no sleep forhim that night. He had been delayed by awreck, it was two o'clock in the morning,and not a horse was available; so hestarted those twenty miles afoot, and daywas breaking when he looked down on thelittle valley shrouded in mist and justwakening from sleep.

Things had been moving while he wasaway, as he quickly learned. The English

were buying lands right and left at the gapsixty miles southwest. Two companieshad purchased most of the town-sitewhere he was—HIS town-site—and weregoing to pool their holdings and form animprovement company. But a good dealwas left, and straightway Hale got a mapfrom his office and with it in his handwalked down the curve of the river andover Poplar Hill and beyond. Earlybreakfast was ready when he got back tothe hotel. He swallowed a cup of coffeeso hastily that it burned him, and June,when she passed his window on her wayto school, saw him busy over his desk.She started to shout to him, but he lookedso haggard and grim that she was afraid,and went on, vaguely hurt by apreoccupation that seemed quite to have

excluded her. For two hours then, Halehaggled and bargained, and at ten o'clockhe went to the telegraph office. Theoperator who was speculating in a smallway himself smiled when he read thetelegram.

"A thousand an acre?" he repeated witha whistle. "You could have got that attwenty-five per—three months ago."

"I know," said Hale, "there's timeenough yet." Then he went to his room,pulled the blinds down and went to sleep,while rumour played with his namethrough the town.

It was nearly the closing hour of schoolwhen, dressed and freshly shaven, hestepped out into the pale afternoon andwalked up toward the schoolhouse. The

children were pouring out of the doors. Atthe gate there was a sudden commotion, hesaw a crimson figure flash into the groupthat had stopped there, and flash out, andthen June came swiftly toward himfollowed closely by a tall boy with a capon his head. That far away he could seethat she was angry and he hurried towardher. Her face was white with rage, hermouth was tight and her dark eyes wereaflame. Then from the group another tallboy darted out and behind him ran asmaller one, bellowing. Hale heard theboy with the cap call kindly:

"Hold on, little girl! I won't let 'emtouch you." June stopped with him andHale ran to them.

"Here," he called, "what's the matter?"

June burst into crying when she sawhim and leaned over the fence sobbing.The tall lad with the cap had his back toHale, and he waited till the other two boyscame up. Then he pointed to the smallerone and spoke to Hale without lookingaround.

"Why, that little skate there was teasingthis little girl and—"

"She slapped him," said Hale grimly.The lad with the cap turned. His eyeswere dancing and the shock of curly hairthat stuck from his absurd little cap shookwith his laughter.

"Slapped him! She knocked him as flatas a pancake."

"Yes, an' you said you'd stand fer her,"said the other tall boy who was plainly a

mountain lad. He was near bursting withrage.

"You bet I will," said the boy with thecap heartily, "right now!" and he droppedhis books to the ground.

"Hold on!" said Hale, jumping betweenthem. "You ought to be ashamed ofyourself," he said to the mountain boy.

"I wasn't atter the gal," he saidindignantly. "I was comin' fer him."

The boy with the cap tried to get awayfrom Hale's grasp.

"No use, sir," he said coolly. "You'dbetter let us settle it now. We'll have to doit some time. I know the breed. He'll fightall right and there's no use puttin' it off. It'sgot to come."

"You bet it's got to come," said the

mountain lad. "You can't call my brothernames."

"Well, he IS a skate," said the boy withthe cap, with no heat at all in spite of hisindignation, and Hale wondered at hisaged calm.

"Every one of you little tads," he wenton coolly, waving his hand at the gatheredgroup, "is a skate who teases this littlegirl. And you older boys are skates forletting the little ones do it, the whole packof you—and I'm going to spank any littletadpole who does it hereafter, and I'mgoing to punch the head off any big onewho allows it. It's got to stop NOW!" Andas Hale dragged him off he added to themountain boy, "and I'm going to begin withyou whenever you say the word." Hale

was laughing now."You don't seem to understand," he

said, "this is my affair.""I beg your pardon, sir, I don't

understand.""Why, I'm taking care of this little girl.""Oh, well, you see I didn't know that.

I've only been here two days. But"—hisfrank, generous face broke into a winningsmile—"you don't go to school. You'll letme watch out for her there?"

"Sure! I'll be very grateful.""Not at all, sir—not at all. It was a

great pleasure and I think I'll have lots offun." He looked at June, whose gratefuleyes had hardly left his face.

"So don't you soil your little fist any

more with any of 'em, but just tell me—er—er—"

"June," she said, and a shy smile camethrough her tears.

"June," he finished with a boyish laugh."Good-by sir."

"You haven't told me your name.""I suppose you know my brothers, sir,

the Berkleys.""I should say so," and Hale held out his

hand. "You're Bob?""Yes, sir.""I knew you were coming, and I'm

mighty glad to see you. I hope you andJune will be good friends and I'll be veryglad to have you watch over her when I'maway."

"I'd like nothing better, sir," he saidcheerfully, and quite impersonally as faras June was concerned. Then his eyeslighted up.

"My brothers don't seem to want me tojoin the Police Guard. Won't you say aword for me?"

"I certainly will.""Thank you, sir."That "sir" no longer bothered Hale. At

first he had thought it a mark of respect tohis superior age, and he was notparticularly pleased, but when he knewnow that the lad was another son of theold gentleman whom he saw riding up thevalley every morning on a gray horse,with several dogs trailing after him—heknew the word was merely a family

characteristic of old-fashioned courtesy."Isn't he nice, June?""Yes," she said."Have you missed me, June?"June slid her hand into his. "I'm so glad

you come back." They were approachingthe gate now.

"June, you said you weren't going to cryany more." June's head drooped.

"I know, but I jes' can't help it when Igit mad," she said seriously. "I'd bust if Ididn't."

"All right," said Hale kindly."I've cried twice," she said."What were you mad about the other

time?""I wasn't mad."

"Then why did you cry, June?"Her dark eyes looked full at him a

moment and then her long lashes hid them."Cause you was so good to me."Hale choked suddenly and patted her on

the shoulder."Go in, now, little girl, and study. Then

you must take a walk. I've got some workto do. I'll see you at supper time."

"All right," said June. She turned at thegate to watch Hale enter the hotel, and asshe started indoors, she heard a horsecoming at a gallop and she turned again tosee her cousin, Dave Tolliver, pull up infront of the house. She ran back to the gateand then she saw that he was swaying inhis saddle.

"Hello, June!" he called thickly.

Her face grew hard and she made noanswer.

"I've come over to take ye back home."She only stared at him rebukingly, and

he straightened in his saddle with an effortat self-control—but his eyes got darkerand he looked ugly.

"D'you hear me? I've come over to takeye home."

"You oughter be ashamed o' yourself,"she said hotly, and she turned to go backinto the house.

"Oh, you ain't ready now. Well, gitready an' we'll start in the mornin'. I'll bearoun' fer ye 'bout the break o' day."

He whirled his horse with an oath—June was gone. She saw him ride swayingdown the street and she ran across to the

hotel and found Hale sitting in the officewith another man. Hale saw her enteringthe door swiftly, he knew something waswrong and he rose to meet her.

"Dave's here," she whispered hurriedly,"an' he says he's come to take me home."

"Well," said Hale, "he won't do it, willhe?" June shook her head and then shesaid significantly:

"Dave's drinkin'."Hale's brow clouded. Straightway he

foresaw trouble—but he said cheerily:"All right. You go back and keep in the

house and I'll be over by and by and we'lltalk it over." And, without another word,she went. She had meant to put on her newdress and her new shoes and stockings thatnight that Hale might see her—but she was

in doubt about doing it when she got to herroom. She tried to study her lessons forthe next day, but she couldn't fix her mindon them. She wondered if Dave might notget into a fight or, perhaps, he would getso drunk that he would go to sleepsomewhere—she knew that men did thatafter drinking very much—and, anyhow,he would not bother her until nextmorning, and then he would be sober andwould go quietly back home. She was socomforted that she got to thinking about thehair of the girl who sat in front of her atschool. It was plaited and she had studiedjust how it was done and she began towonder whether she could fix her own thatway. So she got in front of the mirror andloosened hers in a mass about hershoulders—the mass that was to Hale like

the golden bronze of a wild turkey's wing.The other girl's plaits were the same size,so that the hair had to be equally divided—thus she argued to herself—but how didthat girl manage to plait it behind herback? She did it in front, of course, soJune divided the bronze heap behind herand pulled one half of it in front of her andthen for a moment she was helpless. Thenshe laughed—it must be done like thegrass-blades and strings she had plaitedfor Bub, of course, so, dividing that halfinto three parts, she did the plaitingswiftly and easily. When it was finishedshe looked at the braid, much pleased—for it hung below her waist and was muchlonger than any of the other girls' atschool. The transition was easy now, sointerested had she become. She got out her

tan shoes and stockings and the prettywhite dress and put them on. The millpondwas dark with shadows now, and shewent down the stairs and out to the gatejust as Dave again pulled up in front of it.He stared at the vision wonderingly andlong, and then he began to laugh with thescorn of soberness and the silliness ofdrink.

"YOU ain't June, air ye?" The girl nevermoved. As if by a preconcerted signalthree men moved toward the boy, and oneof them said sternly:

"Drop that pistol. You are under arrest.'The boy glared like a wild thing trapped,from one to another of the three—a pistolgleamed in the hand of each—and slowlythrust his own weapon into his pocket.

"Get off that horse," added the sternvoice. Just then Hale rushed across thestreet and the mountain youth saw him.

"Ketch his pistol," cried June, in terrorfor Hale—for she knew what was coming,and one of the men caught with both handsthe wrist of Dave's arm as it shot behindhim.

"Take him to the calaboose!"At that June opened the gate—that

disgrace she could never stand—but Halespoke.

"I know him, boys. He doesn't mean anyharm. He doesn't know the regulations yet.Suppose we let him go home."

"All right," said Logan. "The calabooseor home. Will you go home?"

In the moment, the mountain boy had

apparently forgotten his captors—he wasstaring at June with wonder, amazement,incredulity struggling through the fumes inhis brain to his flushed face. She—aTolliver—had warned a stranger againsther own blood-cousin.

"Will you go home?" repeated Logansternly.

The boy looked around at the words, asthough he were half dazed, and his baffledface turned sick and white.

"Lemme loose!" he said sullenly. "I'llgo home." And he rode silently away,after giving Hale a vindictive look thattold him plainer than words that more wasyet to come. Hale had heard June'swarning cry, but now when he looked forher she was gone. He went in to supper

and sat down at the table and still she didnot come.

"She's got a surprise for you," said Mrs.Crane, smiling mysteriously. "She's beenfixing for you for an hour. My! but she'spretty in them new clothes—why, June!"

June was coming in—she wore herhomespun, her scarlet homespun and thePsyche knot. She did not seem to haveheard Mrs. Crane's note of wonder, andshe sat quietly down in her seat. Her facewas pale and she did not look at Hale.Nothing was said of Dave—in fact, Junesaid nothing at all, and Hale, too, vaguelyunderstanding, kept quiet. Only when hewent out, Hale called her to the gate andput one hand on her head.

"I'm sorry, little girl."

The girl lifted her great troubled eyes tohim, but no word passed her lips, andHale helplessly left her.

June did not cry that night. She sat bythe window—wretched and tearless. Shehad taken sides with "furriners" againsther own people. That was why,instinctively, she had put on her oldhomespun with a vague purpose ofreparation to them. She knew the storyDave would take back home—the bitteranger that his people and hers would feelat the outrage done him—anger against thetown, the Guard, against Hale because hewas a part of both and even against her.Dave was merely drunk, he had simplyshot off his pistol—that was no harm inthe hills. And yet everybody had dashedtoward him as though he had stolen

something—even Hale. Yes, even that boywith the cap who had stood up for her atschool that afternoon—he had rushed up,his face aflame with excitement, eager totake part should Dave resist. She hadcried out impulsively to save Hale, butDave would not understand. No, in hiseyes she had been false to family andfriends—to the clan—she had sided with"furriners." What would her father say?Perhaps she'd better go home next day—perhaps for good—for there was a deepunrest within her that she could notfathom, a premonition that she was at theparting of the ways, a vague fear of theshadows that hung about the strange newpath on which her feet were set. The oldmill creaked in the moonlight below her.Sometimes, when the wind blew up

Lonesome Cove, she could hear UncleBilly's wheel creaking just that way. Asudden pang of homesickness choked her,but she did not cry. Yes, she would gohome next day. She blew out the light andundressed in the dark as she did at homeand went to bed. And that night the littlenight-gown lay apart from her in thedrawer—unfolded and untouched.

XIVBut June did not go home. Hale

anticipated that resolution of hers andforestalled it by being on hand forbreakfast and taking June over to the porchof his little office. There he tried toexplain to her that they were trying tobuild a town and must have law and order;that they must have no personal feeling foror against anybody and must treateverybody exactly alike—no other coursewas fair—and though June could not quiteunderstand, she trusted him and she saidshe would keep on at school until herfather came for her.

"Do you think he will come, June?"The little girl hesitated."I'm afeerd he will," she said, and Hale

smiled."Well, I'll try to persuade him to let you

stay, if he does come."June was quite right. She had seen the

matter the night before just as it was. Forjust at that hour young Dave, sobered, butstill on the verge of tears from anger andhumiliation, was telling the story of theday in her father's cabin. The old man'sbrows drew together and his eyes grewfierce and sullen, both at the insult to aTolliver and at the thought of a certainmoonshine still up a ravine not far awayand the indirect danger to it in any finickygrowth of law and order. Still he had a

keen sense of justice, and he knew thatDave had not told all the story, and fromhim Dave, to his wonder, got scantcomfort—for another reason as well: witha deal pending for the sale of his lands,the shrewd old man would not risk givingoffence to Hale—not until that matter wassettled, anyway. And so June was saferfrom interference just then than she knew.But Dave carried the story far and wide,and it spread as a story can only in thehills. So that the two people most talkedabout among the Tollivers and, throughLoretta, among the Falins as well, wereJune and Hale, and at the Gap similar talkwould come. Already Hale's name was onevery tongue in the town, and there,because of his recent purchases of town-site land, he was already, aside from his

personal influence, a man of mysteriouspower.

Meanwhile, the prescient shadow of thecoming "boom" had stolen over the hillsand the work of the Guard had grownrapidly.

Every Saturday there had been locallawlessness to deal with. The spirit ofpersonal liberty that characterized the spotwas traditional. Here for half a century thepeople of Wise County and of Lee, whoseborder was but a few miles down theriver, came to get their wool carded, theirgrist ground and farming utensils mended.Here, too, elections were held viva voceunder the beeches, at the foot of thewooded spur now known as Imboden Hill.Here were the muster-days of wartime.

Here on Saturdays the people had cometogether during half a century for sport andhorse-trading and to talk politics. Herethey drank apple-jack and hard cider,chaffed and quarrelled and fought fist andskull. Here the bullies of the two countieswould come together to decide who wasthe "best man." Here was naturallyengendered the hostility between the hill-dwellers of Wise and the valley people ofLee, and here was fought a famous battlebetween a famous bully of Wise and afamous bully of Lee. On election days thecountry people would bring in gingercakesmade of cane-molasses, bread homemadeof Burr flour and moonshine and apple-jack which the candidates would buy anddistribute through the crowd. And alwaysduring the afternoon there were men who

would try to prove themselves the bestDemocrats in the State of Virginia byresort to tooth, fist and eye-gouging thumb.Then to these elections sometimes wouldcome the Kentuckians from over theborder to stir up the hostility betweenstate and state, which makes that borderbristle with enmity to this day. For half acentury, then, all wild oats fromelsewhere usually sprouted at the Gap.And thus the Gap had been the shrine ofpersonal freedom—the place where anyone individual had the right to do hispleasure with bottle and cards and politicsand any other the right to prove him wrongif he were strong enough. Very soon, asthe Hon. Sam Budd predicted, they had thehostility of Lee concentrated on them assiding with the county of Wise, and they

would gain, in addition now, the generalhostility of the Kentuckians, because as acrowd of meddlesome "furriners" theywould be siding with the Virginians in thegeneral enmity already alive. Moreover,now that the feud threatened activity overin Kentucky, more trouble must come, too,from that source, as the talk that camethrough the Gap, after young DaveTolliver's arrest, plainly indicated.

Town ordinances had been passed. Thewild centaurs were no longer allowed toride up and down the plank walks ofSaturdays with their reins in their teethand firing a pistol into the ground witheither hand; they could punctuate the hotelsign no more; they could not ride at a fastgallop through the streets of the town, and,Lost Spirit of American Liberty!—they

could not even yell. But the lawlessness ofthe town itself and its close environmentwas naturally the first objective point, andthe first problem involved was moonshineand its faithful ally "the blind tiger." The"tiger" is a little shanty with an ever-openmouth—a hole in the door like a post-office window. You place your money onthe sill and, at the ring of the coin, amysterious arm emerges from the hole,sweeps the money away and leaves abottle of white whiskey. Thus you seenobody's face; the owner of the beast issafe, and so are you—which you might notbe, if you saw and told. In every littlehollow about the Gap a tiger had his lair,and these were all bearded at once by apetition to the county judge for highlicense saloons, which was granted. This

measure drove the tigers out of business,and concentrated moonshine in the heart ofthe town, where its devotees were undereasy guard. One "tiger" only indeed wasleft, run by a round-shouldered crouchingcreature whom Bob Berkley—now atHale's solicitation a policeman and knownas the Infant of the Guard—dubbedCaliban. His shanty stood midway in theGap, high from the road, set against a darkclump of pines and roared at by the riverbeneath. Everybody knew he soldwhiskey, but he was too shrewd to becaught, until, late one afternoon, two daysafter young Dave's arrest, Hale comingthrough the Gap into town glimpsed askulking figure with a hand-barrel as itslipped from the dark pines into Caliban'scabin. He pulled in his horse, dismounted

and deliberated. If he went on down theroad now, they would see him andsuspect. Moreover, the patrons of the tigerwould not appear until after dark, and hewanted a prisoner or two. So Hale led hishorse up into the bushes and came back toa covert by the roadside to watch andwait. As he sat there, a merry whistlesounded down the road, and Hale smiled.Soon the Infant of the Guard came along,his hands in his pockets, his cap on theback of his head, his pistol bumping hiship in manly fashion and making theravines echo with his pursed lips. Hestopped in front of Hale, looked towardthe river, drew his revolver and aimed itat a floating piece of wood. The revolvercracked, the piece of wood skidded on thesurface of the water and there was no

splash."That was a pretty good shot," said

Hale in a low voice. The boy whirled andsaw him.

"Well-what are you—?""Easy—easy!" cautioned Hale. "Listen!

I've just seen a moonshiner go intoCaliban's cabin." The boy's eager eyessparkled.

"Let's go after him.""No, you go on back. If you don't, they'll

be suspicious. Get another man"—Halealmost laughed at the disappointment inthe lad's face at his first words, and thejoy that came after it—"and climb highabove the shanty and come back here tome. Then after dark we'll dash in andcinch Caliban and his customers."

"Yes, sir," said the lad. "Shall I whistlegoing back?" Hale nodded approval.

"Just the same." And off Bob went,whistling like a calliope and not eventurning his head to look at the cabin. Inhalf an hour Hale thought he heardsomething crashing through the busheshigh on the mountain side, and, a littlewhile afterward, the boy crawled throughthe bushes to him alone. His cap wasgone, there was a bloody scratch acrosshis face and he was streaming withperspiration.

"You'll have to excuse me, sir," hepanted, "I didn't see anybody but one ofmy brothers, and if I had told him, hewouldn't have let ME come. And I hurriedback for fear—for fear something would

happen.""Well, suppose I don't let you go.""Excuse me, sir, but I don't see how you

can very well help. You aren't my brotherand you can't go alone."

"I was," said Hale."Yes, sir, but not now."Hale was worried, but there was

nothing else to be done."All right. I'll let you go if you stop

saying 'sir' to me. It makes me feel soold."

"Certainly, sir," said the lad quiteunconsciously, and when Hale smothereda laugh, he looked around to see what hadamused him. Darkness fell quickly, and inthe gathering gloom they saw two more

figures skulk into the cabin."We'll go now—for we want the fellow

who's selling the moonshine."Again Hale was beset with doubts

about the boy and his own responsibilityto the boy's brothers. The lad's eyes wereshining, but his face was more eager thanexcited and his hand was as steady asHale's own.

"You slip around and station yourselfbehind that pine-tree just behind thecabin"—the boy looked crestfallen—"andif anybody tries to get out of the back door—you halt him."

"Is there a back door?""I don't know," Hale said rather shortly.

"You obey orders. I'm not your brother,but I'm your captain."

"I beg your pardon, sir. Shall I gonow?"

"Yes, you'll hear me at the front door.They won't make any resistance." The ladstepped away with nimble caution highabove the cabin, and he even took hisshoes off before he slid lightly down tohis place behind the pine. There was noback door, only a window, and hisdisappointment was bitter. Still, when heheard Hale at the front door, he meant tomake a break for that window, and hewaited in the still gloom. He could hearthe rough talk and laughter within and nowand then the clink of a tin cup. By and bythere was a faint noise in front of thecabin, and he steadied his nerves and hisbeating heart. Then he heard the doorpushed violently in and Hale's cry:

"Surrender!"Hale stood on the threshold with his

pistol outstretched in his right hand. Thedoor had struck something soft and he saidsharply again:

"Come out from behind that door—hands up!"

At the same moment, the back windowflew open with a bang and Bob's pistolcovered the edge of the opened door."Caliban" had rolled from his box like astupid animal. Two of his patrons satdazed and staring from Hale to the boy'sface at the window. A mountaineer stoodin one corner with twitching fingers andshifting eyes like a caged wild thing andforth issued from behind the door,quivering with anger—young Dave

Tolliver. Hale stared at him amazed, andwhen Dave saw Hale, such a wave of furysurged over his face that Bob thought itbest to attract his attention again; which hedid by gently motioning at him with thebarrel of his pistol.

"Hold on, there," he said quietly, andyoung Dave stood still.

"Climb through that window, Bob, andcollect the batteries," said Hale.

"Sure, sir," said the lad, and with hispistol still prominently in the foregroundhe threw his left leg over the sill and as heclimbed in he quoted with a grunt:"Always go in force to make an arrest."Grim and serious as it was, with June'scousin glowering at him, Hale could nothelp smiling.

"You didn't go home, after all," saidHale to young Dave, who clenched hishands and his lips but answered nothing;"or, if you did, you got back pretty quick."And still Dave was silent.

"Get 'em all, Bob?" In answer the boywent the rounds—feeling the pocket ofeach man's right hip and his left breast.

"Yes, sir.""Unload 'em!"The lad "broke" each of the four pistols,

picked up a piece of twine and strung themtogether through each trigger-guard.

"Close that window and stand here atthe door."

With the boy at the door, Hale rolledthe hand-barrel to the threshold and thewhite liquor gurgled joyously on the steps.

"All right, come along," he said to thecaptives, and at last young Dave spoke:

"Whut you takin' me fer?"Hale pointed to the empty hand-barrel

and Dave's answer was a look of scorn."I nuvver brought that hyeh.""You were drinking illegal liquor in a

blind tiger, and if you didn't bring it youcan prove that later. Anyhow, we'll wantyou as a witness," and Hale looked at theother mountaineer, who had turned hiseyes quickly to Dave. Caliban led the waywith young Dave, and Hale walked sideby side with them while Bob was escortfor the other two. The road ran along ahigh bank, and as Bob was adjusting thejangling weapons on his left arm, thestrange mountaineer darted behind him

and leaped headlong into the tops of thickrhododendron. Before Hale knew whathad happened the lad's pistol flashed.

"Stop, boy!" he cried, horrified. "Don'tshoot!" and he had to catch the lad to keephim from leaping after the runaway. Theshot had missed; they heard the runawaysplash into the river and go stumblingacross it and then there was silence.Young Dave laughed:

"Uncle Judd'll be over hyeh to-morrowto see about this." Hale said nothing andthey went on. At the door of the calabooseDave balked and had to be pushed in bymain force. They left him weeping andcursing with rage.

"Go to bed, Bob," said Hale."Yes, sir," said Bob; "just as soon as I

get my lessons."Hale did not go to the boarding-house

that night—he feared to face June. Insteadhe went to the hotel to scraps of a latesupper and then to bed. He had hardlytouched the pillow, it seemed, whensomebody shook him by the shoulder. Itwas Macfarlan, and daylight wasstreaming through the window.

"A gang of those Falins are here,"Macfarlan said, "and they're after youngDave Tolliver—about a dozen of 'em.Young Buck is with them, and the sheriff.They say he shot a man over the mountainsyesterday."

Hale sprang for his clothes—here wasa quandary.

"If we turn him over to them—they'll

kill him." Macfarlan nodded."Of course, and if we leave him in that

weak old calaboose, they'll get more helpand take him out to-night."

"Then we'll take him to the county jail.""They'll take him away from us.""No, they won't. You go out and get as

many shotguns as you can find and loadthem with buckshot."

Macfarlan nodded approvingly anddisappeared. Hale plunged his face in abasin of cold water, soaked his hair and,as he was mopping his face with a towel,there was a ponderous tread on the porch,the door opened without the formality of aknock, and Devil Judd Tolliver, with hishat on and belted with two huge pistols,stepped stooping within. His eyes, red

with anger and loss of sleep, were glaring,and his heavy moustache and beardshowed the twitching of his mouth.

"Whar's Dave?" he said shortly."In the calaboose.""Did you put him in?""Yes," said Hale calmly."Well, by God," the old man said with

repressed fury, "you can't git him out toosoon if you want to save trouble."

"Look here, Judd," said Hale seriously."You are one of the last men in the world Iwant to have trouble with for manyreasons; but I'm an officer over here andI'm no more afraid of you"—Hale pausedto let that fact sink in and it did—"thanyou are of me. Dave's been sellingliquor."

"He hain't," interrupted the oldmountaineer. "He didn't bring that liquorover hyeh. I know who done it."

"All right," said Hale; "I'll take yourword for it and I'll let him out, if you sayso, but—-"

"Right now," thundered old Judd."Do you know that young Buck Falin

and a dozen of his gang are over here afterhim?" The old man looked stunned.

"Whut—now?""They're over there in the woods across

the river NOW and they want me to givehim up to them. They say they have thesheriff with them and they want him forshooting a man on Leatherwood Creek,day before yesterday."

"It's all a lie," burst out old Judd. "They

want to kill him.""Of course—and I was going to take

him up to the county jail right away forsafe-keeping."

"D'ye mean to say you'd throw that boyinto jail and then fight them Falins topertect him?" the old man asked slowlyand incredulously. Hale pointed to a two-store building through his window.

"If you get in the back part of that storeat a window, you can see whether I willor not. I can summon you to help, and if afight comes up you can do your share fromthe window."

The old man's eyes lighted up like aleaping flame.

"Will you let Dave out and give him aWinchester and help us fight 'em?" he said

eagerly. "We three can whip 'em all.""No," said Hale shortly. "I'd try to keep

both sides from fighting, and I'd arrestDave or you as quickly as I would aFalin."

The average mountaineer has littleconception of duty in the abstract, but oldJudd belonged to the better class—andthere are many of them—that does. Helooked into Hale's eyes long and steadily.

"All right."Macfarlan came in hurriedly and

stopped short—seeing the hatted, beardedgiant.

"This is Mr. Tolliver—an uncle ofDave's—Judd Tolliver," said Hale. "Goahead."

"I've got everything fixed—but I

couldn't get but five of the fellows—twoof the Berkley boys. They wouldn't let metell Bob."

"All right. Can I summon Mr. Tolliverhere?"

"Yes," said Macfarlan doubtfully, "butyou know—-"

"He won't be seen," interrupted Hale,understandingly. "He'll be at a window inthe back of that store and he won't takepart unless a fight begins, and if it does,we'll need him."

An hour later Devil Judd Tolliver wasin the store Hale pointed out and peeringcautiously around the edge of an openwindow at the wooden gate of theramshackle calaboose. Several Falinswere there—led by young Buck, whom

Hale recognized as the red-headed youthat the head of the tearing horsemen whohad swept by him that late afternoon whenhe was coming back from his first trip toLonesome Cove. The old man gritted histeeth as he looked and he put one of hishuge pistols on a table within easy reachand kept the other clenched in his rightfist. From down the street came fivehorsemen, led by John Hale. Every mancarried a double-barrelled shotgun, andthe old man smiled and his respect forHale rose higher, high as it already was,for nobody—mountaineer or not—haslove for a hostile shotgun. The Falins,armed only with pistols, drew near.

"Keep back!" he heard Hale say calmly,and they stopped—young Buck alonegoing on.

"We want that feller," said young Buck."Well, you don't get him," said Hale

quietly. "He's our prisoner. Keep back!"he repeated, motioning with the barrel ofhis shotgun—and young Buck movedbackward to his own men, The old mansaw Hale and another man—the sergeant—go inside the heavy gate of the stockade.He saw a boy in a cap, with a pistol inone hand and a strapped set of books inthe other, come running up to the men withthe shotguns and he heard one of them sayangrily:

"I told you not to come.""I know you did," said the boy

imperturbably."You go on to school," said another of

the men, but the boy with the cap shook his

head and dropped his books to the ground.The big gate opened just then and outcame Hale and the sergeant, and betweenthem young Dave—his eyes blinking in thesunlight.

"Damn ye," he heard Dave say to Hale."I'll get even with you fer this someday"—and then the prisoner's eyes caughtthe horses and shotguns and turned to thegroup of Falins and he shrank back utterlydazed. There was a movement among theFalins and Devil Judd caught up his otherpistol and with a grim smile got ready.Young Buck had turned to his crowd:

"Men," he said, "you know I never backdown"—Devil Judd knew that, too, and hewas amazed by the words that followed-"an' if you say so, we'll have him or die;

but we ain't in our own state now. They'vegot the law and the shotguns on us, an' Ireckon we'd better go slow."

The rest seemed quite willing to goslow, and, as they put their pistols up,Devil Judd laughed in his beard. Hale putyoung Dave on a horse and the littleshotgun cavalcade quietly moved awaytoward the county-seat.

The crestfallen Falins dispersed theother way after they had taken a partingshot at the Hon. Samuel Budd, who, too,had a pistol in his hand. Young Bucklooked long at him—and then he laughed:

"You, too, Sam Budd," he said. "Wefolks'll rickollect this on election day."The Hon. Sam deigned no answer.

And up in the store Devil Judd lighted

his pipe and sat down to think out thestrange code of ethics that governed thatpolice-guard. Hale had told him to waitthere, and it was almost noon before theboy with the cap came to tell him that theFalins had all left town. The old manlooked at him kindly.

"Air you the little feller whut fit ferJune?"

"Not yet," said Bob; "but it's coming.""Well, you'll whoop him.""I'll do my best.""Whar is she?""She's waiting for you over at the

boarding-house.""Does she know about this trouble?""Not a thing; she thinks you've come to

take her home." The old man made noanswer, and Bob led him back towardHale's office. June was waiting at the gate,and the boy, lifting his cap, passed on.June's eyes were dark with anxiety.

"You come to take me home, dad?""I been thinkin' 'bout it," he said, with a

doubtful shake of his head.June took him upstairs to her room and

pointed out the old water-wheel throughthe window and her new clothes (she hadput on her old homespun again when sheheard he was in town), and the old manshook his head.

"I'm afeerd 'bout all these fixin's—youwon't never be satisfied agin in LonesomeCove."

"Why, dad," she said reprovingly. "Jack

says I can go over whenever I please, assoon as the weather gits warmer and theroads gits good."

"I don't know," said the old man, stillshaking his head.

All through dinner she was worried.Devil Judd hardly ate anything, soembarrassed was he by the presence of somany "furriners" and by the white clothand table-ware, and so fearful was he thathe would be guilty of some breach ofmanners. Resolutely he refused butter, andat the third urging by Mrs. Crane he saidfirmly, but with a shrewd twinkle in hiseye:

"No, thank ye. I never eats butter intown. I've kept store myself," and he wasno little pleased with the laugh that went

around the table. The fact was he wasgenerally pleased with June's environmentand, after dinner, he stopped teasing June.

"No, honey, I ain't goin' to take youaway. I want ye to stay right where ye air.Be a good girl now and do whatever JackHale tells ye and tell that boy with all thathair to come over and see me." June grewalmost tearful with gratitude, for neverhad he called her "honey" before that shecould remember, and never had he talkedso much to her, nor with so muchkindness.

"Air ye comin' over soon?""Mighty soon, dad.""Well, take keer o' yourself.""I will, dad," she said, and tenderly she

watched his great figure slouch out of

sight.An hour after dark, as old Judd sat on

the porch of the cabin in Lonesome Cove,young Dave Tolliver rode up to the gateon a strange horse. He was in a surlymood.

"He lemme go at the head of the valleyand give me this hoss to git here," the boygrudgingly explained. "I'm goin' over to gitmine termorrer."

"Seems like you'd better keep awayfrom that Gap," said the old man dryly,and Dave reddened angrily.

"Yes, and fust thing you know he'll beover hyeh atter YOU." The old man turnedon him sternly.

"Jack Hale knows that liquer was mine.He knows I've got a still over hyeh as

well as you do—an' he's never axed aquestion nor peeped an eye. I reckon hewould come if he thought he oughter—butI'm on this side of the state-line. If I wason his side, mebbe I'd stop."

Young Dave stared, for things weresurely coming to a pretty pass inLonesome Cove.

"An' I reckon," the old man went on,"hit 'ud be better grace in you to stopsayin' things agin' him; fer if it hadn't beenfer him, you'd be laid out by them Falinsby this time."

It was true, and Dave, silenced, wasforced into another channel.

"I wonder," he said presently, "howthem Falins always know when I go overthar."

"I've been studyin' about that myself,"said Devil Judd. Inside, the old step-mother had heard Dave's query.

"I seed the Red Fox this afternoon," shequavered at the door.

"Whut was he doin' over hyeh?" askedDave.

"Nothin'," she said, "jus' a-sneakin'aroun' the way he's al'ays a-doin'. Seemedlike he was mighty pertickuler to find outwhen you was comin' back."

Both men started slightly.

"We're all Tollivers now all right," saidthe Hon. Samuel Buddthat night while he sat with Hale on theporch overlooking themill-pond—and then he groaned a little.

"Them Falins have got kinsfolks to burnon the Virginia side and they'd fight metooth and toenail for this a hundred yearshence!"

He puffed his pipe, but Hale saidnothing.

"Yes, sir," he added cheerily, "we're infor a hell of a merry time NOW. Themountaineer hates as long as heremembers and—he never forgets."

XVHand in hand, Hale and June followed

the footsteps of spring from the time Junemet him at the school-house gate for theirfirst walk into the woods. Hale pointed tosome boys playing marbles.

"That's the first sign," he said, and withquick understanding June smiled.

The birdlike piping of hylas came froma marshy strip of woodland that ranthrough the centre of the town and a toadwas croaking at the foot of Imboden Hill.

"And they come next."They crossed the swinging foot-bridge,

which was a miracle to June, and took the

foot-path along the clear stream of SouthFork, under the laurel which June called"ivy," and the rhododendron which was"laurel" in her speech, and Hale pointedout catkins greening on alders in oneswampy place and willows just blushinginto life along the banks of a little creek.A few yards aside from the path he found,under a patch of snow and dead leaves,the pink-and-white blossoms and the waxygreen leaves of the trailing arbutus, thatfragrant harbinger of the old Mother'sawakening, and June breathed in from itthe very breath of spring. Near by wereturkey peas, which she had hunted andeaten many times.

"You can't put that arbutus in a garden,"said Hale, "it's as wild as a hawk."

Presently he had the little girl listen to apewee twittering in a thorn-bush and thelusty call of a robin from an apple-tree. Abluebird flew over-head with a merrychirp—its wistful note of autumn longsince forgotten. These were the first birdsand flowers, he said, and June, knowingthem only by sight, must know the name ofeach and the reason for that name. So thatHale found himself walking the woodswith an interrogation point, and that hemight not be confounded he had, later, todip up much forgotten lore. For everywalk became a lesson in botany for June,such a passion did she betray at once forflowers, and he rarely had to tell her thesame thing twice, since her memory waslike a vise—for everything, as he learnedin time.

Her eyes were quicker than his, too,and now she pointed to a snowy blossomwith a deeply lobed leaf.

"Whut's that?""Bloodroot," said Hale, and he

scratched the stem and forth issued scarletdrops. "The Indians used to put it on theirfaces and tomahawks"—she knew thatword and nodded—"and I used to makered ink of it when I was a little boy."

"No!" said June. With the next look shefound a tiny bunch of fuzzy hepaticas.

"Liver-leaf.""Whut's liver?"Hale, looking at her glowing face and

eyes and her perfect little body, imaginedthat she would never know unless told thatshe had one, and so he waved one hand

vaguely at his chest:"It's an organ—and that herb is

supposed to be good for it.""Organ? Whut's that?""Oh, something inside of you."June made the same gesture that Hale

had."Me?""Yes," and then helplessly, "but not

there exactly."June's eyes had caught something else

now and she ran for it:"Oh! Oh!" It was a bunch of delicate

anemones of intermediate shades betweenwhite and red-yellow, pink and purple-blue.

"Those are anemones."

"A-nem-o-nes," repeated June."Wind-flowers—because the wind is

supposed to open them." And, almostunconsciously, Hale lapsed into aquotation:

"'And where a tear has dropped, awind-flower blows.'"

"Whut's that?" said June quickly."That's poetry.""Whut's po-e-try?" Hale threw up both

hands."I don't know, but I'll read you some—

some day."By that time she was gurgling with

delight over a bunch of spring beautiesthat came up, root, stalk and all, when shereached for them.

"Well, ain't they purty?" While they layin her hand and she looked, the rose-veined petals began to close, the leaves todroop and the stem got limp.

"Ah-h!" crooned June. "I won't pull upno more o' THEM."

'"These little dream-flowers found inthe spring.' More poetry, June."

A little later he heard her repeating thatline to herself. It was an easy step topoetry from flowers, and evidently Junewas groping for it.

A few days later the service-berryswung out white stars on the low hill-sides, but Hale could tell her nothing thatshe did not know about the "sarvice-berry." Soon, the dogwood swept insnowy gusts along the mountains, and from

a bank of it one morning a red-bird flamedand sang: "What cheer! What cheer! Whatcheer!" And like its scarlet coat the red-bud had burst into bloom. June knew thered-bud, but she had never heard it calledthe Judas tree.

"You see, the red-bud was supposed tobe poisonous. It shakes in the wind andsays to the bees, 'Come on, little fellows—here's your nice fresh honey, and whenthey come, it betrays and poisons them."

"Well, what do you think o' that!" saidJune indignantly, and Hale had to hedge abit.

"Well, I don't know whether itREALLY does, but that's what they SAY."A little farther on the white stars of thetrillium gleamed at them from the border

of the woods and near by June stoopedover some lovely sky-blue blossoms withyellow eyes.

"Forget-me-nots," said Hale. Junestooped to gather them with a radiant face.

"Oh," she said, "is that what you call'em?"

"They aren't the real ones—they're falseforget-me-nots."

"Then I don't want 'em," said June. Butthey were beautiful and fragrant and sheadded gently:

"'Tain't their fault. I'm agoin' to call 'emjus' forget-me-nots, an' I'm givin' 'em toyou," she said—"so that you won't."

"Thank you," said Hale gravely. "Iwon't."

They found larkspur, too—"'Blue as the heaven it gazes at,'"

quoted Hale."Whut's 'gazes'?""Looks." June looked up at the sky and

down at the flower."Tain't," she said, "hit's bluer."When they discovered something Hale

did not know he would say that it was oneof those—

"'Wan flowers without a name.'""My!" said June at last, "seems like

them wan flowers is a mighty big fambly.""They are," laughed Hale, "for a

bachelor like me.""Huh!" said June.Later, they ran upon yellow adder's

tongues in a hollow, each blossomguarded by a pair of ear-like leaves,Dutchman's breeches and wild bleedinghearts—a name that appealed greatly tothe fancy of the romantic little lady, andthus together they followed the footstepsof that spring. And while she studied theflowers Hale was studying the loveliestflower of them all—little June. Aboutferns, plants and trees as well, he told herall he knew, and there seemed nothing inthe skies, the green world of the leaves orthe under world at her feet to which shewas not magically responsive. Indeed,Hale had never seen a man, woman orchild so eager to learn, and one day, whenshe had apparently reached the limit ofinquiry, she grew very thoughtful and hewatched her in silence a long while.

"What's the matter, June?" he askedfinally.

"I'm just wonderin' why I'm alwaysaxin' why," said little June.

She was learning in school, too, and shewas happier there now, for there had beenno more open teasing of the new pupil.Bob's championship saved her from that,and, thereafter, school changedstraightway for June. Before that day shehad kept apart from her school-fellows atrecess-times as well as in the school-room. Two or three of the girls had madefriendly advances to her, but she had shylyrepelled them—why she hardly knew—and it was her lonely custom at recess-times to build a play-house at the foot of agreat beech with moss, broken bits of

bottles and stones. Once she found it tornto pieces and from the look on the face ofthe tall mountain boy, Cal Heaton, whohad grinned at her when she went up forher first lesson, and who was now Bob'sarch-enemy, she knew that he was theguilty one. Again a day or two later it wasdestroyed, and when she came down fromthe woods almost in tears, Bob happenedto meet her in the road and made her tellthe trouble she was in. Straightway hecharged the trespasser with the deed andwas lied to for his pains. So after schoolthat day he slipped up on the hill with thelittle girl and helped her rebuild again.

"Now I'll lay for him," said Bob, "andcatch him at it."

"All right," said June, and she looked

both her worry and her gratitude so thatBob understood both; and he answeredboth with a nonchalant wave of one hand.

"Never you mind—and don't you tellMr. Hale," and June in dumb acquiescencecrossed heart and body. But the mountainboy was wary, and for two or three daysthe play-house was undisturbed and soBob himself laid a trap. He mounted hishorse immediately after school, rode pastthe mountain lad, who was on his wayhome, crossed the river, made a widedetour at a gallop and, hitching his horsein the woods, came to the play-house fromthe other side of the hill. And half an hourlater, when the pale little teacher came outof the school-house, he heard grunts andblows and scuffling up in the woods, andwhen he ran toward the sounds, the bodies

of two of his pupils rolled into sightclenched fiercely, with torn clothes andbleeding faces—Bob on top with themountain boy's thumb in his mouth and hisown fingers gripped about his antagonist'sthroat. Neither paid any attention to theschool-master, who pulled at Bob's coatunavailingly and with horror at hisferocity. Bob turned his head, shook it aswell as the thumb in his mouth would lethim, and went on gripping the throat underhim and pushing the head that belonged toit into the ground. The mountain boy'stongue showed and his eyes bulged.

"'Nough!" he yelled. Bob rose then andtold his story and the school-master fromNew England gave them a short lecture ongentleness and Christian charity and fixedon each the awful penalty of "staying in"

after school for an hour every day for aweek. Bob grinned:

"All right, professor—it was worth it,"he said, but the mountain lad shuffledsilently away.

An hour later Hale saw the boy with aswollen lip, one eye black and the other asmerry as ever—but after that there was nomore trouble for June. Bob had made hispromise good and gradually she came intothe games with her fellows there-after,while Bob stood or sat aside, encouragingbut taking no part—for was he not amember of the Police Force? Indeed hewas already known far and wide as theInfant of the Guard, and always he carrieda whistle and usually, outside the school-house, a pistol bumped his hip, while a

Winchester stood in one corner of hisroom and a billy dangled by his mantel-piece.

The games were new to June, and oftenHale would stroll up to the school-houseto watch them—Prisoner's Base, Skippingthe Rope, Antny Over, Cracking the Whipand Lifting the Gate; and it pleased him tosee how lithe and active his little protegewas and more than a match in strengtheven for the boys who were near her size.June had to take the penalty of hergreenness, too, when she was "introducedto the King and Queen" and bumped theground between the make-believesovereigns, or got a cup of water in herface when she was trying to see starsthrough a pipe. And the boys pinned herdress to the bench through a crack and

once she walked into school with aplacard on her back which read:

"June-Bug." But she was so good-natured that she fast became a favourite.Indeed it was noticeable to Hale as wellas Bob that Cal Heaton, the mountain boy,seemed always to get next to June in theTugs of War, and one morning June foundan apple on her desk. She swept the roomwith a glance and met Cal's guilty flush,and though she ate the apple, she gave himno thanks—in word, look or manner. Itwas curious to Hale, moreover, toobserve how June's instinct deftly led herto avoid the mistakes in dress thatcharacterized the gropings of other girlswho, like her, were in a stage oftransition. They wore gaudy combs andgreen skirts with red waists, their clothes

bunched at the hips, and to their shoes andhands they paid no attention at all. None ofthese things for June—and Hale did notknow that the little girl had leaped herfellows with one bound, had taken MissAnne Saunders as her model and wasclimbing upon the pedestal where thatlady justly stood. The two had not becomefriends as Hale hoped. June was alwayssilent and reserved when the older girlwas around, but there was never a moveof the latter's hand or foot or lip or eyethat the new pupil failed to see. MissAnne rallied Hale no little about her, buthe laughed good-naturedly, and asked whySHE could not make friends with June.

"She's jealous," said Miss Saunders,and Hale ridiculed the idea, for not onesign since she came to the Gap had she

shown him. It was the jealousy of a childshe had once betrayed and that she hadoutgrown, he thought; but he never knewhow June stood behind the curtains of herwindow, with a hungry suffering in herface and eyes, to watch Hale and MissAnne ride by and he never guessed thatconcealment was but a sign of the dawn ofwomanhood that was breaking within her.And she gave no hint of that breakingdawn until one day early in May, whenshe heard a woodthrush for the first timewith Hale: for it was the bird she lovedbest, and always its silver fluting wouldstop her in her tracks and send her intodreamland. Hale had just broken acrimson flower from its stem and held itout to her.

"Here's another of the 'wan ones,' June.

Do you know what that is?""Hit's"—she paused for correction with

her lips drawn severely in for precision—"IT'S a mountain poppy. Pap says itkills goslings"—her eyes danced, for shewas in a merry mood that day, and she putboth hands behind her—"if you air any kinto a goose, you better drap it."

"That's a good one," laughed Hale, "butit's so lovely I'll take the risk. I won't dropit."

"Drop it," caught June with a quickupward look, and then to fix the word inher memory she repeated—"drop it, dropit, DROP it!"

"Got it now, June?""Uh-huh."It was then that a woodthrush voiced the

crowning joy of spring, and with slowlyfilling eyes she asked its name.

"That bird," she said slowly and with abreaking voice, "sung just that-a-way themornin' my sister died."

She turned to him with a wonderingsmile.

"Somehow it don't make me somiserable, like it useter." Her smilepassed while she looked, she caught bothhands to her heaving breast and a wildintensity burned suddenly in her eyes.

"Why, June!""'Tain't nothin'," she choked out, and

she turned hurriedly ahead of him downthe path. Startled, Hale had dropped thecrimson flower to his feet. He saw it andhe let it lie.

Meanwhile, rumours were brought inthat the Falins were coming over fromKentucky to wipe out the Guard, and sostraight were they sometimes that theGuard was kept perpetually on watch.Once while the members were at targetpractice, the shout arose:

"The Kentuckians are coming! TheKentuckians are coming!" And, at doublequick, the Guard rushed back to find it afalse alarm and to see men laughing atthem in the street. The truth was that,while the Falins had a general hostilityagainst the Guard, their particular enmitywas concentrated on John Hale, as hediscovered when June was to take her firsttrip home one Friday afternoon. Halemeant to carry her over, but the morningthey were to leave, old Judd Tolliver

came to the Gap himself. He did not wantJune to come home at that time, and hedidn't think it was safe over there for Halejust then. Some of the Falins had beenseen hanging around Lonesome Cove forthe purpose, Judd believed, of getting ashot at the man who had kept young Davefrom falling into their hands, and Halesaw that by that act he had, as Budd said,arrayed himself with the Tollivers in thefeud. In other words, he was a Tolliverhimself now, and as such the Falins meantto treat him. Hale rebelled against therestriction, for he had started some workin Lonesome Cove and was preparing asurprise over there for June, but old Juddsaid:

"Just wait a while," and he said it soseriously that Hale for a while took his

advice.So June stayed on at the Gap—with

little disappointment, apparently, that shecould not visit home. And as springpassed and the summer came on, the littlegirl budded and opened like a rose. To thepretty school-teacher she was a source ofendless interest and wonder, for while thelittle girl was reticent and aloof, MissSaunders felt herself watched and studiedin and out of school, and Hale often had tosmile at June's unconscious imitation ofher teacher in speech, manners and dress.And all the time her hero-worship of Halewent on, fed by the talk of theboardinghouse, her fellow pupils and ofthe town at large—and it fairly thrilled herto know that to the Falins he was now aTolliver himself.

Sometimes Hale would get her asaddle, and then June would usurp MissAnne's place on a horseback-ride upthrough the gap to see the first blooms ofthe purple rhododendron on Bee Rock, orup to Morris's farm on Powell's mountain,from which, with a glass, they could seethe Lonesome Pine. And all the time sheworked at her studies tirelessly—andwhen she was done with her lessons, sheread the fairy books that Hale got for her—read them until "Paul and Virginia" fellinto her hands, and then there were nomore fairy stories for little June. Often,late at night, Hale, from the porch of hiscottage, could see the light of her lampsending its beam across the dark water ofthe mill-pond, and finally he got worriedby the paleness of her face and sent her to

the doctor. She went unwillingly, andwhen she came back she reported placidlythat "organatically she was all right, thedoctor said," but Hale was glad thatvacation would soon come. At thebeginning of the last week of school hebrought a little present for her from NewYork—a slender necklace of gold with alittle reddish stone-pendant that was theshape of a cross. Hale pulled the trinketfrom his pocket as they were walkingdown the river-bank at sunset and the littlegirl quivered like an aspen-leaf in asudden puff of wind.

"Hit's a fairy-stone," she criedexcitedly.

"Why, where on earth did you—""Why, sister Sally told me about 'em.

She said folks found 'em somewhere overhere in Virginny, an' all her life she was a-wishin' fer one an' she never could gitit"—her eyes filled—"seems likeever'thing she wanted is a-comin' to me."

"Do you know the story of it, too?"asked Hale.

June shook her head. "Sister Sally saidit was a luck-piece. Nothin' could happento ye when ye was carryin' it, but it wasawful bad luck if you lost it." Hale put itaround her neck and fastened the clasp andJune kept hold of the little cross with onehand.

"Well, you mustn't lose it," he said."No—no—no," she repeated

breathlessly, and Hale told her the prettystory of the stone as they strolled back to

supper. The little crosses were to befound only in a certain valley in Virginia,so perfect in shape that they seemed tohave been chiselled by hand, and theywere a great mystery to the men who knewall about rocks—the geologists.

"The ge-ol-o-gists," repeated June.These men said there was no

crystallization—nothing like them,amended Hale—elsewhere in the world,and that just as crosses were of differentshapes—Roman, Maltese and St.Andrew's—so, too, these crosses werefound in all these different shapes. And themyth—the story—was that this littlevalley was once inhabited by fairies—June's eyes lighted, for it was a fairy storyafter all—and that when a strange

messenger brought them the news ofChrist's crucifixion, they wept, and theirtears, as they fell to the ground, wereturned into tiny crosses of stone. Even theIndians had some queer feeling aboutthem, and for a long, long time peoplewho found them had used them as charmsto bring good luck and ward off harm.

"And that's for you," he said, "becauseyou've been such a good little girl andhave studied so hard. School's most overnow and I reckon you'll be right glad toget home again."

June made no answer, but at the gateshe looked suddenly up at him.

"Have you got one, too?" she asked, andshe seemed much disturbed when Haleshook his head.

"Well, I'LL git—GET—you one—someday."

"All right," laughed Hale.There was again something strange in

her manner as she turned suddenly fromhim, and what it meant he was soon tolearn. It was the last week of school andHale had just come down from the woodsbehind the school-house at "little recess-time" in the afternoon. The children wereplaying games outside the gate, and Boband Miss Anne and the little Professorwere leaning on the fence watching them.The little man raised his hand to halt Haleon the plank sidewalk.

"I've been wanting to see you," he saidin his dreamy, abstracted way. "Youprophesied, you know, that I should be

proud of your little protege some day, andI am indeed. She is the most remarkablepupil I've yet seen here, and I have aboutcome to the conclusion that there is noquicker native intelligence in our countrythan you shall find in the children of thesemountaineers and—"

Miss Anne was gazing at the childrenwith an expression that turned Hale's eyesthat way, and the Professor checked hisharangue. Something had happened. Theyhad been playing "Ring Around the Rosy"and June had been caught. She stoodscarlet and tense and the cry was:

"Who's your beau—who's your beau?"And still she stood with tight lips—

flushing."You got to tell—you got to tell!"

The mountain boy, Cal Heaton, wasgrinning with fatuous consciousness, andeven Bob put his hands in his pockets andtook on an uneasy smile.

"Who's your beau?" came the chorusagain.

The lips opened almost in a whisper,but all could hear:

"Jack!""Jack who?" But June looked around

and saw the four at the gate. Almoststaggering, she broke from the crowd and,with one forearm across her scarlet face,rushed past them into the school-house.Miss Anne looked at Male's amazed faceand she did not smile. Bob turnedrespectfully away, ignoring it all, and thelittle Professor, whose life-purpose was

psychology, murmured in his ignorance:"Very remarkable—very remarkable!"Through that afternoon June kept her hot

face close to her books. Bob never somuch as glanced her way—littlegentleman that he was—but the one timeshe lifted her eyes, she met the mountainlad's bent in a stupor-like gaze upon her.In spite of her apparent studiousness,however, she missed her lesson and,automatically, the little Professor told herto stay in after school and recite to MissSaunders. And so June and Miss Anne satin the school-room alone—the teacherreading a book, and the pupil—her tearsunshed—with her sullen face bent overher lesson. In a few moments the dooropened and the little Professor thrust in

his head. The girl had looked so hurt andtired when he spoke to her that somestrange sympathy moved him, mystifiedthough he was, to say gently now and witha smile that was rare with him:

"You might excuse June, I think, MissSaunders, and let her recite some time to-morrow," and gently he closed the door.Miss Anne rose:

"Very well, June," she said quietly.June rose, too, gathering up her books,

and as she passed the teacher's platformshe stopped and looked her full in theface. She said not a word, and the tragedybetween the woman and the girl wasplayed in silence, for the woman knewfrom the searching gaze of the girl and theblack defiance in her eyes, as she stalked

out of the room, that her own flush hadbetrayed her secret as plainly as the girl'swords had told hers.

Through his office window, a fewminutes later, Hale saw June pass swiftlyinto the house. In a few minutes she cameswiftly out again and went back swiftlytoward the school-house. He was soworried by the tense look in her face thathe could work no more, and in a fewminutes he threw his papers down andfollowed her. When he turned the corner,Bob was coming down the street with hiscap on the back of his head and swinginghis books by a strap, and the boy looked alittle conscious when he saw Halecoming.

"Have you seen June?" Hale asked.

"No, sir," said Bob, immenselyrelieved.

"Did she come up this way?""I don't know, but—" Bob turned and

pointed to the green dome of a big beech."I think you'll find her at the foot of that

tree," he said. "That's where her play-house is and that's where she goes whenshe's—that's where she usually goes."

"Oh, yes," said Hale—"her play-house.Thank you."

"Not at all, sir."Hale went on, turned from the path and

climbed noiselessly. When he caught sightof the beech he stopped still. June stoodagainst it like a wood-nymph just emergedfrom its sun-dappled trunk—stoodstretched to her full height, her hands

behind her, her hair tossed, her throattense under the dangling little cross, herface uplifted. At her feet, the play-housewas scattered to pieces. She seemedlistening to the love-calls of a woodthrushthat came faintly through the still woods,and then he saw that she heard nothing,saw nothing—that she was in a dream asdeep as sleep. Hale's heart throbbed as helooked.

"June!" he called softly. She did nothear him, and when he called again, sheturned her face—unstartled—and movingher posture not at all. Hale pointed to thescattered play-house.

"I done it!" she said fiercely—"I done itmyself." Her eyes burned steadily into his,even while she lifted her hands to her hair

as though she were only vaguelyconscious that it was all undone.

"YOU heerd me?" she cried, and beforehe could answer—"SHE heerd me," andagain, not waiting for a word from him,she cried still more fiercely:

"I don't keer! I don't keer WHO knows."Her hands were trembling, she was

biting her quivering lip to keep back thestarting tears, and Hale rushed toward herand took her in his arms."June! June!" he said brokenly. "Youmustn't, little girl. I'mproud—proud—why little sweetheart—" Shewas clinging to him andlooking up into his eyes and he bent hishead slowly. Their lips met andthe man was startled. He knew now it wasno child that answered him.

Hale walked long that night in the moonlit

woods up and aroundImboden Hill, along a shadow-haunted path,between silvery beech-trunks,past the big hole in the earth from whichdead trees tossed out theircrooked arms as if in torment, and to thetop of the ridge under whichthe valley slept and above which the darkbulk of Powell's Mountainrose. It was absurd, but he found himselfstrangely stirred. She was achild, he kept repeating to himself, inspite of the fact that he knewshe was no child among her own people, andthat mountain girls were evenwives who were younger still. Still, shedid not know what she felt—howcould she?—and she would get over it, andthen came the sharp stab ofa doubt—would he want her to get over it?Frankly and with wonder heconfessed to himself that he did not know—he did not know. But again,why bother? He had meant to educate her,anyhow. That was the firststep—no matter what happened. June must goout into the world to

school. He would have plenty of money. Herfather would not object, andJune need never know. He could include forher an interest in her ownfather's coal lands that he meant to buy,and she could think that itwas her own money that she was using. So,with a sudden rush of gladnessfrom his brain to his heart, he recklesslyyoked himself, then andthere, under all responsibility for thatyoung life and the eager,sensitive soul that already lighted it soradiantly.

And June? Her nature had openedprecisely as had bud and flower thatspring. The Mother of Magicians hadtouched her as impartially as she hadtouched them with fairy wand, and asunconsciously the little girl had answeredas a young dove to any cooing mate. Withthis Hale did not reckon, and this Junecould not know. For a while, that night,

she lay in a delicious tremor, listening tothe bird-like chorus of the little frogs inthe marsh, the booming of the big ones inthe mill-pond, the water pouring over thedam with the sound of a low wind, and, ashad all the sleeping things of the earthabout her, she, too, sank to happy sleep.

XVIThe in-sweep of the outside world was

broadening its current now. Theimprovement company had been formed toencourage the growth of the town. A safewas put in the back part of a furniturestore behind a wooden partition and abank was started. Up through the Gap andtoward Kentucky, more entries weredriven into the coal, and on the Virginiaside were signs of stripping for iron ore.A furnace was coming in just as soon asthe railroad could bring it in, and therailroad was pushing ahead with genuinevigor. Speculators were trooping in andthe town had been divided off into lots—a

few of which had already changed hands.One agent had brought in a big steel safeand a tent and was buying coal lands rightand left. More young men drifted in fromall points of the compass. A tent-hotel wasput at the foot of Imboden Hill, and ofnights there were under it much poker andsong. The lilt of a definite optimism wasin every man's step and the light of hopewas in every man's eye.

And the Guard went to its work inearnest. Every man now had hisWinchester, his revolver, his billy and hiswhistle. Drilling and target-shootingbecame a daily practice. Bob, who hadbeen a year in a military school, wasdrill-master for the recruits, and verygravely he performed his duties and putthem through the skirmishers' drill—

advancing in rushes, throwing themselvesin the new grass, and very gravely hecommended one enthusiast—none otherthan the Hon. Samuel Budd—who, ratherthan lose his position in line, threwhimself into a pool of water: all to thesurprise, scorn and anger of the mountainonlookers, who dwelled about the town.Many were the comments the members ofthe Guard heard from them, even whilethey were at drill.

"I'd like to see one o' them fellers hitme with one of them locust posts."

"Huh! I could take two good men an' runthe whole batch out o' the county."

"Look at them dudes and furriners. Theycome into our country and air tryin' to larnus how to run it."

"Our boys air only tryin' to have theirlittle fun. They don't mean nothin', butsomeday some fool young guard'll hurtsomebody and then thar'll be hell to pay."

Hale could not help feelingconsiderable sympathy for their point ofview—particularly when he saw themountaineers watching the Guard attarget-practice—each volunteerpoliceman with his back to the target, andat the word of command wheeling andfiring six shots in rapid succession—andhe did not wonder at their snorts of scornat such bad shooting and their open angerthat the Guard was practising for THEM.But sometimes he got an unexpectedrecruit. One bully, who had beenconspicuous in the brickyard trouble, afterwatching a drill went up to him with a

grin:"Hell," he said cheerily, "I believe you

fellers air goin' to have more fun than weair, an' danged if I don't jine you, if you'lllet me."

"Sure," said Hale. And others, whomight have been bad men, becamemembers and, thus getting a vent for theirenergies, were as enthusiastic for the lawas they might have been against it.

Of course, the antagonistic element inthe town lost no opportunity to plague andharass the Guard, and after the destructionof the "blind tigers," mischief wasnaturally concentrated in the high-licensesaloons—particularly in the one run byJack Woods, whose local power for eviland cackling laugh seemed to mean

nothing else than close personalcommunion with old Nick himself.Passing the door of his saloon one day,Bob saw one of Jack's customers trying toplay pool with a Winchester in one handand an open knife between his teeth, andthe boy stepped in and halted. The manhad no weapon concealed and was makingno disturbance, and Bob did not knowwhether or not he had the legal right toarrest him, so he turned, and, while hewas standing in the door, Jack winked athis customer, who, with a grin, put theback of his knife-blade between Bob'sshoulders and, pushing, closed it. The boylooked over his shoulder without movinga muscle, but the Hon. Samuel Budd, whocame in at that moment, pinioned thefellow's arms from behind and Bob took

his weapon away."Hell," said the mountaineer, "I didn't

aim to hurt the little feller. I jes' wanted tosee if I could skeer him."

"Well, brother, 'tis scarce a merry jest,"quoth the Hon. Sam, and he looked sharplyat Jack through his big spectacles as thetwo led the man off to the calaboose: forhe suspected that the saloon-keeper was atthe bottom of the trick. Jack's time cameonly the next day. He had regarded it asthe limit of indignity when an ordinancewas up that nobody should blow a whistleexcept a member of the Guard, and it wasgreat fun for him to have some drunkencustomer blow a whistle and then stand inhis door and laugh at the policemenrunning in from all directions. That day

Jack tried the whistle himself and Haleran down.

"Who did that?" he asked. Jack felt boldthat morning.

"I blowed it."Hale thought for a moment. The

ordinance against blowing a whistle hadnot yet been passed, but he made up hismind that, under the circumstances, Jack'sblowing was a breach of the peace, sincethe Guard had adopted that signal. So hesaid:

"You mustn't do that again."Jack had doubtless been going through

precisely the same mental process, and, onthe nice legal point involved, he seemedto differ.

"I'll blow it when I damn please," he

said."Blow it again and I'll arrest you," said

Hale.Jack blew. He had his right shoulder

against the corner of his door at the time,and, when he raised the whistle to his lips,Hale drew and covered him before hecould make another move. Woods backedslowly into his saloon to get behind hiscounter. Hale saw his purpose, and heclosed in, taking great risk, as he alwaysdid, to avoid bloodshed, and there was astruggle. Jack managed to get his pistolout; but Hale caught him by the wrist andheld the weapon away so that it washarmless as far as he was concerned; but acrowd was gathering at the door towardwhich the saloon-keeper's pistol was

pointed, and he feared that somebody outthere might be shot; so he called out:

"Drop that pistol!"The order was not obeyed, and Hale

raised his right hand high above Jack'shead and dropped the butt of his weaponon Jack's skull—hard. Jack's headdropped back between his shoulders, hiseyes closed and his pistol clicked on thefloor.

Hale knew how serious a thing a blowwas in that part of the world, and whatexcitement it would create, and he wasuneasy at Jack's trial, for fear that thesaloon-keeper's friends would take thematter up; but they didn't, and, to thesurprise of everybody, Jack quietly paidhis fine, and thereafter the Guard had little

active trouble from the town itself, for itwas quite plain there, at least, that theGuard meant business.

Across Black Mountain old DaveTolliver and old Buck Falin had got wellof their wounds by this time, and thougheach swore to have vengeance against theother as soon as he was able to handle aWinchester, both factions seemed waitingfor that time to come. Moreover, theFalins, because of a rumour that Bad RufeTolliver might come back, and because ofDevil Judd's anger at their attempt tocapture young Dave, grew wary and ratherpacificatory: and so, beyond a littlequarrelling, a little threatening and theexchange of a harmless shot or two,sometimes in banter, sometimes in earnest,nothing had been done. Sternly, however,

though the Falins did not know the fact,Devil Judd continued to hold aloof inspite of the pleadings of young Dave, andso confident was the old man in thebalance of power that lay with him that hesent June word that he was coming to takeher home. And, in truth, with Hale goingaway again on a business trip and Bob,too, gone back home to the Bluegrass, andschool closed, the little girl was glad togo, and she waited for her father's comingeagerly. Miss Anne was still there, to besure, and if she, too, had gone, June wouldhave been more content. The quiet smileof that astute young woman had told Haleplainly, and somewhat to hisembarrassment, that she knew somethinghad happened between the two, but thatsmile she never gave to June. Indeed, she

never encountered aught else than thesame silent searching gaze from thestrangely mature little creature's eyes, andwhen those eyes met the teacher's, alwaysJune's hand would wander unconsciouslyto the little cross at her throat as though toinvoke its aid against anything that couldcome between her and its giver.

The purple rhododendrons on Bee Rockhad come and gone and the pink-fleckedlaurels were in bloom when June faredforth one sunny morning of her own birth-month behind old Judd Tolliver—home.Back up through the wild Gap they rode insilence, past Bee Rock, out of the chasmand up the little valley toward the Trail ofthe Lonesome Pine, into which the father'sold sorrel nag, with a switch of hersunburnt tail, turned leftward. June leaned

forward a little, and there was the crest ofthe big tree motionless in the blue highabove, and sheltered by one big whitecloud. It was the first time she had seenthe pine since she had first left it, and littletremblings went through her from her barefeet to her bonneted head. Thus was sheunclad, for Hale had told her that, to avoidcriticism, she must go home clothed just asshe was when she left Lonesome Cove.She did not quite understand that, and shecarried her new clothes in a bundle in herlap, but she took Hale's wordunquestioned. So she wore her crimsonhomespun and her bonnet, with herbronze-gold hair gathered under it in thesame old Psyche knot. She must wear hershoes, she told Hale, until she got out oftown, else someone might see her, but

Hale had said she would be leaving tooearly for that: and so she had gone fromthe Gap as she had come into it, withunmittened hands and bare feet. The softwind was very good to those danglingfeet, and she itched to have them on thegreen grass or in the cool waters throughwhich the old horse splashed. Yes, shewas going home again, the same June asfar as mountain eyes could see, though shehad grown perceptibly, and her little facehad blossomed from her heart almost intoa woman's, but she knew that while herclothes were the same, they covered quiteanother girl. Time wings slowly for theyoung, and when the sensations are manyand the experiences are new, slowly evenfor all—and thus there was a doublereason why it seemed an age to June since

her eyes had last rested on the big Pine.Here was the place where Hale had put

his big black horse into a dead run, and asvivid a thrill of it came back to her now ashad been the thrill of the race. Then theybegan to climb laboriously up the rockycreek—the water singing a joyouswelcome to her along the path, ferns andflowers nodding to her from dead leavesand rich mould and peeping at her fromcrevices between the rocks on the creek-banks as high up as the level of her eyes—up under bending branches full-leafed,with the warm sunshine darting downthrough them upon her as she passed, andmaking a playfellow of her sunny hair.Here was the place where she had gotangry with Hale, had slid from his horseand stormed with tears. What a little fool

she had been when Hale had meant only tobe kind! He was never anything but kind—Jack was—dear, dear Jack! That wouldn'thappen NO more, she thought, andstraightway she corrected that thought.

"It won't happen ANY more," she saidaloud.

"Whut'd you say, June?"The old man lifted his bushy beard from

his chest and turned his head."Nothin', dad," she said, and old Judd,

himself in a deep study, dropped back intoit again. How often she had said that toherself—that it would happen no more—she had stopped saying it to Hale, becausehe laughed and forgave her, and seemed tolove her mood, whether she cried from joyor anger—and yet she kept on doing both

just the same.Several times Devil Judd stopped to let

his horse rest, and each time, of course,the wooded slopes of the mountainsstretched downward in longer sweeps ofsummer green, and across the wideningvalley the tops of the mountains beyonddropped nearer to the straight level of hereyes, while beyond them vaster blue bulksbecame visible and ran on and on, as theyalways seemed, to the farthest limits of theworld. Even out there, Hale had told her,she would go some day. The last curvingup-sweep came finally, and there stoodthe big Pine, majestic, unchanged andmurmuring in the wind like the undertoneof a far-off sea. As they passed the base ofit, she reached out her hand and let the tipsof her fingers brush caressingly across its

trunk, turned quickly for a last look at thesunlit valley and the hills of the outerworld and then the two passed into agreen gloom of shadow and thick leavesthat shut her heart in as suddenly as thoughsome human hand had clutched it. She wasgoing home—to see Bub and Loretta andUncle Billy and "old Hon" and her step-mother and Dave, and yet she felt vaguelytroubled. The valley on the other side wasin dazzling sunshine—she had seen that.The sun must still be shining over there—it must be shining above her over here, forhere and there shot a sunbeam messagefrom that outer world down through theleaves, and yet it seemed that black nighthad suddenly fallen about her, andhelplessly she wondered about it all, withher hands gripped tight and her eyes wide.

But the mood was gone when theyemerged at the "deadening" on the lastspur and she saw Lonesome Cove and theroof of her little home peacefully asleep inthe same sun that shone on the valley overthe mountain. Colour came to her face andher heart beat faster. At the foot of thespur the road had been widened andshowed signs of heavy hauling. There wassawdust in the mouth of the creek and,from coal-dust, the water was black. Thering of axes and the shouts of ox-driverscame from the mountain side. Up the creekabove her father's cabin three or fourhouses were being built of fresh boards,and there in front of her was a new store.To a fence one side of it two horses werehitched and on one horse was a side-saddle. Before the door stood the Red Fox

and Uncle Billy, the miller, who peered ather for a moment through his bigspectacles and gave her a wondering shoutof welcome that brought her cousinLoretta to the door, where she stopped amoment, anchored with surprise. Over hershoulder peered her cousin Dave, andJune saw his face darken while shelooked.

"Why, Honey," said the old miller,"have ye really come home agin?" WhileLoretta simply said:

"My Lord!" and came out and stoodwith her hands on her hips looking at June.

"Why, ye ain't a bit changed! I knowedye wasn't goin' to put on no airs like Davethar said "—she turned on Dave, who,with a surly shrug, wheeled and went back

into the store. Uncle Billy was goinghome.

"Come down to see us right away now,"he called back. "Ole Hon's might nighcrazy to git her eyes on ye."

"All right, Uncle Billy," said June,"early termorrer." The Red Fox did notopen his lips, but his pale eyes searchedthe girl from head to foot.

"Git down, June," said Loretta, "and I'llwalk up to the house with ye."

June slid down, Devil Judd started theold horse, and as the two girls, with theirarms about each other's waists, followed,the wolfish side of the Red Fox's facelifted in an ironical snarl. Bub wasstanding at the gate, and when he saw hisfather riding home alone, his wistful eyes

filled and his cry of disappointmentbrought the step-mother to the door.

"Whar's June?" he cried, and June heardhim, and loosening herself from Loretta,she ran round the horse and had Bub in herarms. Then she looked up into the eyes ofher step-mother. The old woman's facelooked kind—so kind that for the first timein her life June did what her father couldnever get her to do: she called her"Mammy," and then she gave that oldwoman the surprise of her life—shekissed her. Right away she must seeeverything, and Bub, in ecstasy, wanted topilot her around to see the new calf andthe new pigs and the new chickens, butdumbly June looked to a miracle that hadcome to pass to the left of the cabin—aflower-garden, the like of which she had

seen only in her dreams.

XVIITwice her lips opened soundlessly and,

dazed, she could only point dumbly. Theold step-mother laughed:

"Jack Hale done that. He pestered yo'pap to let him do it fer ye, an' anythingJack Hale wants from yo' pap, he gits. Ithought hit was plum' foolishness, but he'sgot things to eat planted thar, too, an' Ideclar hit's right purty."

That wonderful garden! June started forit on a run. There was a broad grass-walkdown through the middle of it and therewere narrow grass-walks runningsidewise, just as they did in the gardens

which Hale told her he had seen in theouter world. The flowers were planted inraised beds, and all the ones that she hadlearned to know and love at the Gap werethere, and many more besides. Thehollyhocks, bachelor's buttons andmarigolds she had known all her life. Thelilacs, touch-me-nots, tulips and narcissusshe had learned to know in gardens at theGap. Two rose-bushes were in bloom,and there were strange grasses and plantsand flowers that Jack would tell her aboutwhen he came. One side was sentinelledby sun-flowers and another side bytransplanted laurel and rhododendronshrubs, and hidden in the plant-and-flower-bordered squares were thevegetables that won her step-mother'stolerance of Hale's plan. Through and

through June walked, her dark eyesflashing joyously here and there when theywere not a little dimmed with tears, withLoretta following her, unsympathetic inappreciation, wondering that June shouldbe making such a fuss about a lot offlowers, but envious withal when she halfguessed the reason, and impatient Bubeager to show her other births andchanges. And, over and over all the while,June was whispering to herself:

"My garden—MY garden!"When she came back to the porch, after

a tour through all that was new or hadchanged, Dave had brought his horse andLoretta's to the gate. No, he wouldn't comein and "rest a spell"—"they must be gittin'along home," he said shortly. But old Judd

Tolliver insisted that he should stay todinner, and Dave tied the horses to thefence and walked to the porch, not liftinghis eyes to June. Straightway the girl wentinto the house co help her step-motherwith dinner, but the old woman told hershe "reckoned she needn't start in yit"—adding in the querulous tone June knew sowell:

"I've been mighty po'ly, an' thar'll be amighty lot fer you to do now." So with thisdireful prophecy in her ears the girlhesitated. The old woman looked at herclosely.

"Ye ain't a bit changed," she said.They were the words Loretta had used,

and in the voice of each was the samestrange tone of disappointment. June

wondered: were they sorry she had notcome back putting on airs and fussed upwith ribbons and feathers that they mighthear her picked to pieces and perhaps dosome of the picking themselves? NotLoretta, surely—but the old step-mother!June left the kitchen and sat down justinside the door. The Red Fox and twoother men had sauntered up from the storeand all were listening to his quaveringchat:

"I seed a vision last night, and thar'strouble a-comin' in these mountains. TheLord told me so straight from the clouds.These railroads and coal-mines is a-goin'to raise taxes, so that a pore man'll have tosell his hogs and his corn to pay 'em an'have nothin' left to keep him from starvin'to death. Them police-fellers over thar at

the Gap is a-stirrin' up strife and a-runnin'things over thar as though the earth wasmade fer 'em, an' the citizens ain't goin' tostand it. An' this war's a-comin' on an'thar'll be shootin' an' killin' over thar an'over hyeh. I seed all this devilment in avision last night, as shore as I'm settin'hyeh."

Old Judd grunted, shifted his hugeshoulders, parted his mustache and beardwith two fingers and spat through them.

"Well, I reckon you didn't see nodevilment. Red, that you won't take a handin, if it comes."

The other men laughed, but the Red Foxlooked meek and lowly.

"I'm a servant of the Lord. He says dothis, an' I does it the best I know how. I

goes about a-preachin' the word in thewilderness an' a-healin' the sick withsoothin' yarbs and sech."

"An' a-makin' compacts with the devil,"said old Judd shortly, "when the eye ofman is a-lookin' t'other way." The left sideof the Red Fox's face twitched into thefaintest shadow of a snarl, but, shaking hishead, he kept still.

"Well," said Sam Barth, who was thinand long and sandy, "I don't keer whatthem fellers do on t'other side o' themountain, but what air they a-comin' overhere fer?"

Old Judd spoke again."To give you a job, if you wasn't too

durned lazy to work.""Yes," said the other man, who was

dark, swarthy and whose black eyebrowsmet across the bridge of his nose—"andthat damned Hale, who's a-tearin' upHellfire here in the cove." The old manlifted his eyes. Young Dave's face wore asudden malignant sympathy which madeJune clench her hands a little more tightly.

"What about him? You must have beenover to the Gap lately—like Dave thar—did you git board in the calaboose?" Itwas a random thrust, but it was accurateand it went home, and there was silencefor a while. Presently old Judd went on:

"Taxes hain't goin' to be raised, and ifthey are, folks will be better able to pay'em. Them police-fellers at the Gap don'tbother nobody if he behaves himself. Thiswar will start when it does start, an' as for

Hale, he's as square an' clever a feller asI've ever seed. His word is just as good ashis bond. I'm a-goin' to sell him this land.It'll be his'n, an' he can do what he wantsto with it. I'm his friend, and I'm goin' tostay his friend as long as he goes on ashe's goin' now, an' I'm not goin' to see himbothered as long as he tends to his ownbusiness."

The words fell slowly and the weight ofthem rested heavily on all except on June.Her fingers loosened and she smiled.

The Red Fox rose, shaking his head."All right, Judd Tolliver," he said

warningly."Come in and git something to eat,

Red.""No," he said, "I'll be gittin' along"—

and he went, still shaking his head.The table was covered with an oil-cloth

spotted with drippings from a candle. Theplates and cups were thick and the spoonswere of pewter. The bread was soggy andthe bacon was thick and floating in grease.The men ate and the women served, as inancient days. They gobbled their food likewolves, and when they drank their coffee,the noise they made was painful to June'sears. There were no napkins and when herfather pushed his chair back, he wiped hisdripping mouth with the back of hissleeve. And Loretta and the step-mother—they, too, ate with their knives and usedtheir fingers. Poor June quivered with avague newborn disgust. Ah, had she notchanged—in ways they could not see!

June helped clear away the dishes—theold woman did not object to that—listening to the gossip of the mountains—courtships, marriages, births, deaths, thegrowing hostility in the feud, the randomkilling of this man or that—Hale's doingsin Lonesome Cove.

"He's comin' over hyeh agin nextSaturday," said the old woman.

"Is he?" said Loretta in a way that madeJune turn sharply from her dishes towardher. She knew Hale was not coming, butshe said nothing. The old woman waslighting her pipe.

"Yes—you better be over hyeh in yo'best bib and tucker."

"Pshaw," said Loretta, but June sawtwo bright spots come into her pretty

cheeks, and she herself burned inwardly.The old woman was looking at her.

"'Pears like you air mighty quiet, June.""That's so," said Loretta, looking at her,

too.June, still silent, turned back to her

dishes. They were beginning to take noticeafter all, for the girl hardly knew that shehad not opened her lips.

Once only Dave spoke to her, and thatwas when Loretta said she must go. Junewas out in the porch looking at the alreadybeloved garden, and hearing his step sheturned. He looked her steadily in the eyes.She saw his gaze drop to the fairy-stone ather throat, and a faint sneer appeared athis set mouth—a sneer for June's folly andwhat he thought was uppishness in

"furriners" like Hale."So you ain't good enough fer him jest

as ye air—air ye?" he said slowly. "He'sgot to make ye all over agin—so's you'llbe fitten fer him."

He turned away without looking to seehow deep his barbed shaft went and,startled, June flushed to her hair. In a fewminutes they were gone—Dave withoutthe exchange of another word with June,and Loretta with a parting cry that shewould come back on Saturday. The oldman went to the cornfield high above thecabin, the old woman, groaning with painsreal and fancied, lay down on a creakingbed, and June, with Dave's woundrankling, went out with Bub to see the newdoings in Lonesome Cove. The geese

cackled before her, the hog-fish dartedlike submarine arrows from rock to rockand the willows bent in the same wistfulway toward their shadows in the littlestream, but its crystal depths were thereno longer—floating sawdust whirled ineddies on the surface and the water wasblack as soot. Here and there the whitebelly of a fish lay upturned to the sun, forthe cruel, deadly work of civilization hadalready begun. Farther up the creek was abuzzing monster that, creaking andsnorting, sent a flashing disk, rimmed withsharp teeth, biting a savage way through alog, that screamed with pain as the brutalthing tore through its vitals, and gave upits life each time with a ghost-like cry ofagony. Farther on little houses were beingbuilt of fresh boards, and farther on the

water of the creek got blacker still. Junesuddenly clutched Bud's arms. Twodemons had appeared on a pile of freshdirt above them—sooty, begrimed, withblack faces and black hands, and in thecap of each was a smoking little lamp.

"Huh," said Bub, "that ain't nothin'!Hello, Bill," he called bravely.

"Hello, Bub," answered one of the twodemons, and both stared at the lovely littleapparition who was staring with suchnaive horror at them. It was all verywonderful, though, and it was allhappening in Lonesome Cove, but JackHale was doing it all and, therefore, itwas all right, thought June—no matterwhat Dave said. Moreover, the ugly spoton the great, beautiful breast of the Mother

was such a little one after all and June hadno idea how it must spread. Above theopening for the mines, the creek wascrystal-clear as ever, the great hills werethe same, and the sky and the clouds, andthe cabin and the fields of corn. Nothingcould happen to them, but if even theywere wiped out by Hale's hand she wouldhave made no complaint. A wood-thrushflitted from a ravine as she and Bub wentback down the creek—and she stoppedwith uplifted face to listen. All her life shehad loved its song, and this was the firsttime she had heard it in Lonesome Covesince she had learned its name from Hale.She had never heard it thereafter withoutthinking of him, and she thought of himnow while it was breathing out the veryspirit of the hills, and she drew a long sigh

for already she was lonely and hungeringfor him. The song ceased and a longwavering cry came from the cabin.

"So-o-o-cow! S-o-o-kee! S-o-o-kee!"The old mother was calling the cows. It

was near milking-time, and with a vagueuneasiness she hurried Bub home. Shesaw her father coming down from thecornfield. She saw the two cows comefrom the woods into the path that led to thebarn, switching their tails and snatchingmouthfuls from the bushes as they swungdown the hill and, when she reached thegate, her step-mother was standing on theporch with one hand on her hip and theother shading her eyes from the slantingsun—waiting for her. Already kindnessand consideration were gone.

"Whar you been, June? Hurry up, now.You've had a long restin'-spell while I'vebeen a-workin' myself to death."

It was the old tone, and the old fiercerebellion rose within June, but Hale hadtold her to be patient. She could not checkthe flash from her eyes, but she shut herlips tight on the answer that sprang tothem, and without a word she went to thekitchen for the milking-pails. The cowshad forgotten her. They eyed her withsuspicion and were restive. The first onekicked at her when she put her beautifulhead against its soft flank. Her muscleshad been in disuse and her hands werecramped and her forearms ached beforeshe was through—but she kept doggedly ather task. When she finished, her father hadfed the horses and was standing behind

her."Hit's mighty good to have you back

agin, little gal."It was not often that he smiled or

showed tenderness, much less spoke itthus openly, and June was doubly glad thatshe had held her tongue. Then she helpedher step-mother get supper. The firescorched her face, that had grownunaccustomed to such heat, and she burnedone hand, but she did not let her step-mother see even that. Again she noticedwith aversion the heavy thick dishes andthe pewter spoons and the candle-greaseon the oil-cloth, and she put the dishesdown and, while the old woman was outof the room, attacked the spots viciously.Again she saw her father and Bub

ravenously gobbling their coarse foodwhile she and her step-mother served andwaited, and she began to wonder. Thewomen sat at the table with the men overin the Gap—why not here? Then her fatherwent silently to his pipe and Bub toplaying with the kitten at the kitchen-door,while she and her mother ate with never aword. Something began to stifle her, butshe choked it down. There were the dishesto be cleared away and washed, and thepans and kettles to be cleaned. Her backached, her arms were tired to theshoulders and her burned hand quiveredwith pain when all was done. The oldwoman had left her to do the last few littlethings alone and had gone to her pipe.Both she and her father were sitting insilence on the porch when June went out

there. Neither spoke to each other, nor toher, and both seemed to be part of theawful stillness that engulfed the world.Bub fell asleep in the soft air, and June satand sat and sat. That was all except for thestars that came out over the mountains andwere slowly being sprayed over the sky,and the pipings of frogs from the littlecreek. Once the wind came with a suddensweep up the river and she thought shecould hear the creak of Uncle Billy'swater-wheel. It smote her with suddengladness, not so much because it was arelief and because she loved the oldmiller, but—such is the power ofassociation—because she now loved themill more, loved it because the mill overin the Gap had made her think more of themill at the mouth of Lonesome Cove. A

tapping vibrated through the railing of theporch on which her cheek lay. Her fatherwas knocking the ashes from his pipe. Asimilar tapping sounded inside at thefireplace. The old woman had gone andBub was in bed, and she had heard neithermove. The old man rose with a yawn.

"Time to lay down, June."The girl rose. They all slept in one

room. She did not dare to put on her night-gown—her mother would see it in themorning. So she slipped off her dress, asshe had done all her life, and crawled intobed with Bub, who lay in the middle of itand who grunted peevishly when shepushed him with some difficulty over tohis side. There were no sheets—not evenone—and the coarse blankets, which had a

close acrid odour that she had nevernoticed before, seemed almost to scratchher flesh. She had hardly been to bed thatearly since she had left home, and she laysleepless, watching the firelight play hideand seek with the shadows among theaged, smoky rafters and flicker over thestrings of dried things that hung from theceiling. In the other corner her father andstepmother snored heartily, and Bub,beside her, was in a nerveless slumberthat would not come to her that night-tiredand aching as she was. So, quietly, by andby, she slipped out of bed and out the doorto the porch. The moon was rising and theradiant sheen of it had dropped down overthe mountain side like a golden veil andwas lighting up the white rising mists thattrailed the curves of the river. It sank

below the still crests of the pines beyondthe garden and dropped on until itillumined, one by one, the dewy heads ofthe flowers. She rose and walked downthe grassy path in her bare feet through thesilent fragrant emblems of the planter'sthought of her—touching this flower andthat with the tips of her fingers. And whenshe went back, she bent to kiss one lovelyrose and, as she lifted her head with astart of fear, the dew from it shining on herlips made her red mouth as flower-likeand no less beautiful. A yell had shatteredthe quiet of the world—not the high fox-hunting yell of the mountains, butsomething new and strange. Up the creekwere strange lights. A loud laugh shatteredthe succeeding stillness—a laugh she hadnever heard before in Lonesome Cove.

Swiftly she ran back to the porch. Surelystrange things were happening there. Astrange spirit pervaded the Cove and thevery air throbbed with premonitions. Whatwas the matter with everything—what wasthe matter with her? She knew that shewas lonely and that she wanted Hale—butwhat else was it? She shivered—and notalone from the chill night-air—andpuzzled and wondering and stricken atheart, she crept back to bed.

XVIIIPausing at the Pine to let his big black

horse blow a while, Hale mounted androde slowly down the green-and-goldgloom of the ravine. In his pocket was aquaint little letter from June to "JohnHail"; thanking him for the beautifulgarden, saying she was lonely, andwanting him to come soon. From the lowflank of the mountain he stopped, lookingdown on the cabin in Lonesome Cove. Itwas a dreaming summer day. Trees, air,blue sky and white cloud were all in adream, and even the smoke lazing from thechimney seemed drifting away like thespirit of something human that cared little

whither it might be borne. Somethingcrimson emerged from the door andstopped in indecision on the steps of theporch. It moved again, stopped at thecorner of the house, and then, moving onwith a purpose, stopped once more andbegan to flicker slowly to and fro like aflame. June was working in her garden.Hale thought he would halloo to her, andthen he decided to surprise her, and hewent on down, hitched his horse and stoleup to the garden fence. On the way hepulled up a bunch of weeds by the rootsand with them in his arms he noiselesslyclimbed the fence. June neither heard norsaw him. Her underlip was clenched tightbetween her teeth, the little cross swungviolently at her throat and she was sosavagely wielding the light hoe he had

given her that he thought at first she mustbe killing a snake; but she was onlyfighting to death every weed that dared toshow its head. Her feet and her head werebare, her face was moist and flushed andher hair was a tumbled heap of what wasto him the rarest gold under the sun. Thewind was still, the leaves were heavywith the richness of full growth, beeswere busy about June's head and notanother soul was in sight.

"Good morning, little girl!" he calledcheerily.

The hoe was arrested at the height of avicious stroke and the little girl whirledwithout a cry, but the blood from herpumping heart crimsoned her face andmade her eyes shine with gladness. Her

eyes went to her feet and her hands to herhair.

"You oughtn't to slip up an' s-startle alady that-a-way," she said with graverebuke, and Hale looked humbled. "Nowyou just set there and wait till I comeback."

"No—no—I want you to stay just asyou are."

"Honest?"Hale gravely crossed heart and body

and June gave out a happy little laugh—for he had caught that gesture—a favouriteone—from her. Then suddenly:

"How long?" She was thinking of whatDave said, but the subtle twist in hermeaning passed Hale by. He raised hiseyes to the sun and June shook her head.

"You got to go home 'fore sundown."She dropped her hoe and came over

toward him."Whut you doin' with them—those

weeds?""Going to plant 'em in our garden."

Hale had got a theory from a garden-bookthat the humble burdock, pig-weed andother lowly plants were good forornamental effect, and he wanted toexperiment, but June gave a shrill whoopand fell to scornful laughter. Then shesnatched the weeds from him and threwthem over the fence.

"Why, June!""Not in MY garden. Them's stagger-

weeds—they kill cows," and she went offagain.

"I reckon you better c-consult me 'boutweeds next time. I don't know much 'boutflowers, but I've knowed all my life 'boutWEEDS." She laid so much emphasis onthe word that Hale wondered for themoment if her words had a deepermeaning—but she went on:

"Ever' spring I have to watch the cowsfer two weeks to keep 'em from eatin'—those weeds." Her self-corrections werealways made gravely now, and Haleconsciously ignored them except when hehad something to tell her that she ought toknow. Everything, it seemed, she wantedto know.

"Do they really kill cows?"June snapped her fingers: "Like that.

But you just come on here," she added

with pretty imperiousness. "I want to axe—ask you some things—what's that?"

"Scarlet sage.""Scarlet sage," repeated June. "An'

that?""Nasturtium, and that's Oriental grass.""Nas-tur-tium, Oriental. An' what's that

vine?""That comes from North Africa—they

call it 'matrimonial vine.'""Whut fer?" asked June quickly."Because it clings so." Hale smiled, but

June saw none of his humour—the marriedpeople she knew clung till the finger ofdeath unclasped them. She pointed to abunch of tall tropical-looking plants withgreat spreading leaves and big green-

white stalks."They're called Palmae Christi.""Whut?""That's Latin. It means 'Hands of

Christ,'" said Hale with reverence. "Yousee how the leaves are spread out—don'tthey look like hands?'

"Not much," said June frankly. "What'sLatin?"

"Oh, that's a dead language that somepeople used a long, long time ago."

"What do folks use it nowadays fer?Why don't they just say 'Hands o' Christ'?"

"I don't know," he said helplessly, "butmaybe you'll study Latin some of thesedays." June shook her head.

"Gettin' YOUR language is a big enough

job fer me," she said with such quaintseriousness that Hale could not laugh. Shelooked up suddenly. "You been a longtime git—gettin' over here."

"Yes, and now you want to send mehome before sundown."

"I'm afeer—I'm afraid for you. Haveyou got a gun?" Hale tapped his breast-pocket.

"Always. What are you afraid of?""The Falins." She clenched her hands."I'd like to SEE one o' them Falins tech

ye," she added fiercely, and then she gavea quick look at the sun.

"You better go now, Jack. I'm afraid feryou. Where's your horse?" Hale waved hishand.

"Down there. All right, little girl," hesaid. "I ought to go, anyway." And, tohumour her, he started for the gate. Therehe bent to kiss her, but she drew back.

"I'm afraid of Dave," she said, but sheleaned on the gate and looked long at himwith wistful eyes.

"Jack," she said, and her eyes swamsuddenly, "it'll most kill me—but I reckonyou better not come over here much." Halemade light of it all.

"Nonsense, I'm coming just as often as Ican." June smiled then.

"All right. I'll watch out fer ye."He went down the path, her eyes

following him, and when he looked backfrom the spur he saw her sitting in theporch and watching that she might wave

him farewell.Hale could not go over to Lonesome

Cove much that summer, for he was awayfrom the mountains a good part of the time,and it was a weary, racking summer forJune when he was not there. The step-mother was a stern taskmistress, and thegirl worked hard, but no night passed thatshe did not spend an hour or more on herbooks, and by degrees she bribed andstormed Bub into learning his A, B, C'sand digging at a blue-back spelling book.But all through the day there were timeswhen she could play with the boy in thegarden, and every afternoon, when it wasnot raining, she would slip away to a littleravine behind the cabin, where a log hadfallen across a little brook, and there inthe cool, sun-pierced shadows she would

study, read and dream—with the waterbubbling underneath and wood-thrushessinging overhead. For Hale kept her wellsupplied with books. He had given herchildren's books at first, but she outgrewthem when the first love-story fell into herhands, and then he gave her novels—good,old ones and the best of the new ones, andthey were to her what water is to a thingathirst. But the happy days were whenHale was there. She had a thousandquestions for him to answer, whenever hecame, about birds, trees and flowers andthe things she read in her books. Thewords she could not understand in themshe marked, so that she could ask theirmeaning, and it was amazing how hervocabulary increased. Moreover, she wasalways trying to use the new words she

learned, and her speech was thus a quaintmixture of vernacular, self-correctionsand unexpected words. Happening once tohave a volume of Keats in his pocket, heread some of it to her, and while she couldnot understand, the music of the linesfascinated her and she had him leave thatwith her, too. She never tired hearing himtell of the places where he had been andthe people he knew and the music andplays he had heard and seen. And when hetold her that she, too, should see all thosewonderful things some day, her deep eyestook fire and she dropped her head farback between her shoulders and lookedlong at the stars that held but little morewonder for her than the world of which hetold. But each time he was there she grewnoticeably shyer with him and never once

was the love-theme between them taken upin open words. Hale was reluctant, if onlybecause she was still such a child, and ifhe took her hand or put his own on herwonderful head or his arm around her asthey stood in the garden under the stars—he did it as to a child, though the leap inher eyes and the quickening of his ownheart told him the lie that he was acting,rightly, to her and to himself. And no morenow were there any breaking-downswithin her—there was only a calm faiththat staggered him and gave him an ever-mounting sense of his responsibility forwhatever might, through the part he hadtaken in moulding her life, be in store forher.

When he was not there, life grew a littleeasier for her in time, because of her

dreams, the patience that was built fromthem and Hale's kindly words, the comfortof her garden and her books, and theblessed force of habit. For as time wenton, she got consciously used to the roughlife, the coarse food and the rude ways ofher own people and her own home. Andthough she relaxed not a bit in her owndainty cleanliness, the shrinking that shefelt when she first arrived home, came toher at longer and longer intervals. Once aweek she went down to Uncle Billy's,where she watched the water-wheeldripping sun-jewels into the sluice, thekingfisher darting like a blue bolt upon hisprey, and listening to the lullaby that thewater played to the sleepy old mill—andstopping, both ways, to gossip with oldHon in her porch under the honeysuckle

vines. Uncle Billy saw the change in herand he grew vaguely uneasy about her—she dreamed so much, she was at times sorestless, she asked so many questions hecould not answer, and she failed to ask somany that were on the tip of her tongue.He saw that while her body was at home,her thoughts rarely were; and it all hauntedhim with a vague sense that he was losingher. But old Hon laughed at him and toldhim he was an old fool and to "git anotherpair o' specs" and maybe he could see thatthe "little gal" was in love. This startledUncle Billy, for he was so like a father toJune that he was as slow as a father inrecognizing that his child has grown tosuch absurd maturity. But looking back tothe beginning—how the little girl hadtalked of the "furriner" who had come into

Lonesome Cove all during the six monthshe was gone; how gladly she had goneaway to the Gap to school, how anxiousshe was to go still farther away again,and, remembering all the strange questionsshe asked him about things in the outsideworld of which he knew nothing—UncleBilly shook his head in confirmation of hisown conclusion, and with all his soul hewondered about Hale—what kind of aman he was and what his purpose waswith June—and of every man who passedhis mill he never failed to ask if he knew"that ar man Hale" and what he knew. Allhe had heard had been in Hale's favour,except from young Dave Tolliver, the RedFox or from any Falin of the crowd, whichHale had prevented from capturing Dave.Their statements bothered him—

especially the Red Fox's evil hints andinsinuations about Hale's purposes oneday at the mill. The miller thought of themall the afternoon and all the way home,and when he sat down at his fire his eyesvery naturally and simply rose to his oldrifle over the door—and then he laughedto himself so loudly that old Hon heardhim.

"Air you goin' crazy, Billy?" she asked."Whut you studyin' 'bout?"

"Nothin'; I was jest a-thinkin' DevilJudd wouldn't leave a grease-spot of him."

"You AIR goin' crazy—who's him?""Uh—nobody," said Uncle Billy, and

old Hon turned with a shrug of hershoulders—she was tired of all this talkabout the feud.

All that summer young Dave Tolliverhung around Lonesome Cove. He wouldsit for hours in Devil Judd's cabin, rarelysaying anything to June or to anybody,though the girl felt that she hardly made amove that he did not see, and while hedisappeared when Hale came, after asurly grunt of acknowledgment to Hale'scheerful greeting, his perpetual espionagebegan to anger June. Never, however, didhe put himself into words until Hale's lastvisit, when the summer had waned and itwas nearly time for June to go away againto school. As usual, Dave had left thehouse when Hale came, and an hour afterHale was gone she went to the little ravinewith a book in her hand, and there the boywas sitting on her log, his elbows dug intohis legs midway between thigh and knee,

his chin in his hands, his slouched hat overhis black eyes—every line of himpicturing angry, sullen dejection. Shewould have slipped away, but he heardher and lifted his head and stared at herwithout speaking. Then he slowly got offthe log and sat down on a moss-coveredstone.

"'Scuse me," he said with elaboratesarcasm. "This bein' yo' school-houseover hyeh, an' me not bein' a scholar, Ireckon I'm in your way."

"How do you happen to know hit's myschool-house?" asked June quietly.

"I've seed you hyeh.""Jus' as I s'posed.""You an' HIM.""Jus' as I s'posed," she repeated, and a

spot of red came into each cheek. "But wedidn't see YOU." Young Dave laughed.

"Well, everybody don't always see mewhen I'm seein' them."

"No," she said unsteadily. "So, you'vebeen sneakin' around through the woods a-spyin' on me—SNEAKIN' AN' SPYIN',"she repeated so searingly that Davelooked at the ground suddenly, picked up apebble confusedly and shot it in the water.

"I had a mighty good reason," he saiddoggedly. "Ef he'd been up to some of hisfurrin' tricks—-" June stamped the ground.

"Don't you think I kin take keer o'myself?"

"No, I don't. I never seed a gal thatcould—with one o' them furriners."

"Huh!" she said scornfully. "You seem

to set a mighty big store by the decency ofyo' own kin." Dave was silent. "He ain'tup to no tricks. An' whut do you reckonDad 'ud be doin' while you was pertectingme?"

"Air ye goin' away to school?" he askedsuddenly. June hesitated.

"Well, seein' as hit's none o' yo'business—I am."

"Air ye goin' to marry him?""He ain't axed me." The boy's face

turned red as a flame."Ye air honest with me, an' now I'm

goin' to be honest with you. You hain'tnever goin' to marry him."

"Mebbe you think I'm goin' to marryYOU." A mist of rage swept before thelad's eyes so that he could hardly see, buthe repeated steadily:

"You hain't goin' to marry HIM." Junelooked at the boy long and steadily, but hisblack eyes never wavered—she knewwhat he meant.

"An' he kept the Falins from killin'you," she said, quivering with indignation

at the shame of him, but Dave went onunheeding:

"You pore little fool! Do ye reckon ashow he's EVER goin' to axe ye to marryhim? Whut's he sendin' you away fer?Because you hain't good enough fer him!Whar's yo' pride? You hain't good enoughfer him," he repeated scathingly. June hadgrown calm now.

"I know it," she said quietly, "but I'mgoin' to try to be."

Dave rose then in impotent fury andpointed one finger at her. His black eyesgleamed like a demon's and his voice washoarse with resolution and rage, but it wasTolliver against Tolliver now, and Juneanswered him with contemptuousfearlessness.

"YOU HAIN'T NEVER GOIN' TOMARRY HIM."

"An' he kept the Falins from killin' ye.""Yes," he retorted savagely at last, "an'

I kept the Falins from killin' HIM," and hestalked away, leaving June blanched andwondering.

It was true. Only an hour before, asHale turned up the mountain that veryafternoon at the mouth of Lonesome Cove,young Dave had called to him from thebushes and stepped into the road.

"You air goin' to court Monday?" hesaid.

"Yes," said Hale."Well, you better take another road this

time," he said quietly. "Three o' the Falinswill be waitin' in the lorrel somewhar on

the road to lay-way ye."Hale was dumfounded, but he knew the

boy spoke the truth."Look here," he said impulsively, "I've

got nothing against you, and I hope you'vegot nothing against me. I'm much obliged—let's shake hands!"

The boy turned sullenly away with adogged shake of his head.

"I was beholden to you," he said withdignity, "an' I warned you 'bout themFalins to git even with you. We're quitsnow."

Hale started to speak—to say that thelad was not beholden to him—that hewould as quickly have protected a Falin,but it would have only made mattersworse. Moreover, he knew precisely what

Dave had against him, and that, too, wasno matter for discussion. So he saidsimply and sincerely:

"I'm sorry we can't be friends.""No," Dave gritted out, "not this side o'

Heaven—or Hell."

XIXAnd still farther into that far silence

about which she used to dream at the baseof the big Pine, went little June. At dusk,weary and travel-stained, she sat in theparlours of a hotel—a great graycolumned structure of stone. She wasconfused and bewildered and her headached. The journey had been long andtiresome. The swift motion of the train hadmade her dizzy and faint. The dust andsmoke had almost stifled her, and evennow the dismal parlours, rich andwonderful as they were to herunaccustomed eyes, oppressed her deeply.If she could have one more breath of

mountain air!The day had been too full of wonders.

Impressions had crowded on her sensitivebrain so thick and fast that the recollectionof them was as through a haze. She hadnever been on a train before and when, asit crashed ahead, she clutched Hale's armin fear and asked how they stopped it,Hale hearing the whistle blow for astation, said:

"I'll show you," and he waved one handout the window. And he repeated this tricktwice before she saw that it was a joke.All day he had soothed her uneasiness insome such way and all day he watched herwith an amused smile that was puzzling toher. She remembered sadly watching themountains dwindle and disappear, and

when several of her own people whowere on the train were left at way-stations, it seemed as though all links thatbound her to her home were broken. Theface of the country changed, the peoplechanged in looks, manners and dress, andshe shrank closer to Hale with anincreasing sense of painful loneliness.These level fields and these farm-housesso strangely built, so varied in colourwere the "settlemints," and these peopleso nicely dressed, so clean and fresh-looking were "furriners." At one station acrowd of school-girls had got on boardand she had watched them with keeninterest, mystified by their incessantchatter and gayety. And at last had comethe big city, with more smoke, more dust,more noise, more confusion—and she was

in HIS world. That was the thought thatcomforted her—it was his world, and nowshe sat alone in the dismal parlours whileHale was gone to find his sister—waitingand trembling at the ordeal, close uponher, of meeting Helen Hale.

Below, Hale found his sister and hermaid registered, and a few minutes laterhe led Miss Hale into the parlour. As theyentered June rose without advancing, andfor a moment the two stood facing eachother—the still roughly clad, primitivemountain girl and the exquisite modernwoman—in an embarrassment equallypainful to both.

"June, this is my sister."At a loss what to do, Helen Hale simply

stretched out her hand, but drawn by

June's timidity and the quick admirationand fear in her eyes, she leaned suddenlyforward and kissed her. A grateful flushoverspread the little girl's features and thepallor that instantly succeeded wentstraight-way to the sister's heart.

"You are not well," she said quicklyand kindly. "You must go to your room atonce. I am going to take care of you—youare MY little sister now."

June lost the subtlety in Miss Hale'semphasis, but she fell with instantsubmission under such gentle authority,and though she could say nothing, her eyesglistened and her lips quivered, andwithout looking to Hale, she followed hissister out of the room. Hale stood still. Hehad watched the meeting with

apprehension and now, surprised andgrateful, he went to Helen's parlour andwaited with a hopeful heart. When hissister entered, he rose eagerly:

"Well—" he said, stopping suddenly,for there were tears of vexation, dismayand genuine distress on his sister's face.

"Oh, Jack," she cried, "how could you!How could you!"

Hale bit his lips, turned and paced theroom. He had hoped too much and yetwhat else could he have expected? Hissister and June knew as little about eachother and each other's lives as though theyhad occupied different planets. He hadforgotten that Helen must be shocked byJune's inaccuracies of speech and in ahundred other ways to which he had

become accustomed. With him, moreover,the process had been gradual and,moreover, he had seen beneath it all. Andyet he had foolishly expected Helen tounderstand everything at once. He wasunjust, so very wisely he held himself insilence.

"Where is her baggage, Jack?" Helenhad opened her trunk and was lifting outthe lid. "She ought to change those dustyclothes at once. You'd better ring and haveit sent right up."

"No," said Hale, "I will go down andsee about it myself."

He returned presently—his face aflame—with June's carpet-bag.

"I believe this is all she has," he saidquietly.

In spite of herself Helen's grief changedto a fit of helpless laughter and, afraid totrust himself further, Hale rose to leavethe room. At the door he was met by thenegro maid.

"Miss Helen," she said with an opensmile, "Miss June say she don't wantNUTTIN'." Hale gave her a fiery look andhurried out. June was seated at a windowwhen he went into her room with her faceburied in her arms. She lifted her head,dropped it, and he saw that her eyes werered with weeping. "Are you sick, littlegirl?" he asked anxiously. June shook herhead helplessly.

"You aren't homesick, are you?""No." The answer came very faintly."Don't you like my sister?" The head

bowed an emphatic "Yes—yes.""Then what is the matter?""Oh," she said despairingly, between

her sobs, "she—won't—like—me. I never—can—be—like HER."

Hale smiled, but her grief was sosincere that he leaned over her and with atender hand soothed her into quiet. Thenhe went to Helen again and he found heroverhauling dresses.

"I brought along several things ofdifferent sizes and I am going to try at anyrate. Oh," she added hastily, "only ofcourse until she can get some clothes ofher own."

"Sure," said Hale, "but—" His sisterwaved one hand and again Hale kept still.

June had bathed her eyes and was lying

down when Helen entered, and she madenot the slightest objection to anything thelatter proposed. Straightway she fell underas complete subjection to her as she haddone to Hale. Without a moment'shesitation she drew off her rudelyfashioned dress and stood before Helenwith the utmost simplicity—her beautifularms and throat bare and her hair fallingabout them with the rich gold of a cloud atan autumn sunset. Dressed, she couldhardly breathe, but when she looked atherself in the mirror, she trembled. Magictransformation! Apparently the chasmbetween the two had been bridged in asingle instant. Helen herself wasastonished and again her heart warmedtoward the girl, when a little later, shestood timidly under Hale's scrutiny,

eagerly watching his face and flushingrosy with happiness under his brighteninglook. Her brother had not exaggerated—the little girl was really beautiful. Whenthey went down to the dining-room, therewas another surprise for Helen Hale, forJune's timidity was gone and to thewonder of the woman, she was clothedwith an impassive reserve that in herselfwould have been little less thanhaughtiness and was astounding in a child.She saw, too, that the change in the girl'sbearing was unconscious and that thepresence of strangers had caused it. It wasplain that June's timidity sprang from herlove of Hale—her fear of not pleasing himand not pleasing her, his sister, and plain,too, that remarkable self-poise was littleJune's to command. At the table June kept

her eyes fastened on Helen Hale. Not amovement escaped her and she did nothingthat was not done by one of the othersfirst. She said nothing, but if she had toanswer a question, she spoke with suchcare and precision that she almost seemedto be using a foreign language. Miss Halesmiled but with inward approval, and thatnight she was in better spirits.

"Jack," she said, when he came to bidher good-night, "I think we'd better stayhere a few days. I thought of course youwere exaggerating, but she is very, verylovely. And that manner of hers—well, itpasses my understanding. Just leaveeverything to me."

Hale was very willing to do that. Hehad all trust in his sister's judgment, he

knew her dislike of interference, her loveof autocratic supervision, so he asked noquestions, but in grateful relief kissed hergood-night.

The sister sat for a long time at herwindow after he was gone. Her brotherhad been long away from civilization; hehad become infatuated, the girl loved him,he was honourable and in his heart hemeant to marry her—that was to her thewhole story. She had been mortified bythe misstep, but the misstep made, onlyone thought had occurred to her—to helphim all she could. She had been appalledwhen she first saw the dusty shrinkingmountain girl, but the helplessness and theloneliness of the tired little face touchedher, and she was straightway responsiveto the mute appeal in the dark eyes that

were lifted to her own with such modestfear and wonder. Now her surprise at herbrother's infatuation was abating rapidly.The girl's adoration of him, her wildbeauty, her strange winning personality—as rare and as independent of birth andcircumstances as genius—had soon madethat phenomenon plain. And now whatwas to be done? The girl was quick,observant, imitative, docile, and in thepresence of strangers, her gravity ofmanner gave the impression of uncannyself-possession. It really seemed as thoughanything might be possible. At Helen'ssuggestion, then, the three stayed wherethey were for a week, for June's wardrobewas sadly in need of attention. So theweek was spent in shopping, driving, andwalking, and rapidly as it passed for

Helen and Hale it was to June the longestof her life, so filled was it with a thousandsensations unfelt by them. The city hadbeen stirred by the spirit of the new South,but the charm of the old was distincteverywhere. Architectural eccentricitieshad startled the sleepy maple-shaded rowsof comfortable uniform dwellings hereand there, and in some streets the life wasbrisk; but it was still possible to seepedestrians strolling with unconsciousgood-humour around piles of goods on thesidewalk, business men stopping for asocial chat on the streets, street-carsmoving independent of time, meninvariably giving up their seats to women,and, strangers or not, depositing their farefor them; the drivers at the courteouspersonal service of each patron of the

road—now holding a car and placidlywhistling while some lady who hadsignalled from her doorway went backindoors for some forgotten article, nowtwisting the reins around the brakes andleaving a parcel in some yard—and noone grumbling! But what was to Hale anatmosphere of amusing leisure was to Junebewildering confusion. To her hisamusement was unintelligible, but thoughin constant wonder at everything she saw,no one would ever have suspected that shewas making her first acquaintance withcity scenes. At first the calm unconcern ofher companions had puzzled her. Shecould not understand how they could walkalong, heedless of the wonderful visionsthat beckoned to her from the shop-windows; fearless of the strange noises

about them and scarcely noticing the greatcrowds of people, or the strange shiningvehicles that thronged the streets. But shehad quickly concluded that it was one ofthe demands of that new life to see littleand be astonished at nothing, and Helenand Hale surprised in turn at herunconcern, little suspected the effort herself-suppression cost her. And when oversome wonder she did lose herself, Halewould say:

"Just wait till you see New York!" andJune would turn her dark eyes to Helen forconfirmation and to see if Hale could bejoking with her.

"It's all true, June," Helen would say."You must go there some day. It's true."But that town was enough and too much

for June. Her head buzzed continuouslyand she could hardly sleep, and she wasglad when one afternoon they took her intothe country again—the Bluegrass country—and to the little town near which Halehad been born, and which was a dream-city to June, and to a school of which anold friend of his mother was principal,and in which Helen herself was atemporary teacher. And Rumour had goneahead of June. Hale had found her dashingabout the mountains on the back of a wildbull, said rumour. She was as beautiful asEuropa, was of pure English descent andspoke the language of Shakespeare—theHon. Sam Budd's hand was patent in this.She had saved Hale's life frommoonshiners and while he was really inlove with her, he was pretending to

educate her out of gratitude—and heredoubtless was the faint tracery of MissAnne Saunder's natural suspicions. Andthere Hale left her under the eye of hissister—left her to absorb another new lifelike a thirsty plant and come back to themountains to make his head swim withnew witcheries.

XXThe boom started after its shadow

through the hills now, and Hale watched itsweep toward him with grim satisfactionat the fulfilment of his own prophecy andwith disgust that, by the irony of fate, itshould come from the very quarters whereyears before he had played the maddeningpart of lunatic at large. The avalanche wassweeping southward; Pennsylvania wascreeping down the Alleghanies,emissaries of New York capital werepouring into the hills, the tide-water ofVirginia and the Bluegrass region ofKentucky were sending in their best bloodand youth, and friends of the helmeted

Englishmen were hurrying over the seas.Eastern companies were taking upprincipalities, and at Cumberland Gap,those helmeted Englishmen had acquired akingdom. They were building a townthere, too, with huge steel plants, broadavenues and business blocks that wouldhave graced Broadway; and they werepouring out a million for every thousandthat it would have cost Hale to acquire theland on which the work was going on.Moreover they were doing it there, asHale heard, because they were too late toget control of his gap through theCumberland. At his gap, too, the samemovement was starting. In stage andwagon, on mule and horse, "riding andtying" sometimes, and even afoot came therush of madmen. Horses and mules were

drowned in the mud holes along the road,such was the traffic and such were thefloods. The incomers slept eight in aroom, burned oil at one dollar a gallon,and ate potatoes at ten cents apiece. TheGrand Central Hotel was a humming Real-Estate Exchange, and, night and day, theoccupants of any room could hear, throughthe thin partitions, lots booming to right,left, behind and in front of them. Thelabour and capital question was instantlysolved, for everybody became acapitalist-carpenter, brick-layer,blacksmith, singing teacher and preacher.There is no difference between theshrewdest business man and a fool in aboom, for the boom levels all grades ofintelligence and produces as distinct aform of insanity as you can find within the

walls of an asylum. Lots took wings sky-ward. Hale bought one for June for thirtydollars and sold it for a thousand. Beforethe autumn was gone, he found himself onthe way to ridiculous opulence and, whenspring came, he had the world in a slingand, if he wished, he could toss itplayfully at the sun and have it drop backinto his hand again. And the boom spreaddown the valley and into the hills. Thepolice guard had little to do and, over inthe mountains, the feud miraculously cameto a sudden close.

So pervasive, indeed, was the spirit ofthe times that the Hon. Sam Budd actuallygot old Buck Falin and old Dave Tolliverto sign a truce, agreeing to a completecessation of hostilities until he carriedthrough a land deal in which both were

interested. And after that was concluded,nobody had time, even the Red Fox, fordeviltry and private vengeance—so busywas everybody picking up the mannawhich was dropping straight from theclouds. Hale bought all of old Judd's land,formed a stock company and in the tradegave June a bonus of the stock. Moneywas plentiful as grains of sand, and thecashier of the bank in the back of thefurniture store at the Gap chuckled to hisbeardless directors as he locked thewooden door on the day before the greatland sale:

"Capital stock paid in—thirteenthousand dollars;

"Deposits—three hundred thousand;"Loans—two hundred and sixty

thousand—interest from eight to twelveper cent." And, beardless though thosedirectors were, that statement made themreel.

A club was formed and the like of itwas not below Mason and Dixon's line inthe way of furniture, periodicals, liquorsand cigars. Poker ceased—it was too tamein competition with this new game oftown-lots. On the top of High Knob akingdom was bought. The young bloods ofthe town would build a lake up there, runa road up and build a Swiss chalet on thevery top for a country club. The"booming" editor was discharged. A newpaper was started, and the ex-editor of aNew York Daily was got to run it. Ifanybody wanted anything, he got it fromno matter where, nor at what cost. Nor

were the arts wholly neglected. One man,who was proud of his voice, thought hewould like to take singing lessons. Anemissary was sent to Boston to bring backthe best teacher he could find. The teachercame with a method of placing the voiceby trying to say "Come!" at the base of thenose and between the eyes. This was withthe lips closed. He charged two dollarsper half hour for this effort, he had eachpupil try it twice for half an hour eachday, and for six weeks the town washumming like a beehive. At the end of thatperiod, the teacher fell ill and went hisway with a fat pocket-book and not awarbling soul had got the chance to openhis mouth. The experience dampenednobody. Generosity was limitless. It wasequally easy to raise money for a roulette

wheel, a cathedral or an expedition toAfrica. And even yet the railroad wasmiles away and even yet in February, theImprovement Company had a great landsale. The day before it, competingpurchasers had deposited chequesaggregating three times the sum asked forby the company for the land. So the buyersspent the night organizing a pool to keepdown competition and drawing lots for theprivilege of bidding. For fairness, the salewas an auction, and one old farmer whohad sold some of the land originally for ahundred dollars an acre, bought back someof that land at a thousand dollars a lot.

That sale was the climax and, that early,Hale got a warning word from England,but he paid no heed even though, after thesale, the boom slackened, poised and

stayed still; for optimism wasunquenchable and another tide wouldcome with another sale in May, and so thespring passed in the same joyousrecklessness and the same perfect hope.

In April, the first railroad reached theGap at last, and families came in rapidly.Money was still plentiful and right royallywas it spent, for was not just as muchmore coming when the second roadarrived in May? Life was easier, too—supplies came from New York, eighto'clock dinners were in vogue andeverybody was happy. Every man had twoor three good horses and nothing to do.The place was full of visiting girls. Theyrode in parties to High Knob, and the ringof hoof and the laughter of youth and maidmade every dusk resonant with joy. On

Poplar Hill houses sprang up like magicand weddings came. The passing strangerwas stunned to find out in the wildernesssuch a spot; gayety, prodigal hospitality, apolice force of gentlemen—nearly all ofwhom were college graduates—and aclub, where poker flourished in the smokeof Havana cigars, and a barrel of whiskeystood in one corner with a faucet waitingfor the turn of any hand. And still thefoundation of the new hotel was notstarted and the coming of the new railroadin May did not make a marked change. Forsome reason the May sale was postponedby the Improvement Company, but whatdid it matter? Perhaps it was better to waitfor the fall, and so the summer went onunchanged. Every man still had a bankaccount and in the autumn, the boom

would come again. At such a time Junecame home for her vacation, and BobBerkley came back from college for his.All through the school year Hale had gotthe best reports of June. His sister's letterswere steadily encouraging. June had beenvery homesick for the mountains and forHale at first, but the homesickness hadquickly worn off—apparently for both.She had studied hard, had become afavourite among the girls, and had held herown among them in a surprising way. Butit was on June's musical talent that Hale'ssister always laid most stress, and on hervoice which, she said, was really unusual.June wrote, too, at longer and longerintervals and in her letters, Hale could seethe progress she was making—the changein her handwriting, the increasing

formality of expression, and the increasingshrewdness of her comments on herfellow-pupils, her teachers and the lifeabout her. She did not write home for areason Hale knew, though June nevermentioned it—because there was no oneat home who could read her letters—butshe always sent messages to her father andBub and to the old miller and old Hon,and Hale faithfully delivered them whenhe could.

From her people, as Hale learned fromhis sister, only one messenger had comeduring the year to June, and he came butonce. One morning, a tall, black-haired,uncouth young man, in a slouch hat and aPrince Albert coat, had strode up to theschool with a big paper box under his armand asked for June. As he handed the box

to the maid at the door, it broke and redapples burst from it and rolled down thesteps. There was a shriek of laughter fromthe girls, and the young man, flushing redas the apples, turned, without giving hisname, and strode back with no littlemajesty, looking neither to right nor left.Hale knew and June knew that the visitorwas her cousin Dave, but she nevermentioned the incident to him, though asthe end of the session drew nigh, herletters became more frequent and morefull of messages to the people inLonesome Cove, and she seemed eager toget back home. Over there about this time,old Judd concluded suddenly to go West,taking Bud with him, and when Halewrote the fact, an answer came from Junethat showed the blot of tears. However,

she seemed none the less in a hurry to getback, and when Hale met her at thestation, he was startled; for she came backin dresses that were below her shoe-tops,with her wonderful hair massed in agolden glory on the top of her head and thelittle fairy-cross dangling at a woman'sthroat. Her figure had rounded, her voicehad softened. She held herself as straightas a young poplar and she walked theearth as though she had come straight fromOlympus. And still, in spite of her newfeathers and airs and graces, there was inher eye and in her laugh and in her moodsall the subtle wild charm of the child inLonesome Cove. It was fairy-time for Junethat summer, though her father and Budhad gone West, for her step-mother wasliving with a sister, the cabin in Lonesome

Cove was closed and June stayed at theGap, not at the Widow Crane's boarding-house, but with one of Hale's marriedfriends on Poplar Hill. And always wasshe, young as she was, one of the merryparties of that happy summer—even at thedances, for the dance, too, June hadlearned. Moreover she had picked up theguitar, and many times when Hale hadbeen out in the hills, he would hear hersilver-clear voice floating out into themoonlight as he made his way towardPoplar Hill, and he would stop under thebeeches and listen with ears of growinglove to the wonder of it all. For it was hewho was the ardent one of the two now.

June was no longer the frank, impulsivechild who stood at the foot of the beech,doggedly reckless if all the world knew

her love for him. She had taken flight tosome inner recess where it was difficultfor Hale to follow, and right puzzled hewas to discover that he must now winagain what, unasked, she had once sofreely given.

Bob Berkley, too, had developedamazingly. He no longer said "Sir" toHale—that was bad form at Harvard—hecalled him by his first name and lookedhim in the eye as man to man: just as June—Hale observed—no longer seemed inany awe of Miss Anne Saunders and tohave lost all jealousy of her, or ofanybody else—so swiftly had her instincttaught her she now had nothing to fear.And Bob and June seemed mightilypleased with each other, and sometimesHale, watching them as they galloped past

him on horseback laughing and bantering,felt foolish to think of their perfect fitness—the one for the other—and theincongruity of himself in a relationshipthat would so naturally be theirs. At onething he wondered: she had made anextraordinary record at school and itseemed to him that it was partly throughthe consciousness that her brain wouldtake care of itself that she could pay suchheed to what hitherto she had had nochance to learn—dress, manners,deportment and speech. Indeed, it wascurious that she seemed to lay most stresson the very things to which he, because ofhis long rough life in the mountains, wasgrowing more and more indifferent. It wasquite plain that Bob, with his extremegallantry of manner, his smart clothes, his

high ways and his unconquerable gayety,had supplanted him on the pedestal wherehe had been the year before, just assomebody, somewhere—his sister,perhaps—had supplanted Miss Anne.Several times indeed June had correctedHale's slips of tongue with mischievoustriumph, and once when he came back latefrom a long trip in the mountains andwalked in to dinner without changing hisclothes, Hale saw her look from himself tothe immaculate Bob with an unconsciouscomparison that half amused, half worriedhim. The truth was he was building alovely Frankenstein and from wonderingwhat he was going to do with it, he wasbeginning to wonder now what it mightsome day do with him. And though hesometimes joked with Miss Anne, who

had withdrawn now to the level plane offriendship with him, about thetransformation that was going on, heworried in a way that did neither his heartnor his brain good. Still he fought both tolittle purpose all that summer, and it wasnot till the time was nigh when June mustgo away again, that he spoke both. ForHale's sister was going to marry, and itwas her advice that he should take June toNew York if only for the sake of hermusic and her voice. That very day Junehad for the first time seen her cousinDave. He was on horseback, he had beendrinking and he pulled in and, without ananswer to her greeting, stared her overfrom head to foot. Colouring angrily, shestarted on and then he spoke thickly andwith a sneer:

"'Bout fryin' size, now, ain't ye? Ireckon maybe, if you keep on, you'll begood enough fer him in a year or twomore."

"I'm much obliged for those apples,Dave," said June quietly—and Daveflushed a darker red and sat still,forgetting to renew the old threat that wason his tongue.

But his taunt rankled in the girl—rankled more now than when Dave firstmade it, for she better saw the truth of itand the hurt was the greater to herunconquerable pride that kept her frombetraying the hurt to Dave long ago, andnow, when he was making an old woundbleed afresh. But the pain was with her atdinner that night and through the evening.

She avoided Hale's eyes though she knewthat he was watching her all the time, andher instinct told her that something wasgoing to happen that night and what thatsomething was. Hale was the last to goand when he called to her from the porch,she went out trembling and stood at thehead of the steps in the moonlight.

"I love you, little girl," he said simply,"and I want you to marry me some day—will you, June?" She was unsurprised butshe flushed under his hungry eyes, and thelittle cross throbbed at her throat.

"SOME day-not NOW," she thought,and then with equal simplicity: "Yes,Jack."

"And if you should love somebody elsemore, you'll tell me right away—won't

you, June?" She shrank a little and hereyes fell, but straight-way she raised themsteadily:

"Yes, Jack.""Thank you, little girl—good-night.""Good-night, Jack."Hale saw the little shrinking movement

she made, and, as he went down the hill,he thought she seemed to be in a hurry tobe alone, and that she had caught herbreath sharply as she turned away. Andbrooding he walked the woods long thatnight.

Only a few days later, they started forNew York and, with all her dreaming,June had never dreamed that the worldcould be so large. Mountains and vaststretches of rolling hills and level land

melted away from her wondering eyes;towns and cities sank behind them, swiftstreams swollen by freshets wereoutstripped and left behind, darkness cameon and, through it, they still sped on. Onceduring the night she woke from a troubleddream in her berth and for a moment shethought she was at home again. They wererunning through mountains again and therethey lay in the moonlight, the great calmdark faces that she knew and loved, andshe seemed to catch the odour of the earthand feel the cool air on her face, but therewas no pang of homesickness now—shewas too eager for the world into whichshe was going. Next morning the air wascooler, the skies lower and grayer—thebig city was close at hand. Then came thewater, shaking and sparkling in the early

light like a great cauldron of quicksilver,and the wonderful Brooklyn Bridge—aribbon of twinkling lights tossed outthrough the mist from the mighty city thatrose from that mist as from a fantasticdream; then the picking of a way throughscreeching little boats and noiseless bigones and white bird-like floating thingsand then they disappeared like two tinygrains in a shifting human tide of sand. ButHale was happy now, for on that trip Junehad come back to herself, and to him, oncemore—and now, awed but unafraid,eager, bubbling, uplooking, full of quaintquestions about everything she saw, shewas once more sitting with affectionatereverence at his feet. When he left her in agreat low house that fronted on themajestic Hudson, June clung to him with

tears and of her own accord kissed himfor the first time since she had torn herlittle playhouse to pieces at the foot of thebeech down in the mountains far away.And Hale went back with peace in hisheart, but to trouble in the hills. * * * * * * *

Not suddenly did the boom drop downthere, not like a falling star, but on thewings of hope—wings that ever flutteringupward, yet sank inexorably and slowlyclosed. The first crash came over thewaters when certain big men over therewent to pieces—men on whose shouldersrested the colossal figure of progress thatthe English were carving from the hills atCumberland Gap. Still nobody saw why ahurt to the Lion should make the Eaglesore and so the American spirit at the

other gaps and all up the Virginia valleysthat skirt the Cumberland held faithful anddauntless—for a while. But in time as thehuge steel plants grew noiseless, and theflaming throats of the furnaces werethrottled, a sympathetic fire of dissolutionspread slowly North and South and it wasplain only to the wise outsider as merely amatter of time until, all up and down theCumberland, the fox and the coon and thequail could come back to their old homeson corner lots, marked each by a patheticlittle whitewashed post—a tombstoneover the graves of a myriad of buriedhuman hopes. But it was the gap whereHale was that died last and hardest—andof the brave spirits there, his was the lastand hardest to die.

In the autumn, while June was in New

York, the signs were sure but every soulrefused to see them. Slowly, however, thevexed question of labour and capital wasborn again, for slowly each localcapitalist went slowly back to his owntrade: the blacksmith to his forge, but thecarpenter not to his plane nor the mason tohis brick—there was no more buildinggoing on. The engineer took up his transit,the preacher-politician was oftener in hispulpit, and the singing teacher started onhis round of raucous do-mi-sol-dosthrough the mountains again. It wascurious to see how each man slowly,reluctantly and perforce sank back againto his old occupation—and the town, withthe luxuries of electricity, water-works,bath-tubs and a street railway, was havinga hard fight for the plain necessities of

life. The following spring, notes for thesecond payment on the lots that had beenbought at the great land sale fell due, andbut very few were paid. As no suits werebrought by the company, however, hopedid not quite die. June did not come homefor the summer, and Hale did notencourage her to come—she visited someof her school-mates in the North and tooka trip West to see her father who had goneout there again and bought a farm. In theearly autumn, Devil Judd came back to themountains and announced his intention toleave them for good. But that autumn, theeffects of the dead boom becameperceptible in the hills. There were nomore coal lands bought, logging ceased,the factions were idle once more,moonshine stills flourished, quarrelling

started, and at the county seat, one Courtday, Devil Judd whipped three Falinswith his bare fists. In the early spring aTolliver was shot from ambush and oldJudd was so furious at the outrage that heopenly announced that he would stay athome until he had settled the old scoresfor good. So that, as the summer came on,matters between the Falins and theTollivers were worse than they had beenfor years and everybody knew that, withold Judd at the head of his clan again, thefight would be fought to the finish. At theGap, one institution only had suffered inspirit not at all and that was the VolunteerPolice Guard. Indeed, as the excitement ofthe boom had died down, the members ofthat force, as a vent for their energies,went with more enthusiasm than ever into

their work. Local lawlessness had beensubdued by this time, the Guard had beenextending its work into the hills, and itwas only a question of time until it musttake a part in the Falin-Tolliver troubles.Indeed, that time, Hale believed, was notfar away, for Election Day was at hand,and always on that day the feudists cameto the Gap in a search for trouble.Meanwhile, not long afterward, there wasa pitched battle between the factions at thecounty seat, and several of each wouldfight no more. Next day a Falin whistled abullet through Devil Judd's beard fromambush, and it was at such a crisis of allthe warring elements in her mountain lifethat June's school-days were coming to aclose. Hale had had a frank talk with oldJudd and the old man agreed that the two

had best be married at once and live at theGap until things were quieter in themountains, though the old man still clungto his resolution to go West for good whenhe was done with the Falins. At such atime, then, June was coming home.

XXIHale was beyond Black Mountain when

her letter reached him. His work overthere had to be finished and so he kept inhis saddle the greater part of two days andnights and on the third day rode his bigblack horse forty miles in little more thanhalf a day that he might meet her at thetrain. The last two years had wrought theirchange in him. Deterioration is easy in thehills—superficial deterioration in habits,manners, personal appearance and thepractices of all the little niceties of life.The morning bath is impossible becauseof the crowded domestic conditions of amountain cabin and, if possible, might if

practised, excite wonder and comment, ifnot vague suspicion. Sleeping garmentsare practically barred for the same reason.Shaving becomes a rare luxury. A losttooth-brush may not be replaced for amonth. In time one may bring himself toeat with a knife for the reason that it ishard for a hungry man to feed himself witha fork that has but two tines. The fingertips cease to be the culminating standardof the gentleman. It is hard to keep asupply of fresh linen when one isconstantly in the saddle, and a constantweariness of body and a ravenous appetitemake a man indifferent to things like a badbed and worse food, particularly as hemust philosophically put up with them,anyhow. Of all these things the manhimself may be quite unconscious and yet

they affect him more deeply than he knowsand show to a woman even in his voice,his walk, his mouth—everywhere save inhis eyes, which change only in severity, orin kindliness or when there has been someserious break-down of soul or characterwithin. And the woman will not look tohis eyes for the truth—which makes itsway slowly—particularly when thewoman has striven for the very things thatthe man has so recklessly let go. Shewould never suffer herself to let down insuch a way and she does not understandhow a man can.

Hale's life, since his college doors hadclosed behind him, had always been arough one. He had dropped fromcivilization and had gone back into itmany times. And each time he had

dropped, he dropped the deeper, and forthat reason had come back into his ownlife each time with more difficulty andwith more indifference. The last had beenhis roughest year and he had sunk a littlemore deeply just at the time when Junehad been pluming herself for flight fromsuch depths forever. Moreover, Hale hadbeen dominant in every matter that hishand or his brain had touched. His habithad been to say "do this" and it was done.Though he was no longer acting captain ofthe Police Guard, he always acted ascaptain whenever he was on hand, andalways he was the undisputed leader in allquestions of business, politics or themaintenance of order and law. Thesuccess he had forged had hardened andstrengthened his mouth, steeled his eyes

and made him more masterful in manner,speech and point of view, and naturallyhad added nothing to his gentleness, hisunselfishness, his refinement or the niceconsideration of little things on whichwomen lay such stress. It was an hour bysun when he clattered through the gap andpushed his tired black horse into a gallopacross the valley toward the town. He sawthe smoke of the little dummy and, as hethundered over the bridge of the NorthFork, he saw that it was just about to pullout and he waved his hat and shoutedimperiously for it to wait. With his handon the bell-rope, the conductor, autocratthat he, too, was, did wait and Hale threwhis reins to the man who was nearest,hardly seeing who he was, and climbedaboard. He wore a slouched hat spotted

by contact with the roof of the mineswhich he had hastily visited on his waythrough Lonesome Cove. The growth ofthree days' beard was on his face. Hewore a gray woollen shirt, and a bluehandkerchief—none too clean—wasloosely tied about his sun-scorchedcolumn of a throat; he was spotted withmud from his waist to the soles of hisrough riding boots and his hands wererough and grimy. But his eye was brightand keen and his heart thumped eagerly.Again it was the middle of June and thetown was a naked island in a sea of leaveswhose breakers literally had run mountainhigh and stopped for all time motionless.Purple lights thick as mist veiled Powell'sMountain. Below, the valley was stillflooded with yellow sunlight which lay

along the mountain sides and was streakedhere and there with the long shadow of adeep ravine. The beech trunks on ImbodenHill gleamed in it like white bodiesscantily draped with green, and theyawning Gap held the yellow light as abowl holds wine. He had long ago cometo look upon the hills merely asstorehouses for iron and coal, put there forhis special purpose, but now the longsubmerged sense of the beauty of it allstirred within him again, for June was theincarnate spirit of it all and June wascoming back to those mountains and—tohim. * * * * * * *

And June—June had seen the change inHale. The first year he had come often toNew York to see her and they had gone to

the theatre and the opera, and June waspleased to play the part of heroine in whatwas such a real romance to the other girlsin school and she was proud of Hale. Buteach time he came, he seemed lessinterested in the diversions that meant somuch to her, more absorbed in his affairsin the mountains and less particular abouthis looks. His visits came at longerintervals, with each visit he stayed lesslong, and each time he seemed more eagerto get away. She had been shy aboutappearing before him for the first time inevening dress, and when he entered thedrawing-room she stood under achandelier in blushing and resplendentconfusion, but he seemed not to recognizethat he had never seen her that way before,and for another reason June remained

confused, disappointed and hurt, for hewas not only unobserving, and seeminglyunappreciative, but he was more silentthan ever that night and he looked gloomy.But if he had grown accustomed to herbeauty, there were others who had not,and smart, dapper college youths gatheredabout her like bees around a flower—atriumphant fact to which he also seemedindifferent. Moreover, he was not inevening clothes that night and she did notknow whether he had forgotten or wasindifferent to them, and the contrast that hewas made her that night almost ashamedfor him. She never guessed what thematter was, for Hale kept his troubles tohimself. He was always gentle and kind,he was as lavish with her as though hewere a king, and she was as lavish and

prodigally generous as though she were aprincess. There seemed no limit to thewizard income from the investments thatHale had made for her when, as he said,he sold a part of her stock in theLonesome Cove mine, and what shewanted Hale always sent her withoutquestion. Only, as the end was coming onat the Gap, he wrote once to know if acertain amount would carry her throughuntil she was ready to come home, buteven that question aroused no suspicion inthoughtless June. And then that last year hehad come no more—always, always hewas too busy. Not even on her triumphalnight at the end of the session was hethere, when she had stood before theguests and patrons of the school like agoddess, and had thrilled them into

startling applause, her teachers into openglowing pride, the other girls into bright-eyed envy and herself into still anothernew world. Now she was going home andshe was glad to go.

She had awakened that morning with thekeen air of the mountains in her nostrils—the air she had breathed in when she wasborn, and her eyes shone happily when shesaw through her window the loved bluehills along which raced the train. Theywere only a little way from the townwhere she must change, the porter said;she had overslept and she had no timeeven to wash her face and hands, and thatworried her a good deal. The porternearly lost his equilibrium when she gavehim half a dollar—for women are notprofuse in the way of tipping—and instead

of putting her bag down on the stationplatform, he held it in his hand waiting todo her further service. At the head of thesteps she searched about for Hale and herlovely face looked vexed and a little hurtwhen she did not see him.

"Hotel, Miss?" said the porter."Yes, please, Harvey!" she called.An astonished darky sprang from the

line of calling hotel-porters and took herbag. Then every tooth in his head flashed.

"Lordy, Miss June—I never knowedyou at all."

June smiled—it was the tribute she waslooking for.

"Have you seen Mr. Hale?""No'm. Mr. Hale ain't been here for

mos' six months. I reckon he aint in thiscountry now. I aint heard nothin' 'bout himfor a long time."

June knew better than that—but she saidnothing. She would rather have had evenHarvey think that he was away. So shehurried to the hotel—she would have fourhours to wait—and asked for the one roomthat had a bath attached—the room towhich Hale had sent her when she hadpassed through on her way to New York.She almost winced when she looked in themirror and saw the smoke stains about herpretty throat and ears, and she wondered ifanybody could have noticed them on herway from the train. Her hands, too, weredreadful to look at and she hurried to takeoff her things.

In an hour she emerged freshened,immaculate from her crown of lovely hairto her smartly booted feet, and at once shewent downstairs. She heard the man,whom she passed, stop at the head of themand turn to look down at her, and she sawnecks craned within the hotel office whenshe passed the door. On the street not aman and hardly a woman failed to look ather with wonder and open admiration, forshe was an apparition in that little townand it all pleased her so much that shebecame flushed and conscious and feltlike a queen who, unknown, moved amongher subjects and blessed them just withher gracious presence. For she wasunknown even by several people whomshe knew and that, too, pleased her—tohave bloomed so quite beyond their ken.

She was like a meteor coming back todazzle the very world from which it hadflown for a while into space. When shewent into the dining-room for the middaydinner, there was a movement in almostevery part of the room as though therewere many there who were on the lookoutfor her entrance. The head waiter, a portlydarky, lost his imperturbable majesty for amoment in surprise at the vision and thenwith a lordly yet obsequious wave of hishand, led her to a table over in a cornerwhere no one was sitting. Four young mencame in rather boisterously and made forher table. She lifted her calm eyes at themso haughtily that the one in front haltedwith sudden embarrassment and they allswerved to another table from which theystared at her surreptitiously. Perhaps she

was mistaken for the comic-opera starwhose brilliant picture she had seen on abill board in front of the "opera house."Well, she had the voice and she mighthave been and she might yet be—and ifshe were, this would be the distinctionthat would be shown her. And, still as itwas she was greatly pleased.

At four o'clock she started for the hills.In half an hour she was dropping down awinding ravine along a rock-lashingstream with those hills so close to the caron either side that only now and thencould she see the tops of them. Throughthe window the keen air came from thevery lungs of them, freighted with thecoolness of shadows, the scent of dampearth and the faint fragrance of wildflowers, and her soul leaped to meet them.

The mountain sides were showered withpink and white laurel (she used to call it"ivy") and the rhododendrons (she used tocall them "laurel") were just beginning toblossom—they were her old and fastfriends—mountain, shadow, the wet earthand its pure breath, and tree, plant andflower; she had not forgotten them, and itwas good to come back to them. Once shesaw an overshot water-wheel on the bankof the rushing little stream and she thoughtof Uncle Billy; she smiled and the smilestopped short—she was going back toother things as well. The train had creakedby a log-cabin set in the hillside and thenpast another and another; and always therewere two or three ragged children in thedoor and a haggard unkempt womanpeering over their shoulders. How lonely

those cabins looked and how desolate thelife they suggested to her now—NOW!The first station she came to after the trainhad wound down the long ravine to thevalley level again was crowded withmountaineers. There a wedding party gotaboard with a great deal of laughter,chaffing and noise, and all three went onwithin and without the train while it waswaiting. A sudden thought stunned her likea lightning stroke. They were HER peopleout there on the platform and inside the carahead—those rough men in slouch hats,jeans and cowhide boots, their mouthsstained with tobacco juice, their cheeksand eyes on fire with moonshine, andthose women in poke-bonnets with theirsad, worn, patient faces on which thesympathetic good cheer and joy of the

moment sat so strangely. She noticed theirrough shoes and their homespun gownsthat made their figures all alike andshapeless, with a vivid awakening ofearly memories. She might have been oneof those narrow-lived girls outside, or thatbride within had it not been for Jack—Hale. She finished the name in her ownmind and she was conscious that she had.Ah, well, that was a long time ago and shewas nothing but a child and she hadthrown herself at his head. Perhaps it wasdifferent with him now and if it was, shewould give him the chance to withdrawfrom everything. It would be right and fairand then life was so full for her now. Shewas dependent on nobody—on nothing. Arainbow spanned the heaven above herand the other end of it was not in the hills.

But one end was and to that end she wason her way. She was going to just suchpeople as she had seen at the station. Herfather and her kinsmen were just such men—her step-mother and kinswomen werejust such women. Her home was littlemore than just such a cabin as the desolateones that stirred her pity when she sweptby them. She thought of how she felt whenshe had first gone to Lonesome Cove aftera few months at the Gap, and sheshuddered to think how she would feelnow. She was getting restless by this timeand aimlessly she got up and walked to thefront of the car and back again to her seat,hardly noticing that the other occupantswere staring at her with some wonder.She sat down for a few minutes and thenshe went to the rear and stood outside on

the platform, clutching a brass rod of therailing and looking back on the droppingdarkness in which the hills seemed to berushing together far behind as the traincrashed on with its wake of spark-litrolling smoke. A cinder stung her face,and when she lifted her hand to the spot,she saw that her glove was black withgrime. With a little shiver of disgust shewent back to her seat and with her face tothe blackness rushing past her window shesat brooding—brooding. Why had Halenot met her? He had said he would andshe had written him when she was comingand had telegraphed him at the station inNew York when she started. Perhaps heHAD changed. She recalled that even hisletters had grown less frequent, shorter,more hurried the past year—well, he

should have his chance. Always, however,her mind kept going back to the people atthe station and to her people in themountains. They were the same, she keptrepeating to herself—the very same andshe was one of them. And always she keptthinking of her first trip to Lonesome Coveafter her awakening and of what her nextwould be. That first time Hale had madeher go back as she had left, in home-spun,sun-bonnet and brogans. There was thesame reason why she should go back thatway now as then—would Hale insist thatshe should now? She almost laughedaloud at the thought. She knew that shewould refuse and she knew that his reasonwould not appeal to her now—she nolonger cared what her neighbours andkinspeople might think and say. The porter

paused at her seat."How much longer is it?" she asked."Half an hour, Miss."June went to wash her face and hands,

and when she came back to her seat agreat glare shone through the windows onthe other side of the car. It was thefurnace, a "run" was on and she could seethe streams of white molten metal racingdown the narrow channels of sand to theirnarrow beds on either side. The whistleshrieked ahead for the Gap and she nervedherself with a prophetic sense of vaguetrouble at hand. * * * * * * *

At the station Hale had paced theplatform. He looked at his watch to seewhether he might have time to run up to

the furnace, half a mile away, and boardthe train there. He thought he had and hewas about to start when the shriek of thecoming engine rose beyond the low hillsin Wild Cat Valley, echoed alongPowell's Mountain and broke against thewrinkled breast of the Cumberland. On itcame, and in plain sight it stoppedsuddenly to take water, and Hale cursed itsilently and recalled viciously that whenhe was in a hurry to arrive anywhere, thewater-tower was always on the wrongside of the station. He got so restless thathe started for it on a run and he had gonehardly fifty yards before the train came onagain and he had to run back to beat it tothe station—where he sprang to the stepsof the Pullman before it stopped—pushingthe porter aside to find himself checked by

the crowded passengers at the door. Junewas not among them and straightway heran for the rear of the car.

June had risen. The other occupants ofthe car had crowded forward and she wasthe last of them. She had stood, during anirritating wait, at the water-tower, andnow as she moved slowly forward againshe heard the hurry of feet behind her andshe turned to look into the eager,wondering eyes of John Hale.

"June!" he cried in amazement, but hisface lighted with joy and he impulsivelystretched out his arms as though he meantto take her in them, but as suddenly hedropped them before the startled look inher eyes, which, with one swift glance,searched him from head to foot. They

shook hands almost gravely.

XXIIJune sat in the little dummy, the focus of

curious eyes, while Hale was busy seeingthat her baggage was got aboard. Thechecks that she gave him jingled in hishands like a bunch of keys, and he couldhardly help grinning when he saw the hugetrunks and the smart bags that weretumbled from the baggage car—all markedwith her initials. There had been dayswhen he had laid considerable emphasison pieces like those, and when he thoughtof them overwhelming with opulentsuggestions that debt-stricken little town,and, later, piled incongruously on theporch of the cabin on Lonesome Cove, he

could have laughed aloud but for anameless something that was gnawingsavagely at his heart.

He felt almost shy when he went backinto the car, and though June greeted himwith a smile, her immaculate daintinessmade him unconsciously sit quite far awayfrom her. The little fairy-cross was still ather throat, but a tiny diamond gleamedfrom each end of it and from the centre, asfrom a tiny heart, pulsated the light of alittle blood-red ruby. To him it meant theloss of June's simplicity and was thesymbol of her new estate, but he smiledand forced himself into heartycheerfulness of manner and asked herquestions about her trip. But Juneanswered in halting monosyllables, andtalk was not easy between them. All the

while he was watching her closely and nota movement of her eye, ear, mouth or hand—not an inflection of her voice—escapedhim. He saw her sweep the car and itsoccupants with a glance, and he saw theresults of that glance in her face and thedown-dropping of her eyes to the daintypoint of one boot. He saw her beautifulmouth close suddenly tight and her thinnostrils quiver disdainfully when a swirlof black smoke, heavy with cinders, camein with an entering passenger through thefront door of the car. Two half-drunkenmen were laughing boisterously near thatdoor and even her ears seemed trying toshut out their half-smothered rough talk.The car started with a bump that swayedher toward him, and when she caught theseat with one hand, it checked as

suddenly, throwing her the other way, andthen with a leap it sprang ahead again,giving a nagging snap to her head. Herwhole face grew red with vexation andshrinking distaste, and all the while, whenthe little train steadied into its creaking,puffing, jostling way, one gloved hand onthe chased silver handle of her smart littleumbrella kept nervously swaying it to andfro on its steel-shod point, until she sawthat the point was in a tiny pool of tobaccojuice, and then she laid it across her lapwith shuddering swiftness.

At first Hale thought that she had shrunkfrom kissing him in the car because otherpeople were around. He knew better now.At that moment he was as rough and dirtyas the chain-carrier opposite him, whowas just in from a surveying expedition in

the mountains, as the sooty brakeman whocame through to gather up the fares—asone of those good-natured, profaneinebriates up in the corner. No, it was notpublicity—she had shrunk from him as shewas shrinking now from black smoke,rough men, the shaking of the train—thelittle pool of tobacco juice at her feet. Thetruth began to glimmer through his brain.He understood, even when she leanedforward suddenly to look into the mouth ofthe gap, that was now dark with shadows.Through that gap lay her way and shethought him now more a part of what wasbeyond than she who had been born of itwas, and dazed by the thought, hewondered if he might not really be. Atonce he straightened in his seat, and hismind made up, as he always made it up—

swiftly. He had not explained why he hadnot met her that morning, nor had heapologized for his rough garb, because hewas so glad to see her and because therewere so many other things he wanted tosay; and when he saw her, conscious andresentful, perhaps, that he had not donethese things at once—he deliberatelydeclined to do them now. He becamesilent, but he grew more courteous, morethoughtful—watchful. She was very tired,poor child; there were deep shadowsunder her eyes which looked weary andalmost mournful. So, when with a clangingof the engine bell they stopped at thebrilliantly lit hotel, he led her at onceupstairs to the parlour, and from there senther up to her room, which was ready forher.

"You must get a good sleep," he saidkindly, and with his usual firmness thatwas wont to preclude argument. "You areworn to death. I'll have your supper sent toyour room." The girl felt the subtle changein his manner and her lip quivered for avague reason that neither knew, but,without a word, she obeyed him like achild. He did not try again to kiss her. Hemerely took her hand, placed his left overit, and with a gentle pressure, said:

"Good-night, little girl.""Good-night," she faltered.

* * * * * * *Resolutely, relentlessly, first, Hale cast

up his accounts, liabilities, resources, thatnight, to see what, under the leastfavourable outcome, the balance left to

him would be. Nearly all was gone. Hissecurities were already sold. His lotswould not bring at public sale one-half ofthe deferred payments yet to be made onthem, and if the company brought suit, as itwas threatening to do, he would be leftfathoms deep in debt. The branch railroadhad not come up the river towardLonesome Cove, and now he meant tobuild barges and float his cannel coaldown to the main line, for his sole hopewas in the mine in Lonesome Cove. Themeans that he could command weremeagre, but they would carry his purposewith June for a year at least and then—who knew?—he might, through that mine,be on his feet again.

The little town was dark and asleepwhen he stepped into the cool night-air

and made his way past the old school-house and up Imboden Hill. He could see—all shining silver in the moonlight—thestill crest of the big beech at the blessedroots of which his lips had met June's inthe first kiss that had passed betweenthem. On he went through the shadowyaisle that the path made between otherbeech-trunks, harnessed by the moonlightwith silver armour and motionless assentinels on watch till dawn, out past theamphitheatre of darkness from which thedead trees tossed out their crooked armsas though voicing silently now his ownsoul's torment, and then on to the point ofthe spur of foot-hills where, with themighty mountains encircling him and theworld, a dreamland lighted only by stars,he stripped his soul before the Maker of it

and of him and fought his fight out alone.His was the responsibility for all—his

alone. No one else was to blame—Junenot at all. He had taken her from her ownlife—had swerved her from the way towhich God pointed when she was born.He had given her everything she wanted,had allowed her to do what she pleasedand had let her think that, through hismiraculous handling of her resources, shewas doing it all herself. And the resultwas natural. For the past two years he hadbeen harassed with debt, racked withworries, writhing this way and that,concerned only with the soul-tormentingcatastrophe that had overtaken him. Aboutall else he had grown careless. He had notbeen to see her the last year, he hadwritten seldom, and it appalled him to

look back now on his own self-absorptionand to think how he must have appeared toJune. And he had gone on in that self-absorption to the very end. He had got hislicense to marry, had asked Uncle Billy,who was magistrate as well as miller, tomarry them, and, a rough mountaineerhimself to the outward eye, he hadappeared to lead a child like a lamb to thesacrifice and had found a woman with amind, heart and purpose of her own. Itwas all his work. He had sent her away tofit her for his station in life—to make herfit to marry him. She had risen above andnow HE WAS NOT FIT TO MARRYHER. That was the brutal truth—a truththat was enough to make a wise man laughor a fool weep, and Hale did neither. Hesimply went on working to make out how

he could best discharge the obligationsthat he had voluntarily, willingly, gladly,selfishly even, assumed. In his mind hetreated conditions only as he saw and feltthem and believed them at that momenttrue: and into the problem he went nodeeper than to find his simple duty, andthat, while the morning stars were sinking,he found. And it was a duty the harder tofind because everything had reawakenedwithin him, and the starting-point of thatawakening was the proud glow in UncleBilly's kind old face, when he knew thepart he was to play in the happiness ofHale and June. All the way over themountain that day his heart had gatheredfuel from memories at the big Pine, anddown the mountain and through the gap, tobe set aflame by the yellow sunlight in the

valley and the throbbing life in everythingthat was alive, for the month was June andthe spirit of that month was on her way tohim. So when he rose now, with back-thrown head, he stretched his armssuddenly out toward those far-seeingstars, and as suddenly dropped them withan angry shake of his head and one quickgritting of his teeth that such a thoughtshould have mastered him even for oneswift second—the thought of howlonesome would be the trail that would behis to follow after that day.

XXIIIJune, tired though she was, tossed

restlessly that night. The one look she hadseen in Hale's face when she met him inthe car, told her the truth as far as he wasconcerned. He was unchanged, she couldgive him no chance to withdraw from theirlong understanding, for it was plain to herquick instinct that he wanted none. And soshe had asked him no question about hisfailure to meet her, for she knew now thathis reason, no matter what, was good. Hehad startled her in the car, for her mindwas heavy with memories of the poorlittle cabins she had passed on the train, ofthe mountain men and women in the

wedding-party, and Hale himself was tothe eye so much like one of them—had sostartled her that, though she knew that hisinstinct, too, was at work, she could notgather herself together to combat her ownfeelings, for every little happening in thedummy but drew her back to her previoustrain of painful thought. And in thathelplessness she had told Hale good-night.She remembered now how she had lookedupon Lonesome Cove after she went to theGap; how she had looked upon the Gapafter her year in the Bluegrass, and howshe had looked back even on the first bigcity she had seen there from the loftyvantage ground of New York. What wasthe use of it all? Why laboriously climb ahill merely to see and yearn for things thatyou cannot have, if you must go back and

live in the hollow again? Well, shethought rebelliously, she would not goback to the hollow again—that was all.She knew what was coming and hercousin Dave's perpetual sneer sprangsuddenly from the past to cut through heragain and the old pride rose within heronce more. She was good enough now forHale, oh, yes, she thought bitterly, goodenough NOW; and then, remembering hislife-long kindness and thinking what shemight have been but for him, she burst intotears at the unworthiness of her ownthought. Ah, what should she do—whatshould she do? Repeating that questionover and over again, she fell towardmorning into troubled sleep. She did notwake until nearly noon, for already shehad formed the habit of sleeping late—late

at least, for that part of the world—andshe was glad when the negro boy broughther word that Mr. Hale had been called upthe valley and would not be back until theafternoon. She dreaded to meet him, forshe knew that he had seen the troublewithin her and she knew he was not thekind of man to let matters drag vaguely, ifthey could be cleared up and settled byopen frankness of discussion, no matterhow blunt he must be. She had to waituntil mid-day dinner time for something toeat, so she lay abed, picked a breakfastfrom the menu, which was spotted, dirtyand meagre in offerings, and had it broughtto her room. Early in the afternoon sheissued forth into the sunlight, and startedtoward Imboden Hill. It was verybeautiful and soul-comforting—the warm

air, the luxuriantly wooded hills, withtheir shades of green that told her wherepoplar and oak and beech and maplegrew, the delicate haze of blue thatoverlay them and deepened as her eyesfollowed the still mountain piles north-eastward to meet the big range that shuther in from the outer world. The changeshad been many. One part of the town hadbeen wiped out by fire and a fewbuildings of stone had risen up. On thestreet she saw strange faces, but now andthen she stopped to shake hands withsomebody whom she knew, and whorecognized her always with surprise andspoke but few words, and then, as shethought, with some embarrassment. Halfunconsciously she turned toward the oldmill. There it was, dusty and gray, and the

dripping old wheel creaked with itsweight of shining water, and the muffledroar of the unseen dam started ananswering stream of memories surgingwithin her. She could see the window ofher room in the old brick boarding-house,and as she passed the gate, she almoststopped to go in, but the face of a strangeman who stood in the door with aproprietary air deterred her. There wasHale's little frame cottage and his name,half washed out, was over the wing thatwas still his office. Past that she went,with a passing temptation to look within,and toward the old school-house. Amassive new one was half built, of graystone, to the left, but the old one, with itsshingles on the outside that had oncecaused her such wonder, still lay warm in

the sun, but closed and deserted. Therewas the playground where she had beencaught in "Ring around the Rosy," andHale and that girl teacher had heard herconfession. She flushed again when shethought of that day, but the flush was nowfor another reason. Over the roof of theschoolhouse she could see the beech treewhere she had built her playhouse, andmemory led her from the path toward it.She had not climbed a hill for a long timeand she was panting when she reached it.There was the scattered playhouse—itmight have lain there untouched for aquarter of a century—just as her angry feethad kicked it to pieces. On a root of thebeech she sat down and the broad rim ofher hat scratched the trunk of it andannoyed her, so she took it off and leaned

her head against the tree, looking up intothe underworld of leaves through which asunbeam filtered here and there—onestriking her hair which had darkened to aduller gold—striking it eagerly,unerringly, as though it had started for justsuch a shining mark. Below her wasoutspread the little town—the straggling,wretched little town—crude, lonely,lifeless! She could not be happy inLonesome Cove after she had known theGap, and now her horizon had sobroadened that she felt now toward theGap and its people as she had then felttoward the mountaineers: for the standardsof living in the Cove—so it seemed—were no farther below the standards in theGap than they in turn were lower than thenew standards to which she had adapted

herself while away. Indeed, even thatBluegrass world where she had spent ayear was too narrow now for her vaultingambition, and with that thought she lookeddown again on the little town, a lonelyisland in a sea of mountains and as farfrom the world for which she had beentraining herself as though it were in mid-ocean. Live down there? She shuddered atthe thought and straightway was verymiserable. The clear piping of a wood-thrush rose far away, a tear startedbetween her half-closed lashes and shemight have gone to weeping silently, hadher ear not caught the sound of somethingmoving below her. Some one was comingthat way, so she brushed her eyes swiftlywith her handkerchief and stood uprightagainst the tree. And there again Hale

found her, tense, upright, bareheadedagain and her hands behind her; only herface was not uplifted and dreaming—itwas turned toward him, unstartled andexpectant. He stopped below her andleaned one shoulder against a tree.

"I saw you pass the office," he said,"and I thought I should find you here."

His eyes dropped to the scatteredplayhouse of long ago—and a faint smilethat was full of submerged sadness passedover his face. It was his playhouse, afterall, that she had kicked to pieces. But hedid not mention it—nor her attitude—nordid he try, in any way, to arouse hermemories of that other time at this sameplace.

"I want to talk with you, June—and I

want to talk now.""Yes, Jack," she said tremulously.For a moment he stood in silence, his

face half-turned, his teeth hard on hisindrawn lip—thinking. There was nothingof the mountaineer about him now. He wasclean-shaven and dressed with care—Junesaw that—but he looked quite old, hisface seemed harried with worries andravaged by suffering, and June hadsuddenly to swallow a quick surging ofpity for him. He spoke slowly and withoutlooking at her:

"June, if it hadn't been for me, youwould be over in Lonesome Cove andhappily married by this time, or at leastcontented with your life, for you wouldn'thave known any other."

"I don't know, Jack.""I took you out—and it rests with you

whether I shall be sorry I did—sorrywholly on your account, I mean," he addedhastily.

She knew what he meant and she saidnothing—she only turned her head awayslightly, with her eyes upturned a littletoward the leaves that were shaking likeher own heart.

"I think I see it all very clearly," hewent on, in a low and perfectly evenvoice. "You can't be happy over there now—you can't be happy over here now.You've got other wishes, ambitions,dreams, now, and I want you to realizethem, and I want to help you to realizethem all I can—that's all."

"Jack!—" she helplessly, protestinglyspoke his name in a whisper, but that wasall she could do, and he went on:

"It isn't so strange. What is strange isthat I—that I didn't foresee it all. But if Ihad," he added firmly, "I'd have done itjust the same—unless by doing it I'vereally done you more harm than good."

"No—no—Jack!""I came into your world—you went into

mine. What I had grown indifferent about—you grew to care about. You grewsensitive while I was growing callous tocertain—" he was about to say "surfacethings," but he checked himself—"certainthings in life that mean more to a womanthan to a man. I would not have marriedyou as you were—I've got to be honest

now—at least I thought it necessary thatyou should be otherwise—and now youhave gone beyond me, and now you do notwant to marry me as I am. And it is allvery natural and very just." Very slowlyher head had dropped until her chin restedhard above the little jewelled cross on herbreast.

"You must tell me if I am wrong. Youdon't love me now—well enough to behappy with me here"—he waved one handtoward the straggling little town belowthem and then toward the lonely mountains—"I did not know that we would have tolive here—but I know it now—" hechecked himself, and afterward sherecalled the tone of those last words, butthen they had no especial significance.

"Am I wrong?" he repeated, and then hesaid hurriedly, for her face was so piteous—"No, you needn't give yourself the painof saying it in words. I want you to knowthat I understand that there is nothing in theworld I blame you for—nothing—nothing.If there is any blame at all, it rests on mealone." She broke toward him with a crythen.

"No—no, Jack," she said brokenly, andshe caught his hand in both her own andtried to raise it to her lips, but he held herback and she put her face on his breast andsobbed heart-brokenly. He waited for theparoxysm to pass, stroking her hair gently.

"You mustn't feel that way, little girl.You can't help it—I can't help it—andthese things happen all the time,

everywhere. You don't have to stay here.You can go away and study, and when Ican, I'll come to see you and cheer you up;and when you are a great singer, I'll sendyou flowers and be so proud of you, andI'll say to myself, 'I helped do that.' Dryyour eyes, now. You must go back to thehotel. Your father will be there by thistime and you'll have to be starting homepretty soon."

Like a child she obeyed him, but shewas so weak and trembling that he put hisarm about her to help her down the hill. Atthe edge of the woods she stopped andturned full toward him.

"You are so good," she saidtremulously, "so GOOD. Why, you haven'teven asked me if there was another—"

Hale interrupted her, shaking his head."If there is, I don't want to know.""But there isn't, there isn't!" she cried,

"I don't know what is the matter with me. Ihate—" the tears started again, and againshe was on the point of breaking down,but Hale checked her.

"Now, now," he said soothingly, "youmustn't, now—that's all right. Youmustn't." Her anger at herself helped now.

"Why, I stood like a silly fool, tongue-tied, and I wanted to say so much. I—"

"You don't need to," Hale said gently, "Iunderstand it all. I understand."

"I believe you do," she said with a sob,"better than I do."

"Well, it's all right, little girl. Come

on."They issued forth into the sunlight and

Hale walked rapidly. The strain wasgetting too much for him and he wasanxious to be alone. Without a word morethey passed the old school-house, themassive new one, and went on, in silence,down the street. Hitched to a post, near thehotel, were two gaunt horses withdrooping heads, and on one of them was aside-saddle. Sitting on the steps of thehotel, with a pipe in his mouth, was themighty figure of Devil Judd Tolliver. Hesaw them coming—at least he saw Halecoming, and that far away Hale saw hisbushy eyebrows lift in wonder at June. Amoment later he rose to his great heightwithout a word.

"Dad," said June in a trembling voice,"don't you know me?" The old man staredat her silently and a doubtful smile playedabout his bearded lips.

"Hardly, but I reckon hit's June."She knew that the world to which Hale

belonged would expect her to kiss him,and she made a movement as though shewould, but the habit of a lifetime is notbroken so easily. She held out her hand,and with the other patted him on the armas she looked up into his face.

"Time to be goin', June, if we want toget home afore dark!"

"All right, Dad."The old man turned to his horse."Hurry up, little gal."

In a few minutes they were ready, andthe girl looked long into Hale's face whenhe took her hand.

"You are coming over soon?""Just as soon as I can." Her lips

trembled."Good-by," she faltered."Good-by, June," said Hale.From the steps he watched them—the

giant father slouching in his saddle and thetrim figure of the now sadly misplacedgirl, erect on the awkward-pacingmountain beast—as incongruous, the two,as a fairy on some prehistoric monster. Ahorseman was coming up the street behindhim and a voice called:

"Who's that?" Hale turned—it was theHonourable Samuel Budd, coming home

from Court."June Tolliver.""June Taliaferro," corrected the Hon.

Sam with emphasis."The same." The Hon. Sam silently

followed the pair for a moment through hisbig goggles.

"What do you think of my theory of thelatent possibilities of the mountaineer—now?"

"I think I know how true it is better thanyou do," said Hale calmly, and with agrunt the Hon. Sam rode on. Hale watchedthem as they rode across the plateau—watched them until the Gap swallowedthem up and his heart ached for June. Thenhe went to his room and there, stretchedout on his bed and with his hands clenched

behind his head, he lay staring upward.Devil Judd Tolliver had lost none of his

taciturnity. Stolidly, silently, he wentahead, as is the custom of lordly man inthe mountains—horseback or afoot—asking no questions, answering June's inthe fewest words possible. Uncle Billy,the miller, had been complaining a gooddeal that spring, and old Hon hadrheumatism. Uncle Billy's old-maid sister,who lived on Devil's Fork, had beencooking for him at home since the lasttaking to bed of June's step-mother. Bubhad "growed up" like a hickory sapling.Her cousin Loretta hadn't married, andsome folks allowed she'd run away someday yet with young Buck Falin. Her cousinDave had gone off to school that year, hadcome back a month before, and been shot

through the shoulder. He was in LonesomeCove now.

This fact was mentioned in the samematter-of-fact way as the otherhappenings. Hale had been raising Cain inLonesome Cove—"A-cuttin' things downan' tearin' 'em up an' playin' hellginerally."

The feud had broken out again andmaybe June couldn't stay at home long. Hedidn't want her there with the fightinggoing on—whereat June's heart gave astart of gladness that the way would beeasy for her to leave when she wished toleave. Things over at the Gap "was agoin'to perdition," the old man had been told,while he was waiting for June and Halethat day, and Hale had not only lost a lot

of money, but if things didn't take a rise,he would be left head over heels in debt,if that mine over in Lonesome Cove didn'tpull him out.

They were approaching the big Pinenow, and June was beginning to ache andget sore from the climb. So Hale was introuble—that was what he meant when hesaid that, though she could leave themountains when she pleased, he must staythere, perhaps for good.

"I'm mighty glad you come home, gal,"said the old man, "an' that ye air goin' toput an end to all this spendin' o' so muchmoney. Jack says you got some money left,but I don't understand it. He says he madea 'investment' fer ye and tribbled themoney. I haint never axed him no

questions. Hit was betwixt you an' him, an''twant none o' my business long as you an'him air goin' to marry. He said you wasgoin' to marry this summer an' I wish you'dgit tied up right away whilst I'm livin', ferI don't know when a Winchester mighttake me off an' I'd die a sight easier if Iknowed you was tied up with a good manlike him."

"Yes, Dad," was all she said, for shehad not the heart to tell him the truth, andshe knew that Hale never would until thelast moment he must, when he learned thatshe had failed.

Half an hour later, she could see thestone chimney of the little cabin inLonesome Cove. A little farther downseveral spirals of smoke were visible—

rising from unseen houses which weremore miners' shacks, her father said, thatHale had put up while she was gone. Thewater of the creek was jet black now. Arow of rough wooden houses ran along itsedge. The geese cackled a doubtfulwelcome. A new dog leaped barking fromthe porch and a tall boy sprang after him—both running for the gate.

"Why, Bub," cried June, sliding fromher horse and kissing him, and thenholding him off at arms' length to look intohis steady gray eyes and his blushing face.

"Take the horses, Bub," said old Judd,and June entered the gate while Bub stoodwith the reins in his hand, stillspeechlessly staring her over from head tofoot. There was her garden, thank God—

with all her flowers planted, a new bed ofpansies and one of violets and the borderof laurel in bloom—unchanged andweedless.

"One o' Jack Hale's men takes keer ofit," explained old Judd, and again, withshame, June felt the hurt of her lover'sthoughtfulness. When she entered thecabin, the same old rasping petulant voicecalled her from a bed in one corner, andwhen June took the shrivelled old handthat was limply thrust from the bed-clothes, the old hag's keen eyes swept herfrom head to foot with disapproval.

"My, but you air wearin' mighty fineclothes," she croaked enviously. "I ain'thad a new dress fer more'n five year;" andthat was the welcome she got.

"No?" said June appeasingly. "Well, I'llget one for you myself."

"I'm much obleeged," she whined, "but Ireckon I can git along."

A cough came from the bed in the othercorner of the room.

"That's Dave," said the old woman, andJune walked over to where her cousin'sblack eyes shone hostile at her from thedark.

"I'm sorry, Dave," she said, but Daveanswered nothing but a sullen "howdye"and did not put out a hand—he only staredat her in sulky bewilderment, and Junewent back to listen to the torrent of the oldwoman's plaints until Bub came in. Thenas she turned, she noticed for the first timethat a new door had been cut in one side

of the cabin, and Bub was following thedirection of her eyes.

"Why, haint nobody told ye?" he saiddelightedly.

"Told me what, Bub?"With a whoop Bud leaped for the side

of the door and, reaching up, pulled ashining key from between the logs andthrust it into her hands.

"Go ahead," he said. "Hit's yourn.""Some more o' Jack Hale's fool doin's,"

said the old woman. "Go on, gal, and seewhut he's done."

With eager hands she put the key in thelock and when she pushed open the door,she gasped. Another room had been addedto the cabin—and the fragrant smell ofcedar made her nostrils dilate. Bub

pushed by her and threw open the shuttersof a window to the low sunlight, and Junestood with both hands to her head. It was aroom for her—with a dresser, a longmirror, a modern bed in one corner, awork-table with a student's lamp on it, awash-stand and a chest of drawers and apiano! On the walls were pictures andover the mantel stood the one she had firstlearned to love—two lovers clasped ineach other's arms and under them thewords "Enfin Seul."

"Oh-oh," was all she could say, andchoking, she motioned Bub from the room.When the door closed, she threw herselfsobbing across the bed.

Over at the Gap that night Hale sat inhis office with a piece of white paper and

a lump of black coal on the table in frontof him. His foreman had brought the coalto him that day at dusk. He lifted the lumpto the light of his lamp, and from thecentre of it a mocking evil eye leered backat him. The eye was a piece of shiningblack flint and told him that his mine inLonesome Cove was but a pocket ofcannel coal and worth no more than thesmouldering lumps in his grate. Then helifted the piece of white paper—it was hislicense to marry June.

XXIVVery slowly June walked up the little

creek to the old log where she had lain somany happy hours. There was no changein leaf, shrub or tree, and not a stone in thebrook had been disturbed. The sundropped the same arrows down throughthe leaves—blunting their shining pointsinto tremulous circles on the ground, thewater sang the same happy tune under herdangling feet and a wood-thrush piped theold lay overhead.

Wood-thrush! June smiled as shesuddenly rechristened the bird for herselfnow. That bird henceforth would be the

Magic Flute to musical June—and sheleaned back with ears, eyes and soulawake and her brain busy.

All the way over the mountain, on thatsecond home-going, she had thought of thefirst, and even memories of the memoriesaroused by that first home-going cameback to her—the place where Hale hadput his horse into a dead run and had givenher that never-to-be-forgotten thrill, andwhere she had slid from behind to theground and stormed with tears. When theydropped down into the green gloom ofshadow and green leaves towardLonesome Cove, she had the same feelingthat her heart was being clutched by ahuman hand and that black night hadsuddenly fallen about her, but this time sheknew what it meant. She thought then of

the crowded sleeping-room, the roughbeds and coarse blankets at home; the oil-cloth, spotted with drippings from acandle, that covered the table; the thickplates and cups; the soggy bread and thethick bacon floating in grease; the absenceof napkins, the eating with knives andfingers and the noise Bub and her fathermade drinking their coffee. But then sheknew all these things in advance, and thememories of them on her way over hadprepared her for Lonesome Cove. Theconditions were definite there: she knewwhat it would be to face them again—shewas facing them all the way, and to hersurprise the realities had hurt her lesseven than they had before. Then had comethe same thrill over the garden, and nowwith that garden and her new room and her

piano and her books, with Uncle Billy'ssister to help do the work, and with thelittle changes that June was daily makingin the household, she could live her ownlife even over there as long as shepleased, and then she would go out intothe world again.

But all the time when she was comingover from the Gap, the way had bristledwith accusing memories of Hale—evenfrom the chattering creeks, the turns in theroad, the sun-dappled bushes and treesand flowers; and when she passed the bigPine that rose with such friendly solemnityabove her, the pang of it all hurt her heartand kept on hurting her. When she walkedin the garden, the flowers seemed not tohave the same spirit of gladness. It hadbeen a dry season and they drooped for

that reason, but the melancholy of themhad a sympathetic human quality thatdepressed her. If she saw a bass shootarrow-like into deep water, if she heard abird or saw a tree or a flower whosename she had to recall, she thought ofHale. Do what she would, she could notescape the ghost that stalked at her sideeverywhere, so like a human presence thatshe felt sometimes a strange desire to turnand speak to it. And in her room thatpresence was all-pervasive. The piano,the furniture, the bits of bric-a-brac, thepictures and books—all were eloquentwith his thought of her—and every nightbefore she turned out her light she couldnot help lifting her eyes to her once-favourite picture—even that Hale hadremembered—the lovers clasped in each

other's arms—"At Last Alone"—only tosee it now as a mocking symbol of hisbeaten hopes. She had written to thank himfor it all, and not yet had he answered herletter. He had said that he was comingover to Lonesome Cove and he had notcome—why should he, on her account?Between them all was over—why shouldhe? The question was absurd in her mind,and yet the fact that she had expected him,that she so WANTED him, was soillogical and incongruous and vividly truethat it raised her to a sitting posture on thelog, and she ran her fingers over herforehead and down her dazed face untilher chin was in the hollow of her hand,and her startled eyes were fixedunwaveringly on the running water and yetnot seeing it at all. A call—her step-

mother's cry—rang up the ravine and shedid not hear it. She did not even hear Bubcoming through the underbrush a fewminutes later, and when he half angrilyshouted her name at the end of the vista,down-stream, whence he could see her,she lifted her head from a dream so deepthat in it all her senses had for the momentbeen wholly lost.

"Come on," he shouted.She had forgotten—there was a "bean-

stringing" at the house that day—and sheslipped slowly off the log and went downthe path, gathering herself together as shewent, and making no answer to theindignant Bub who turned and stalkedahead of her back to the house. At thebarnyard gate her father stopped her—he

looked worried."Jack Hale's jus' been over hyeh." June

caught her breath sharply."Has he gone?" The old man was

watching her and she felt it."Yes, he was in a hurry an' nobody

knowed whar you was. He jus' come over,he said, to tell me to tell you that youcould go back to New York and keep onwith yo' singin' doin's whenever youplease. He knowed I didn't want you hyehwhen this war starts fer a finish as hit'sgoin' to, mighty soon now. He says he ain'tquite ready to git married yit. I'm afeerdhe's in trouble."

"Trouble?""I tol' you t'other day—he's lost all his

money; but he says you've got enough to

keep you goin' fer some time. I don't seewhy you don't git married right now andlive over at the Gap."

June coloured and was silent."Oh," said the old man quickly, "you

ain't ready nuther,"—he studied her withnarrowing eyes and through a puzzledfrown—"but I reckon hit's all right, if youair goin' to git married some time."

"What's all right, Dad?" The old manchecked himself:

"Ever' thing," he said shortly, "but don'tyou make a fool of yo'self with a goodman like Jack Hale." And, wondering,June was silent. The truth was that the oldman had wormed out of Hale an admissionof the kindly duplicity the latter hadpractised on him and on June, and he had

given his word to Hale that he would nottell June. He did not understand why Haleshould have so insisted on that promise,for it was all right that Hale should openlydo what he pleased for the girl he wasgoing to marry—but he had given hisword: so he turned away, but his frownstayed where it was.

June went on, puzzled, for she knew thather father was withholding something, andshe knew, too, that he would tell her onlyin his own good time. But she could goaway when she pleased—that was thecomfort—and with the thought she stoppedsuddenly at the corner of the garden. Shecould see Hale on his big black horseclimbing the spur. Once it had alwaysbeen his custom to stop on top of it to resthis horse and turn to look back at her, and

she always waited to wave him good-by.She wondered if he would do it now, andwhile she looked and waited, the beatingof her heart quickened nervously; but herode straight on, without stopping orturning his head, and June felt strangelybereft and resentful, and the comfort of themoment before was suddenly gone. Shecould hear the voices of the guests in theporch around the corner of the house—there was an ordeal for her around there,and she went on. Loretta and Loretta'smother were there, and old Hon andseveral wives and daughters of Tolliveradherents from up Deadwood Creek andbelow Uncle Billy's mill. June knew thatthe "bean-stringing" was simply an excusefor them to be there, for she could notremember that so many had ever gathered

there before—at that function in thespring, at corn-cutting in the autumn, orsorghum-making time or at log-raisings orquilting parties, and she well knew themotive of these many and the curiosity ofall save, perhaps, Loretta and the oldmiller's wife: and June was prepared forthem. She had borrowed a gown from herstep-mother—a purple creation of home-spun—she had shaken down her beautifulhair and drawn it low over her brows, andarranged it behind after the fashion ofmountain women, and when she went upthe steps of the porch she was outwardlyto the eye one of them except for theleathern belt about her slenderly fullwaist, her black silk stockings and thelittle "furrin" shoes on her dainty feet. Shesmiled inwardly when she saw the same

old wave of disappointment sweep acrossthe faces of them all. It was not necessaryto shake hands, but unthinkingly she did,and the women sat in their chairs as shewent from one to the other and each gaveher a limp hand and a grave "howdye,"though each paid an unconscious tribute toa vague something about her, by wipingthat hand on an apron first. Very quietlyand naturally she took a low chair, piledbeans in her lap and, as one of them, wentto work. Nobody looked at her at firstuntil old Hon broke the silence.

"You haint lost a spec o' yo' goodlooks, Juny."

June laughed without a flush—shewould have reddened to the roots of herhair two years before.

"I'm feelin' right peart, thank ye," shesaid, dropping consciously into thevernacular; but there was a something inher voice that was vaguely felt by all as apart of the universal strangeness that wasin her erect bearing, her proud head, herdeep eyes that looked so straight into theirown—a strangeness that was in that beltand those stockings and those shoes,inconspicuous as they were, to which shesaw every eye in time covertly wanderingas to tangible symbols of a mystery thatwas beyond their ken. Old Hon and thestep-mother alone talked at first, and theothers, even Loretta, said never a word.

"Jack Hale must have been in a mightybig hurry," quavered the old step-mother."June ain't goin' to be with us long, I'mafeerd:" and, without looking up, June

knew the wireless significance of thespeech was going around from eye to eye,but calmly she pulled her thread through agreen pod and said calmly, with a littleenigmatical shake of her head:

"I—don't know—I don't know."Young Dave's mother was encouraged

and all her efforts at good-humour couldnot quite draw the sting of a spiteful plaintfrom her voice.

"I reckon she'd never git away, if myboy Dave had the sayin' of it." There wasa subdued titter at this, but Bub had comein from the stable and had dropped on theedge of the porch. He broke in hotly:

"You jest let June alone, Aunt Tilly,you'll have yo' hands full if you keep yo'eye on Loretty thar."

Already when somebody was sayingsomething about the feud, as June camearound the corner, her quick eye had seenLoretta bend her head swiftly over herwork to hide the flush of her face. NowLoretta turned scarlet as the step-motherspoke severely:

"You hush, Bub," and Bub rose andstalked into the house. Aunt Tilly wasleaning back in her chair—gasping—andconsternation smote the group. June rosesuddenly with her string of danglingbeans.

"I haven't shown you my room, Loretty.Don't you want to see it? Come on, all ofyou," she added to the girls, and they andLoretta with one swift look of gratituderose shyly and trooped shyly within where

they looked in wide-mouthed wonder atthe marvellous things that room contained.The older women followed to share sightof the miracle, and all stood looking fromone thing to another, some with their handsbehind them as though to thwart thetemptation to touch, and all saying merely:

"My! My!"None of them had ever seen a piano

before and June must play the "shinycontraption" and sing a song. It was onlycuriosity and astonishment that she evokedwhen her swift fingers began running overthe keys from one end of the board to theother, astonishment at the gymnasticquality of the performance, and onlyastonishment when her lovely voice setthe very walls of the little room to

vibrating with a dramatic love song thatwas about as intelligible to them as aproblem in calculus, and June flushed andthen smiled with quick understanding atthe dry comment that rose from Aunt Tillybehind:

"She shorely can holler some!"She couldn't play "Sourwood

Mountain" on the piano—nor "Jinny gitAroun'," nor "Soapsuds over the Fence,"but with a sudden inspiration she wentback to an old hymn that they all knew,and at the end she won the tribute of anawed silence that made them file back tothe beans on the porch. Loretta lingered amoment and when June closed the pianoand the two girls went into the main room,a tall figure, entering, stopped in the door

and stared at June without speaking:"Why, howdye, Uncle Rufe," said

Loretta. "This is June. You didn't knowher, did ye?" The man laughed. Somethingin June's bearing made him take off hishat; he came forward to shake hands, andJune looked up into a pair of bold blackeyes that stirred within her again the vaguefears of her childhood. She had beenafraid of him when she was a child, and itwas the old fear aroused that made herrecall him by his eyes now. His beard wasgone and he was much changed. Shetrembled when she shook hands with himand she did not call him by his name OldJudd came in, and a moment later the twomen and Bub sat on the porch while thewomen worked, and when June rose againto go indoors, she felt the newcomer's

bold eyes take her slowly in from head tofoot and she turned crimson. This was theterror among the Tollivers—Bad Rufe,come back from the West to take part inthe feud. HE saw the belt and thestockings and the shoes, the white columnof her throat and the proud set of her gold-crowned head; HE knew what they meant,he made her feel that he knew, and later hemanaged to catch her eyes once with anamused, half-contemptuous glance at thesimple untravelled folk about them, thatsaid plainly how well he knew they twowere set apart from them, and she shrankfearfully from the comradeship that theglance implied and would look at him nomore. He knew everything that was goingon in the mountains. He had come back"ready for business," he said. When he

made ready to go, June went to her roomand stayed there, but she heard him say toher father that he was going over to theGap, and with a laugh that chilled hersoul:

"I'm goin' over to kill me a policeman."And her father warned gruffly:

"You better keep away from thar. Youdon't understand them fellers." And sheheard Rufe's brutal laugh again, and as herode into the creek his horse stumbled andshe saw him cut cruelly at the poor beast'sears with the rawhide quirt that he carried.She was glad when all went home, and theonly ray of sunlight in the day for herradiated from Uncle Billy's face when, atsunset, he came to take old Hon home. Theold miller was the one unchanged soul to

her in that he was the one soul that couldsee no change in June. He called her"baby" in the old way, and he talked to hernow as he had talked to her as a child. Hetook her aside to ask her if she knew thatHale had got his license to marry, andwhen she shook her head, his round, redface lighted up with the benediction of arising sun:

"Well, that's what he's done, baby, an'he's axed me to marry ye," he added, withboyish pride, "he's axed ME."

And June choked, her eyes filled, andshe was dumb, but Uncle Billy could notsee that it meant distress and not joy. Hejust put his arm around her and whispered:

"I ain't told a soul, baby—not a soul."She went to bed and to sleep with

Hale's face in the dream-mist of her brain,and Uncle Billy's, and the bold, black eyesof Bad Rufe Tolliver—all fused, blurred,indistinguishable. Then suddenly Rufe'swords struck that brain, word by word,like the clanging terror of a frightenedbell.

"I'm goin' to kill me a policeman." Andwith the last word, it seemed, she sprangupright in bed, clutching the coverlidconvulsively. Daylight was showing graythrough her window. She heard a swiftstep up the steps, across the porch, therattle of the door-chain, her father's quickcall, then the rumble of two men's voices,and she knew as well what had happenedas though she had heard every word theyuttered. Rufe had killed him a policeman—perhaps John Hale—and with terror

clutching her heart she sprang to the floor,and as she dropped the old purple gownover her shoulders, she heard the scurry offeet across the back porch—feet that ranswiftly but cautiously, and left the soundof them at the edge of the woods. Sheheard the back door close softly, thecreaking of the bed as her father lay downagain, and then a sudden splashing in thecreek. Kneeling at the window, she sawstrange horsemen pushing toward the gatewhere one threw himself from his saddle,strode swiftly toward the steps, and herlips unconsciously made soft, little,inarticulate cries of joy—for the stern,gray face under the hat of the man was theface of John Hale. After him pushed othermen—fully armed—whom he motioned toeither side of the cabin to the rear. By his

side was Bob Berkley, and behind himwas a red-headed Falin whom she wellremembered. Within twenty feet, she waslooking into that gray face, when the setlips of it opened in a loud command:"Hello!" She heard her father's bed creakagain, again the rattle of the door-chain,and then old Judd stepped on the porchwith a revolver in each hand.

"Hello!" he answered sternly."Judd," said Hale sharply—and June

had never heard that tone from him before—"a man with a black moustache killedone of our men over in the Gap yesterdayand we've tracked him over here. There'shis horse—and we saw him go into thatdoor. We want him."

"Do you know who the feller is?" asked

old Judd calmly."No," said Hale quickly. And then, with

equal calm:"Hit was my brother," and the old man's

mouth closed like a vise. Had the lastword been a stone striking his ear, Halecould hardly have been more stunned.Again he called and almost gently:

"Watch the rear, there," and then gentlyhe turned to Devil Judd.

"Judd, your brother shot a man at theGap—without excuse or warning. He wasan officer and a friend of mine, but if hewere a stranger—we want him just thesame. Is he here?"

Judd looked at the red-headed manbehind Hale.

"So you're turned on the Falin side now,

have ye?" he said contemptuously."Is he here?" repeated Hale."Yes, an' you can't have him." Without a

move toward his pistol Hale steppedforward, and June saw her father's bigright hand tighten on his huge pistol, andwith a low cry she sprang to her feet.

"I'm an officer of the law," Hale said,"stand aside, Judd!" Bub leaped to thedoor with a Winchester—his eyes wildand his face white.

"Watch out, men!" Hale called, and asthe men raised their guns there was ashriek inside the cabin and June stood atBub's side, barefooted, her hair tumbledabout her shoulders, and her handclutching the little cross at her throat.

"Stop!" she shrieked. "He isn't here.

He's—he's gone!" For a moment a suddensickness smote Hale's face, then DevilJudd's ruse flashed to him and, wheeling,he sprang to the ground.

"Quick!" he shouted, with a sweep ofhis hand right and left. "Up those hollows!Lead those horses up to the Pine and wait.Quick!"

Already the men were running as hedirected and Hale, followed by Bob andthe Falin, rushed around the corner of thehouse. Old Judd's nostrils were quivering,and with his pistols dangling in his handshe walked to the gate, listening to thesounds of the pursuit.

"They'll never ketch him," he said,coming back, and then he dropped into achair and sat in silence a long time. June

reappeared, her face still white and hertemples throbbing, for the sun was risingon days of darkness for her. Devil Judddid not even look at her.

"I reckon you ain't goin' to marry JohnHale."

"No, Dad," said June.

XXVThus Fate did not wait until Election

Day for the thing Hale most dreaded—aclash that would involve the guard in theTolliver-Falin troubles over the hills.There had been simply a preliminarypolitical gathering at the Gap the daybefore, but it had been a crucial day forthe guard from a cloudy sunrise to a tragicsunset. Early that morning, Mockaby, thetown-sergeant, had stepped into the streetfreshly shaven, with polished boots, andin his best clothes for the eyes of hissweetheart, who was to come up that dayto the Gap from Lee. Before sunset hedied with those boots on, while the

sweetheart, unknowing, was bound on herhappy way homeward, and Rufe Tolliver,who had shot Mockaby, was clatteringthrough the Gap in flight for LonesomeCove.

As far as anybody knew, there had beenbut one Tolliver and one Falin in townthat day, though many had noticed the tallWestern-looking stranger who, early in theafternoon, had ridden across the bridgeover the North Fork, but he was quiet andwell-behaved, he merged into the crowdand through the rest of the afternoon wasin no way conspicuous, even when the oneTolliver and the one Falin got into a fightin front of the speaker's stand and the riotstarted which came near ending in abloody battle. The Falin was clearlyblameless and was let go at once. This

angered the many friends of the Tolliver,and when he was arrested there was anattempt at rescue, and the Tolliver wasdragged to the calaboose behind a slowlyretiring line of policemen, who werejabbing the rescuers back with the muzzlesof cocked Winchesters. It was just when itwas all over, and the Tolliver was safelyjailed, that Bad Rufe galloped up to thecalaboose, shaking with rage, for he hadjust learned that the prisoner was aTolliver. He saw how useless interferencewas, but he swung from his horse, threwthe reins over its head after the Westernfashion and strode up to Hale.

"You the captain of this guard?""Yes," said Hale; "and you?" Rufe

shook his head with angry impatience, and

Hale, thinking he had some communicationto make, ignored his refusal to answer.

"I hear that a fellow can't blow awhistle or holler, or shoot off his pistol inthis town without gittin' arrested."

"That's true—why?" Rufe's black eyesgleamed vindictively.

"Nothin'," he said, and he turned to hishorse.

Ten minutes later, as Mockaby waspassing down the dummy track, a whistlewas blown on the river bank, a high yellwas raised, a pistol shot quickly followedand he started for the sound of them on arun. A few minutes later three more pistolshots rang out, and Hale rushed to theriver bank to find Mockaby stretched outon the ground, dying, and a mountaineer

lout pointing after a man on horseback,who was making at a swift gallop for themouth of the gap and the hills.

"He done it," said the lout in afrightened way; "but I don't know who hewas."

Within half an hour ten horsemen wereclattering after the murderer, headed byHale, Logan, and the Infant of the Guard.Where the road forked, a woman with achild in her arms said she had seen a tall,black-eyed man with a black moustachegallop up the right fork. She no more knewwho he was than any of the pursuers.Three miles up that fork they came upon ared-headed man leading his horse from amountaineer's yard.

"He went up the mountain," the red-

haired man said, pointing to the trail of theLonesome Pine. "He's gone over the line.Whut's he done—killed somebody?"

"Yes," said Hale shortly, starting up hishorse.

"I wish I'd a-knowed you was atter him.I'm sheriff over thar."

Now they were without warrant orrequisition, and Hale, pulling in, saidsharply:

"We want that fellow. He killed a manat the Gap. If we catch him over the line,we want you to hold him for us. Comealong!" The red-headed sheriff sprang onhis horse and grinned eagerly:

"I'm your man.""Who was that fellow?" asked Hale as

they galloped. The sheriff denied

knowledge with a shake of his head."What's your name?" The sheriff looked

sharply at him for the effect of his answer."Jim Falin." And Hale looked sharply

back at him. He was one of the Falins wholong, long ago had gone to the Gap foryoung Dave Tolliver, and now the Falingrinned at Hale.

"I know you—all right." No wonder theFalin chuckled at this Heaven-born chanceto get a Tolliver into trouble.

At the Lonesome Pine the traces of thefugitive's horse swerved along themountain top—the shoe of the rightforefoot being broken in half. That swervewas a blind and the sheriff knew it, but heknew where Rufe Tolliver would go andthat there would be plenty of time to get

him. Moreover, he had a purpose of hisown and a secret fear that it might bethwarted, so, without a word, he followedthe trail till darkness hid it and they had towait until the moon rose. Then as theystarted again, the sheriff said:

"Wait a minute," and plunged down themountain side on foot. A few minutes laterhe hallooed for Hale, and down thereshowed him the tracks doubling backwardalong a foot-path.

"Regular rabbit, ain't he?" chuckled thesheriff, and back they went to the trailagain on which two hundred yards belowthe Pine they saw the tracks pointing againto Lonesome Cove.

On down the trail they went, and at thetop of the spur that overlooked Lonesome

Cove, the Falin sheriff pulled in suddenlyand got off his horse. There the tracksswerved again into the bushes.

"He's goin' to wait till daylight, fer fearsomebody's follered him. He'll come inback o' Devil Judd's."

"How do you know he's going to DevilJudd's?" asked Hale.

"Whar else would he go?" asked theFalin with a sweep of his arm toward themoonlit wilderness. "Thar ain't but onehouse that way fer ten miles—and nobodylives thar."

"How do you know that he's going toany house?" asked Hale impatiently. "Hemay be getting out of the mountains."

"D'you ever know a feller to leavethese mountains jus' because he'd killed a

man? How'd you foller him at night?How'd you ever ketch him with his start?What'd he turn that way fer, if he wasn'tgoin' to Judd's—why d'n't he keep ondown the river? If he's gone, he's gone. Ifhe ain't, he'll be at Devil Judd's atdaybreak if he ain't thar now."

"What do you want to do?""Go on down with the hosses, hide 'em

in the bushes an' wait.""Maybe he's already heard us coming

down the mountain.""That's the only thing I'm afeerd of,"

said the Falin calmly. "But whut I'm tellin'you's our only chance."

"How do you know he won't hear usgoing down? Why not leave the horses?"

"We might need the hosses, and hit's

mud and sand all the way—you ought toknow that."

Hale did know that; so on they wentquietly and hid their horses aside from theroad near the place where Hale had fishedwhen he first went to Lonesome Cove.There the Falin disappeared on foot.

"Do you trust him?" asked Hale, turningto Budd, and Budd laughed.

"I reckon you can trust a Falin against afriend of a Tolliver, or t'other way round—any time." Within half an hour the Falincame back with the news that there wereno signs that the fugitive had yet come in.

"No use surrounding the house now," hesaid, "he might see one of us first when hecomes in an' git away. We'll do that atterdaylight."

And at daylight they saw the fugitiveride out of the woods at the back of thehouse and boldly around to the front of thehouse, where he left his horse in the yardand disappeared.

"Now send three men to ketch him if heruns out the back way—quick!" said theFalin. "Hit'll take 'em twenty minutes to gitthar through the woods. Soon's they gitthar, let one of 'em shoot his pistol off an'that'll be the signal fer us."

The three men started swiftly, but thepistol shot came before they had gone ahundred yards, for one of the three—anew man and unaccustomed to the use offire-arms, stumbled over a root while hewas seeing that his pistol was in order andlet it go off accidentally.

"No time to waste now," the Falincalled sharply. "Git on yo' hosses and git!"Then the rush was made and when theygave up the chase at noon that day, thesheriff looked Hale squarely in the eyewhen Hale sharply asked him a question:

"Why didn't you tell me who that manwas?"

"Because I was afeerd you wouldn't goto Devil Judd's atter him. I know betternow," and he shook his head, for he didnot understand. And so Hale at the head ofthe disappointed Guard went back to theGap, and when, next day, they laidMockaby away in the thinly populatedlittle graveyard that rested in the hollowof the river's arm, the spirit of law andorder in the heart of every guard gave way

to the spirit of revenge, and the grasswould grow under the feet of none untilRufe Tolliver was caught and the death-debt of the law was paid with death.

That purpose was no less firm in theheart of Hale, and he turned away from thegrave, sick with the trick that Fate had lostno time in playing him; for he was a Falinnow in the eyes of both factions and anenemy—even to June.

The weeks dragged slowly along, andJune sank slowly toward the depths withevery fresh realization of the trap ofcircumstance into which she had fallen.She had dim memories of just such a stateof affairs when she was a child, for thefeud was on now and the three things thatgoverned the life of the cabin in Lonesome

Cove were hate, caution, and fear.Bub and her father worked in the fields

with their Winchesters close at hand, andJune was never easy if they were outsidethe house. If somebody shouted "hello"—that universal hail of friend or enemy inthe mountains—from the gate after dark,one or the other would go out the backdoor and answer from the shelter of thecorner of the house. Neither sat by thelight of the fire where he could be seenthrough the window nor carried a candlefrom one room to the other. And wheneither rode down the river, June must ridebehind him to prevent ambush from thebushes, for no Kentucky mountaineer, evento kill his worst enemy, will risk harminga woman. Sometimes Loretta would comeand spend the day, and she seemed little

less distressed than June. Dave wasconstantly in and out, and several timesJune had seen the Red Fox hangingaround. Always the talk was of the feud.The killing of this Tolliver and of thatlong ago was rehearsed over and over; allthe wrongs the family had suffered at thehands of the Falins were retold, and inspite of herself June felt the old hatred ofher childhood reawakening against themso fiercely that she was startled: and sheknew that if she were a man she would beas ready now to take up a Winchesteragainst the Falins as though she had knownno other life.

Loretta got no comfort from her in hertentative efforts to talk of Buck Falin, andonce, indeed, June gave her a scathingrebuke. With every day her feeling for her

father and Bub was knit a little moreclosely, and toward Dave grew a littlemore kindly. She had her moods evenagainst Hale, but they always ended in astorm of helpless tears. Her father saidlittle of Hale, but that little was enough.Young Dave was openly exultant when heheard of the favouritism shown a Falin bythe Guard at the Gap, the effort Hale hadmade to catch Rufe Tolliver and his well-known purpose yet to capture him; for theGuard maintained a fund for the arrest andprosecution of criminals, and the reward itoffered for Rufe, dead or alive, wasknown by everybody on both sides of theState line. For nearly a week no word washeard of the fugitive, and then one night,after supper, while June was sitting at thefire, the back door was opened, Rufe slid

like a snake within, and when June sprangto her feet with a sharp cry of terror, hegave his brutal laugh:

"Don't take much to skeer you—doesit?" Shuddering she felt his evil eyessweep her from head to foot, for the beastwithin was always unleashed and everready to spring, and she dropped back intoher seat, speechless. Young Dave,entering from the kitchen, saw Rufe's lookand the hostile lightning of his own eyesflashed at his foster-uncle, who knewstraightway that he must not for his ownsafety strain the boy's jealousy too far.

"You oughtn't to 'a' done it, Rufe," saidold Judd a little later, and he shook hishead. Again Rufe laughed:

"No—" he said with a quick

pacificatory look to young Dave, "not toHIM!" The swift gritting of Dave's teethshowed that he knew what was meant, andwithout warning the instinct of aprotecting tigress leaped within June. Shehad seen and had been grateful for thelook Dave gave the outlaw, but without aword she rose new and went to her ownroom. While she sat at her window, herstep-mother came out the back door andleft it open for a moment. Through it Junecould hear the talk:

"No," said her father, "she ain't goin' tomarry him." Dave grunted and Rufe'svoice came again:

"Ain't no danger, I reckon, of her tellin'on me?"

"No," said her father gruffly, and the

door banged.No, thought June, she wouldn't, even

without her father's trust, though sheloathed the man, and he was the only thingon earth of which she was afraid—thatwas the miracle of it and June wondered.She was a Tolliver and the clan loyalty ofa century forbade—that was all. As sherose she saw a figure skulking past theedge of the woods. She called Bub in andtold him about it, and Rufe stayed at thecabin all night, but June did not see himnext morning, and she kept out of his waywhenever he came again. A few nightslater the Red Fox slouched up to the cabinwith some herbs for the step-mother. OldJudd eyed him askance.

"Lookin' fer that reward, Red?" The old

man had no time for the meek reply thatwas on his lips, for the old woman spokeup sharply:

"You let Red alone, Judd—I tol' him tocome." And the Red Fox stayed to supper,and when Rufe left the cabin that night, abent figure with a big rifle and inmoccasins sneaked after him.

The next night there was a tap on Hale'swindow just at his bedside, and when helooked out he saw the Red Fox's big rifle,telescope, moccasins and all in themoonlight. The Red Fox had discoveredthe whereabouts of Rufe Tolliver, and thatvery night he guided Hale and six of theguard to the edge of a little clearing wherethe Red Fox pointed to a one-roomedcabin, quiet in the moonlight. Hale had his

requisition now."Ain't no trouble ketchin' Rufe, if you

bait him with a woman," he snarled."There mought be several Tollivers inthar. Wait till daybreak and git the drap onhim, when he comes out." And then hedisappeared.

Surrounding the cabin, Hale waited,and on top of the mountain, aboveLonesome Cove, the Red Fox sat waitingand watching through his big telescope.Through it he saw Bad Rufe step outsidethe door at daybreak and stretch his armswith a yawn, and he saw three men springwith levelled Winchesters from behind aclump of bushes. The woman shot from thedoor behind Rufe with a pistol in eachhand, but Rufe kept his hands in the air

and turned his head to the woman wholowered the half-raised weapons slowly.When he saw the cavalcade start for thecounty seat with Rufe manacled in themidst of them, he dropped swiftly downinto Lonesome Cove to tell Judd that Rufewas a prisoner and to retake him on theway to jail. And, as the Red Fox wellknew would happen, old Judd and youngDave and two other Tollivers who wereat the cabin galloped into the county seatto find Rufe in jail, and that jail guardedby seven grim young men armed withWinchesters and shot-guns.

Hale faced the old man quietly—eye toeye.

"It's no use, Judd," he said, "you'dbetter let the law take its course." The old

man was scornful."Thar's never been a Tolliver convicted

of killin' nobody, much less hung—an' tharain't goin' to be."

"I'm glad you warned me," said Halestill quietly, "though it wasn't necessary.But if he's convicted, he'll hang."

The giant's face worked in convulsivehelplessness and he turned away.

"You hold the cyards now, but my dealis comin'."

"All right, Judd—you're getting asquare one from me."

Back rode the Tollivers and Devil Juddnever opened his lips again until he was athome in Lonesome Cove. June was sittingon the porch when he walked heavy-headed through the gate.

"They've ketched Rufe," he said, andafter a moment he added gruffly:

"Thar's goin' to be sure enough troublenow. The Falins'll think all them policefellers air on their side now. This ain't noplace fer you—you must git away."

June shook her head and her eyes turnedto the flowers at the edge of the garden:

"I'm not goin' away, Dad," she said.

XXVIBack to the passing of Boone and the

landing of Columbus no man, in thatregion, had ever been hanged. And as oldJudd said, no Tolliver had ever beensentenced and no jury of mountain men, hewell knew, could be found who wouldconvict a Tolliver, for there were notwelve men in the mountains who woulddare. And so the Tollivers decided toawait the outcome of the trial and resteasy. But they did not count on the mettleand intelligence of the grim young"furriners" who were a flying wedge ofcivilization at the Gap. Straightway, theygave up the practice of law and banking

and trading and store-keeping and cutport-holes in the brick walls of the CourtHouse and guarded town and jail night andday. They brought their own fearlessjudge, their own fearless jury and theirown fearless guard. Such an abstractregard for law and order the mountaineerfinds a hard thing to understand. It lookedas though the motive of the Guard wasvindictive and personal, and old Judd wasalmost stifled by the volcanic rage thatdaily grew within him as the toils dailytightened about Rufe Tolliver.

Every happening the old man learnedthrough the Red Fox, who, with his hugepistols, was one of the men who escortedRufe to and from Court House and jail—avolunteer, Hale supposed, because hehated Rufe; and, as the Tollivers

supposed, so that he could keep themadvised of everything that went on, whichhe did with secrecy and his own peculiarfaith. And steadily and to the growinguneasiness of the Tollivers, the law wentits way. Rufe had proven that he was atthe Gap all day and had taken no part inthe trouble. He produced a witness—themountain lout whom Hale remembered—who admitted that he had blown thewhistle, given the yell, and fired the pistolshot. When asked his reason, the witness,who was stupid, had none ready, lookedhelplessly at Rufe and finally mumbled—"fer fun." But it was plain from thequestions that Rufe had put to Hale only afew minutes before the shooting, and fromthe hesitation of the witness, that Rufe hadused him for a tool. So the testimony of the

latter that Mockaby without evensummoning Rufe to surrender had firedfirst, carried no conviction. And yet Rufehad no trouble making it almost sure thathe had never seen the dead man before—so what was his motive? It was then thatword reached the ear of the prosecutingattorney of the only testimony that couldestablish a motive and make the crime ahanging offence, and Court was adjournedfor a day, while he sent for the witnesswho could give it. That afternoon one ofthe Falins, who had grown bolder, and intwos and threes were always at the trial,shot at a Tolliver on the edge of town andthere was an immediate turmoil betweenthe factions that the Red Fox had beenwaiting for and that suited his darkpurposes well.

That very night, with his big rifle, heslipped through the woods to a turn of theroad, over which old Dave Tolliver wasto pass next morning, and built a "blind"behind some rocks and lay there smokingpeacefully and dreaming hisSwedenborgian dreams. And when awagon came round the turn, driven by aboy, and with the gaunt frame of old DaveTolliver lying on straw in the bed of it, hisbig rifle thundered and the frightenedhorses dashed on with the Red Fox's lastenemy, lifeless. Coolly he slipped back tothe woods, threw the shell from his gun,tirelessly he went by short cuts through thehills, and at noon, benevolent and smiling,he was on guard again.

The little Court Room was crowded forthe afternoon session. Inside the railing sat

Rufe Tolliver, white and defiant—manacled. Leaning on the railing, to oneside, was the Red Fox with his big pistols,his good profile calm, dreamy, kind—tothe other, similarly armed, was Hale. Ateach of the gaping port-holes, and on eachside of the door, stood a guard with aWinchester, and around the railing outsidewere several more. In spite of windowand port-hole the air was close and heavywith the smell of tobacco and the sweat ofmen. Here and there in the crowd was ared Falin, but not a Tolliver was in sight,and Rufe Tolliver sat alone. The clerkcalled the Court to order after the fashionsince the days before Edward theConfessor—except that he asked God tosave a commonwealth instead of a king—and the prosecuting attorney rose:

"Next witness, may it please yourHonour": and as the clerk got to his feetwith a slip of paper in his hand andbawled out a name, Hale wheeled with athumping heart. The crowd vibrated,turned heads, gave way, and through thehuman aisle walked June Tolliver with thesheriff following meekly behind. At therailing-gate she stopped, head uplifted,face pale and indignant; and her eyesswept past Hale as if he were no morethan a wooden image, and were fixed withproud inquiry on the Judge's face. She wasbare-headed, her bronze hair was drawnlow over her white brow, her gown wasof purple home-spun, and her right handwas clenched tight about the chased silverhandle of a riding whip, and in eyes,mouth, and in every line of her tense figure

was the mute question: "Why have youbrought me here?"

"Here, please," said the Judge gently, as

though he were about to answer thatquestion, and as she passed Hale sheseemed to swerve her skirts aside thatthey might not touch him.

"Swear her."June lifted her right hand, put her lips to

the soiled, old, black Bible and faced thejury and Hale and Bad Rufe Tolliverwhose black eyes never left her face.

"What is your name?" asked a deepvoice that struck her ears as familiar, andbefore she answered she swiftly recalledthat she had heard that voice speakingwhen she entered the door.

"June Tolliver.""Your age?""Eighteen."

"You live—""In Lonesome Cove.""You are the daughter of—""Judd Tolliver.""Do you know the prisoner?""He is my foster-uncle.""Were you at home on the night of

August the tenth?""I was.""Have you ever heard the prisoner

express any enmity against this volunteerPolice Guard?" He waved his handtoward the men at the portholes and aboutthe railing—unconsciously leaving hishand directly pointed at Hale. Junehesitated and Rufe leaned one elbow onthe table, and the light in his eyes beat

with fierce intensity into the girl's eyesinto which came a curious frightened lookthat Hale remembered—the same look shehad shown long ago when Rufe's namewas mentioned in the old miller's cabin,and when going up the river road she hadput her childish trust in him to see that herbad uncle bothered her no more. Hale hadnever forgot that, and if it had not beenabsurd he would have stopped theprisoner from staring at her now. Ananxious look had come into Rufe's eyes—would she lie for him?

"Never," said June. Ah, she would—she was a Tolliver and Rufe took a breathof deep content.

"You never heard him express anyenmity toward the Police Guard—before

that night?""I have answered that question," said

June with dignity and Rufe's lawyer wason his feet.

"Your Honour, I object," he saidindignantly.

"I apologize," said the deep voice—"sincerely," and he bowed to June.Then very quietly:

"What was the last thing you heard theprisoner say that afternoon when he leftyour father's house?"

It had come—how well sheremembered just what he had said andhow, that night, even when she wasasleep, Rufe's words had clanged like abell in her brain—what her awakeningterror was when she knew that the deed

was done and the stifling fear that thevictim might be Hale. Swiftly her mindworked—somebody had blabbed, herstep-mother, perhaps, and what Rufe hadsaid had reached a Falin ear and come tothe relentless man in front of her. Sheremembered, too, now, what the deepvoice was saying as she came into thedoor:

"There must be deliberation, amalicious purpose proven to make theprisoner's crime a capital offence—Iadmit that, of course, your Honour. Verywell, we propose to prove that now," andthen she had heard her name called. Theproof that was to send Rufe Tolliver to thescaffold was to come from her—that waswhy she was there. Her lips opened andRufe's eyes, like a snake's, caught her own

again and held them."He said he was going over to the Gap

—"There was a commotion at the door,

again the crowd parted, and in toweredgiant Judd Tolliver, pushing people asideas though they were straws, his bushy hairwild and his great frame shaking fromhead to foot with rage.

"You went to my house," he rumbledhoarsely—glaring at Hale—"an' took mygal thar when I wasn't at home—you—"

"Order in the Court," said the Judgesternly, but already at a signal from Haleseveral guards were pushing through thecrowd and old Judd saw them coming andsaw the Falins about him and theWinchesters at the port-holes, and he

stopped with a hard gulp and stoodlooking at June.

"Repeat his exact words," said the deepvoice again as calmly as though nothinghad happened.

"He said, 'I'm goin' over to the Gap—'"and still Rufe's black eyes held her withmesmeric power—would she lie for him—would she lie for him?

It was a terrible struggle for June. Herfather was there, her uncle Dave wasdead, her foster-uncle's life hung on hernext words and she was a Tolliver. Yetshe had given her oath, she had kissed thesacred Book in which she believed fromcover to cover with her whole heart, andshe could feel upon her the blue eyes of aman for whom a lie was impossible and to

whom she had never stained her whitesoul with a word of untruth.

"Yes," encouraged the deep voicekindly.

Not a soul in the room knew where thestruggle lay—not even the girl—for it laybetween the black eyes of Rufe Tolliverand the blue eyes of John Hale.

"Yes," repeated the deep voice again.Again, with her eyes on Rufe, sherepeated:

"'I'm goin' over to the Gap—'" her faceturned deadly white, she shivered, herdark eyes swerved suddenly full on Haleand she said slowly and distinctly, yethardly above a whisper:

"'TO KILL ME A POLICEMAN.'""That will do," said the deep voice

gently, and Hale started toward her—shelooked so deadly sick and she trembled sowhen she tried to rise; but she saw him,her mouth steadied, she rose, and withoutlooking at him, passed by his outstretchedhand and walked slowly out of the CourtRoom.

XXVIIThe miracle had happened. The

Tollivers, following the Red Fox's adviceto make no attempt at rescue just then, hadwaited, expecting the old immunity fromthe law and getting instead the swiftsentence that Rufe Tolliver should behanged by the neck until he was dead.Astounding and convincing though thenews was, no mountaineer believed hewould ever hang, and Rufe himself facedthe sentence defiant. He laughed when hewas led back to his cell:

"I'll never hang," he said scornfully.They were the first words that came from

his lips, and the first words that camefrom old Judd's when the news reachedhim in Lonesome Cove, and that night oldJudd gathered his clan for the rescue—tolearn next morning that during the nightRufe had been spirited away to the capitalfor safekeeping until the fatal day. And sothere was quiet for a while—old Juddmaking ready for the day when Rufeshould be brought back, and trying to findout who it was that had slain his brotherDave. The Falins denied the deed, but oldJudd never questioned that one of themwas the murderer, and he came out openlynow and made no secret of the fact that hemeant to have revenge. And so the twofactions went armed, watchful and wary—especially the Falins, who were lying lowand waiting to fulfil a deadly purpose of

their own. They well knew that old Juddwould not open hostilities on them untilRufe Tolliver was dead or at liberty. Theyknew that the old man meant to try torescue Rufe when he was brought back tojail or taken from it to the scaffold, andwhen either day came they themselveswould take a hand, thus giving theTollivers at one and the same time twosets of foes. And so through the goldenSeptember days the two clans waited, andJune Tolliver went with dulldetermination back to her old life, forUncle Billy's sister had left the house infear and she could get no help—milkingcows at cold dawns, helping in thekitchen, spinning flax and wool, andweaving them into rough garments for herfather and step-mother and Bub, and in

time, she thought grimly—for herself: fornot another cent for her maintenance couldnow come from John Hale, even though heclaimed it was hers—even though it wasin truth her own. Never, but once, hadHale's name been mentioned in the cabin—never, but once, had her father referredto the testimony that she had given againstRufe Tolliver, for the old man put uponHale the fact that the sheriff had sneakedinto his house when he was away and hadtaken June to Court, and that was thecrowning touch of bitterness in hisgrowing hatred for the captain of the guardof whom he had once been so fond.

"Course you had to tell the truth, baby,when they got you there," he said kindly;"but kidnappin' you that-a-way—" Heshook his great bushy head from side to

side and dropped it into his hands."I reckon that damn Hale was the man

who found out that you heard Rufe saythat. I'd like to know how—I'd like to gitmy hands on the feller as told him."

June opened her lips in simple justiceto clear Hale of that charge, but she sawsuch a terrified appeal in her step-mother's face that she kept her peace, letHale suffer for that, too, and walked outinto her garden. Never once had her pianobeen opened, her books had lain unread,and from her lips, during those days, cameno song. When she was not at work, shewas brooding in her room, or she wouldwalk down to Uncle Billy's and sit at themill with him while the old man wouldtalk in tender helplessness, or under the

honeysuckle vines with old Hon, whosebrusque kindness was of as little avail.And then, still silent, she would getwearily up and as quietly go away whilethe two old friends, worried to the heart,followed her sadly with their eyes. Atother times she was brooding in her roomor sitting in her garden, where she wasnow, and where she found most comfort—the garden that Hale had planted for her-where purple asters leaned against lilacshrubs that would flower for the first timethe coming spring; where a late rosebloomed, and marigolds drooped, andgreat sunflowers nodded and giant castor-plants stretched out their hands of Christ,And while June thus waited the passing ofthe days, many things became clear to her:for the grim finger of reality had torn the

veil from her eyes and let her see herselfbut little changed, at the depths, by contactwith John Male's world, as she now sawhim but little changed, at the depths, bycontact with hers. Slowly she came to see,too, that it was his presence in the CourtRoom that made her tell the truth, recklessof the consequences, and she came torealize that she was not leaving themountains because she would go to noplace where she could not know of anydanger that, in the present crisis, mightthreaten John Hale.

And Hale saw only that in the CourtRoom she had drawn her skirts aside, thatshe had looked at him once and then hadbrushed past his helping hand. It put him intorment to think of what her life must benow, and of how she must be suffering. He

knew that she would not leave her fatherin the crisis that was at hand, and after itwas all over—what then? His handswould still be tied and he would be evenmore helpless than he had ever dreamedpossible. To be sure, an old land deal hadcome to life, just after the discovery of theworthlessness of the mine in LonesomeCove, and was holding out another hope.But if that, too, should fail—or if it shouldsucceed—what then? Old Judd had sentback, with a curt refusal, the last"allowance" he forwarded to June and heknew the old man was himself in straits.So June must stay in the mountains, andwhat would become of her? She had goneback to her mountain garb—would shelapse into her old life and ever again becontent? Yes, she would lapse, but never

enough to keep her from being unhappy allher life, and at that thought he groaned.Thus far he was responsible and theparamount duty with him had been that sheshould have the means to follow thecareer she had planned for herself outsideof those hills. And now if he had themeans, he was helpless. There wasnothing for him to do now but to see thatthe law had its way with Rufe Tolliver,and meanwhile he let the reawakened landdeal go hang and set himself the task offinding out who it was that had ambushedold Dave Tolliver. So even when he wasthinking of June his brain was busy on thatmystery, and one night, as he sat brooding,a suspicion flashed that made him grip hischair with both hands and rise to pace theporch. Old Dave had been shot at dawn,

and the night before the Red Fox had beenabsent from the guard and had not turnedup until nearly noon next day. He had toldHale that he was going home. Two dayslater, Hale heard by accident that the oldman had been seen near the place of theambush about sunset of the day before thetragedy, which was on his way home, andhe now learned straightway for himselfthat the Red Fox had not been home for amonth—which was only one of his waysof mistreating the patient little old womanin black.

A little later, the Red Fox gave it outthat he was trying to ferret out themurderer himself, and several times hewas seen near the place of ambush,looking, as he said, for evidence. But thisdid not halt Hale's suspicions, for he

recalled that the night he had spent withthe Red Fox, long ago, the old man hadburst out against old Dave and had quicklycovered up his indiscretion with a piouscharacterization of himself as a man thatkept peace with both factions. And thenwhy had he been so suspicious and fearfulwhen Hale told him that night that he hadseen him talking with a Falin in town theCourt day before, and had he disclosed thewhereabouts of Rufe Tolliver and guidedthe guard to his hiding-place simply forthe reward? He had not yet come to claimit, and his indifference to money wasnotorious through the hills. Apparentlythere was some general enmity in the oldman toward the whole Tolliver clan, andmaybe he had used the reward to foolHale as to his real motive. And then Hale

quietly learned that long ago the Tolliversbitterly opposed the Red Fox's marriage toa Tolliver-that Rufe, when a boy, wasalways teasing the Red Fox and had oncemade him dance in his moccasins to thetune of bullets spitting about his feet, andthat the Red Fox had been heard to say thatold Dave had cheated his wife out of herjust inheritance of wild land; but all thatwas long, long ago, and apparently hadbeen mutually forgiven and forgotten. Butit was enough for Hale, and one night hemounted his horse, and at dawn he was atthe place of ambush with his horse hiddenin the bushes. The rocks for the ambushwere waist high, and the twigs that hadbeen thrust in the crevices between themwere withered. And there, on thehypothesis that the Red Fox was the

assassin, Hale tried to put himself, afterthe deed, into the Red Fox's shoes. Theold man had turned up on guard beforenoon—then he must have gone somewherefirst or have killed considerable time inthe woods. He would not have crossed theroad, for there were two houses on theother side; there would have been noobject in going on over the mountainunless he meant to escape, and if he hadgone over there for another reason hewould hardly have had time to get to theCourt House before noon: nor would hehave gone back along the road on thatside, for on that side, too, was a cabin notfar away. So Hale turned and walkedstraight away from the road where thewalking was easiest—down a ravine, andpushing this way and that through the

bushes where the way looked easiest. Halfa mile down the ravine he came to a littlebrook, and there in the black earth was thefaint print of a man's left foot and in thehard crust across was the deeper print ofhis right, where his weight in leaping hadcome down hard. But the prints weremade by a shoe and not by a moccasin,and then Hale recalled exultantly that theRed Fox did not have his moccasins on themorning he turned up on guard. All thewhile he kept a sharp lookout, right andleft, on the ground—the Red Fox musthave thrown his cartridge shellsomewhere, and for that Hale waslooking. Across the brook he could see thetracks no farther, for he was too little of awoodsman to follow so old a trail, but ashe stood behind a clump of rhododendron,

wondering what he could do, he heard thecrack of a dead stick down the stream, andnoiselessly he moved farther into thebushes. His heart thumped in the silence—the long silence that followed—for itmight be a hostile Tolliver that wascoming, so he pulled his pistol from hisholster, made ready, and then, noiseless asa shadow, the Red Fox slipped past himalong the path, in his moccasins now, andwith his big Winchester in his left hand.The Red Fox, too, was looking for thatcartridge shell, for only the night beforehad he heard for the first time of thewhispered suspicions against him. He wasmaking for the blind and Hale trembled athis luck. There was no path on the otherside of the stream, and Hale could barelyhear him moving through the bushes. So he

pulled off his boots and, carrying them inone hand, slipped after him, watching fordead twigs, stooping under the branches,or sliding sidewise through them when hehad to brush between their extremities,and pausing every now and then to listenfor an occasional faint sound from the RedFox ahead. Up the ravine the old man wentto a little ledge of rocks, beyond whichwas the blind, and when Hale saw hisstooped figure slip over that anddisappear, he ran noiselessly toward it,crept noiselessly to the top and peepedcarefully over to see the Red Fox with hisback to him and peering into a clump ofbushes—hardly ten yards away. WhileHale looked, the old man thrust his handinto the bushes and drew out somethingthat twinkled in the sun. At the moment

Hale's horse nickered from the bushes,and the Red Fox slipped his hand into hispocket, crouched listening a moment, andthen, step by step, backed toward theledge. Hale rose:

"I want you, Red!"The old man wheeled, the wolf's snarl

came, but the big rifle was too slow—Hale's pistol had flashed in his face.

"Drop your gun!" Paralyzed, but thepicture of white fury, the old manhesitated.

"Drop—your—gun!" Slowly the bigrifle was loosed and fell to the ground.

"Back away—turn around and handsup!"

With his foot on the Winchester, Halefelt in the old man's pockets and fished out

an empty cartridge shell. Then he pickedup the rifle and threw the slide.

"It fits all right. March—toward thathorse!"

Without a word the old man slouchedahead to where the big black horse wasrestlessly waiting in the bushes.

"Climb up," said Hale. "We won't 'rideand tie' back to town—but I'll take turnswith you on the horse."

The Red Fox was making ready toleave the mountains, for he had beenfalsely informed that Rufe was to bebrought back to the county seat next day,and he was searching again for the sole bitof evidence that was out against him. Andwhen Rufe was spirited back to jail andwas on his way to his cell, an old freckled

hand was thrust between the bars of aniron door to greet him and a voice calledhim by name. Rufe stopped in amazement;then he burst out laughing; he struck then atthe pallid face through the bars with hismanacles and cursed the old man bitterly;then he laughed again horribly. The twoslept in adjoining cells of the same cagethat night—the one waiting for the scaffoldand the other waiting for the trial that wasto send him there. And away over the bluemountains a little old woman in black saton the porch of her cabin as she had satpatiently many and many a long day. Itwas time, she thought, that the Red Foxwas coming home.

XXVIIIAnd so while Bad Rufe Tolliver was

waiting for death, the trial of the Red Foxwent on, and when he was not swinging ina hammock, reading his Bible, telling hisvisions to his guards and singing hymns,he was in the Court House giving shrewdanswers to questions, or none at all, withthe benevolent half of his mask turned tothe jury and the wolfish snarl of the otherhalf showing only now and then to somehostile witness for whom his hate wasstronger than his fear for his own life. Andin jail Bad Rufe worried his enemy withthe malicious humour of Satan. Now hewould say:

"Oh, there ain't nothin' betwixt old Redand me, nothin' at all—'cept this ironwall," and he would drum a vicious tattooon the thin wall with the heel of his boot.Or when he heard the creak of the RedFox's hammock as he droned his Biblealoud, he would say to his guard outside:

"Course I don't read the Bible an'preach the word, nor talk with sperits, butthar's worse men than me in the world—old Red in thar' for instance"; and then hewould cackle like a fiend and the Red Foxwould writhe in torment and beg to be sentto another cell. And always he woulddaily ask the Red Fox about his trial andask him questions in the night, and hisdevilish instinct told him the day that theRed Fox, too, was sentenced to death-hesaw it in the gray pallour of the old man's

face, and he cackled his glee like ademon. For the evidence against the RedFox was too strong. Where June sat aschief witness against Rufe Tolliver—JohnHale sat as chief witness against the RedFox. He could not swear it was acartridge shell that he saw the old manpick up, but it was something thatglistened in the sun, and a moment later hehad found the shell in the old man's pocket—and if it had been fired innocently, whywas it there and why was the old mansearching for it? He was looking, he said,for evidence of the murderer himself. Thatclaim made, the Red Fox's lawyer pickedup the big rifle and the shell.

"You say, Mr. Hale, the prisoner toldyou the night you spent at his home thatthis rifle was rim-fire?"

"He did." The lawyer held up the shell."You see this was exploded in such a

rifle." That was plain, and the lawyershoved the shell into the rifle, pulled thetrigger, took it out, and held it up again.The plunger had struck below the rim andnear the centre, but not quite on the centre,and Hale asked for the rifle and examinedit closely.

"It's been tampered with," he saidquietly, and he handed it to the prosecutingattorney. The fact was plain; it was abungling job and better proved the RedFox's guilt. Moreover, there were onlytwo such big rifles in all the hills, and itwas proven that the man who owned theother was at the time of the murder faraway. The days of brain-storms had not

come then. There were no eminentAlienists to prove insanity for theprisoner. Apparently, he had no friends—none save the little old woman in blackwho sat by his side, hour by hour and dayby day.

And the Red Fox was doomed.In the hush of the Court Room the Judge

solemnly put to the gray face before himthe usual question:

"Have you anything to say wherebysentence of death should not bepronounced on you?"

The Red Fox rose:"No," he said in a shaking voice; "but I

have a friend here who I would like tospeak for me." The Judge bent his head amoment over his bench and lifted it:

"It is unusual," he said; "but under thecircumstances I will grant your request.Who is your friend?" And the Red Foxmade the souls of his listeners leap.

"Jesus Christ," he said.The Judge reverently bowed his head

and the hush of the Court Room grewdeeper when the old man fished his Biblefrom his pocket and calmly read suchpassages as might be interpreted as suredamnation for his enemies and sure gloryfor himself—read them until the Judgelifted his hand for a halt.

And so another sensation spreadthrough the hills and a superstitious aweof this strange new power that had comeinto the hills went with it hand in hand.Only while the doubting ones knew that

nothing could save the Red Fox theywould wait to see if that power couldreally avail against the Tolliver clan. Theday set for Rufe's execution was thefollowing Monday, and for the Red Foxthe Friday following—for it was well tohave the whole wretched business overwhile the guard was there. Old JuddTolliver, so Hale learned, had comehimself to offer the little old woman inblack the refuge of his roof as long as shelived, and had tried to get her to go backwith him to Lonesome Cove; but itpleased the Red Fox that he should standon the scaffold in a suit of white—cap andall—as emblems of the purple and finelinen he was to put on above, and the littleold woman stayed where she was, silentlyand without question, cutting the garments,

as Hale pityingly learned, from a whitetable-cloth and measuring them piece bypiece with the clothes the old man wore injail. It pleased him, too, that his bodyshould be kept unburied three days—saying that he would then arise and goabout preaching, and that duty, too, shewould as silently and with as littlequestion perform. Moreover, he wouldpreach his own funeral sermon on theSunday before Rufe's day, and a curiouscrowd gathered to hear him. The Red Foxwas led from jail. He stood on the porchof the jailer's house with a little table infront of him. On it lay a Bible, on the otherside of the table sat a little pale-faced oldwoman in black with a black sun-bonnetdrawn close to her face. By the side of theBible lay a few pieces of bread. It was the

Red Fox's last communion—a communionwhich he administered to himself and inwhich there was no other soul on earth tojoin save that little old woman in black.And when the old fellow lifted the breadand asked the crowd to come forward topartake with him in the last sacrament, nota soul moved. Only the old woman whohad been ill-treated by the Red Fox for somany years—only she, of all the crowd,gave any answer, and she for one instantturned her face toward him. With achurlish gesture the old man pushed thebread over toward her and with hesitating,trembling fingers she reached for it.

Bob Berkley was on the death-watchthat night, and as he passed Rufe's cell awiry hand shot through the grating of hisdoor, and as the boy sprang away the

condemned man's fingers tipped the butt ofthe big pistol that dangled on the lad's hip.

"Not this time," said Bob with a coollittle laugh, and Rufe laughed, too.

"I was only foolin'," he said, "I ain'tgoin' to hang. You hear that, Red? I ain'tgoin' to hang—but you are, Red—sure.Nobody'd risk his little finger for your oldcarcass, 'cept maybe that little old womano' yours who you've treated like a hound—but my folks ain't goin' to see me hang."

Rufe spoke with some reason. Thatnight the Tollivers climbed the mountain,and before daybreak were waiting in thewoods a mile on the north side of thetown. And the Falins climbed, too, fartheralong the mountains, and at the same hourwere waiting in the woods a mile to the

south.Back in Lonesome Cove June Tolliver

sat alone—her soul shaken and terror-stricken to the depths—and the misery thatmatched hers was in the heart of Hale ashe paced to and fro at the county seat, onguard and forging out his plans for that dayunder the morning stars.

XXIXDay broke on the old Court House with

its black port-holes, on the graystone jail,and on a tall topless wooden box to oneside, from which projected a cross-beamof green oak. From the centre of this beamdangled a rope that swung gently to andfro when the wind moved. And with theday a flock of little birds lighted on thebars of the condemned man's cell window,chirping through them, and when the jailerbrought breakfast he found Bad Rufecowering in the corner of his cell and wetwith the sweat of fear.

"Them damn birds ag'in," he growled

sullenly."Don't lose yo' nerve, Rufe," said the

jailer, and the old laugh of defiance came,but from lips that were dry.

"Not much," he answered grimly, butthe jailer noticed that while he ate, hiseyes kept turning again and again to thebars; and the turnkey went away shakinghis head. Rufe had told the jailer, his onefriend through whom he had kept inconstant communication with theTollivers, how on the night after theshooting of Mockaby, when he lay downto sleep high on the mountain side andunder some rhododendron bushes, a flockof little birds flew in on him like a gust ofrain and perched over and around him,twittering at him until he had to get up and

pace the woods, and how, throughout thenext day, when he sat in the sun planninghis escape, those birds would sweepchattering over his head and sweepchattering back again, and in that mood ofdespair he had said once, and only once:"Somehow I knowed this time my namewas Dennis"—a phrase of evil prophecyhe had picked up outside the hills. Andnow those same birds of evil omen hadcome again, he believed, right on the heelsof the last sworn oath old Judd had senthim that he would never hang.

With the day, through mountain andvalley, came in converging lines mountainhumanity—men and women, boys andgirls, children and babes in arms; all intheir Sunday best—the men in jeans,slouched hats, and high boots, the women

in gay ribbons and brilliant home-spun; inwagons, on foot and on horses and mules,carrying man and man, man and boy, loverand sweetheart, or husband and wife andchild—all moving through the crispautumn air, past woods of russet andcrimson and along brown dirt roads, to thestraggling little mountain town. A strangerwould have thought that a county fair, acamp-meeting, or a circus was their goal,but they were on their way to look uponthe Court House with its black port-holes,the graystone jail, the tall wooden box, theprojecting beam, and that dangling ropewhich, when the wind moved, swayedgently to and fro. And Hale had forged hisplan. He knew that there would be noattempt at rescue until Rufe was led to thescaffold, and he knew that neither Falins

nor Tollivers would come in a band, sothe incoming tide found on the outskirts ofthe town and along every road boyishpolicemen who halted and disarmed everyman who carried a weapon in sight, forthus John Hale would have against thepistols of the factions his ownWinchesters and repeating shot-guns. Andthe wondering people saw at the backwindows of the Court House and at thethreatening port-holes more youngstersmanning Winchesters, more at thewindows of the jailer's frame house,which joined and fronted the jail, andmore still—a line of them—running allaround the jail; and the old men waggedtheir heads in amazement and wondered if,after all, a Tolliver was not really goingto be hanged.

So they waited—the neighbouring hillswere black with people waiting; thehousetops were black with men and boyswaiting; the trees in the streets werebending under the weight of human bodies;and the jail-yard fence was three feet deepwith people hanging to it and hangingabout one another's necks—all waiting.All morning they waited silently andpatiently, and now the fatal noon washardly an hour away and not a Falin nor aTolliver had been seen. Every Falin hadbeen disarmed of his Winchester as hecame in, and as yet no Tolliver hadentered the town, for wily old Judd hadlearned of Hale's tactics and had stayedoutside the town for his own keenpurpose. As the minutes passed, Hale wasbeginning to wonder whether, after all,

old Judd had come to believe that the oddsagainst him were too great, and had toldthe truth when he set afoot the rumour thatthe law should have its way; and it wasjust when his load of anxiety wasbeginning to lighten that there was a littlecommotion at the edge of the Court Houseand a great red-headed figure pushedthrough the crowd, followed by another oflike build, and as the people rapidly gaveway and fell back, a line of Falins slippedalong the wall and stood under the port-holes-quiet, watchful, and determined.Almost at the same time the crowd fellback the other way up the street, there wasthe hurried tramping of feet and on camethe Tollivers, headed by giant Judd, allarmed with Winchesters—for old Juddhad sent his guns in ahead—and as the

crowd swept like water into any channelof alley or doorway that was open to it,Hale saw the yard emptied of everybodybut the line of Falins against the wall andthe Tollivers in a body but ten yards infront of them. The people on the roofs andin the trees had not moved at all, for theywere out of range. For a moment oldJudd's eyes swept the windows and port-holes of the Court House, the windows ofthe jailer's house, the line of guards aboutthe jail, and then they dropped to the lineof Falins and glared with contemptuoushate into the leaping blue eyes of old BuckFalin, and for that moment there wassilence. In that silence and as silently asthe silence itself issued swiftly from theline of guards twelve youngsters withWinchesters, repeating shot-guns, and in a

minute six were facing the Falins and sixfacing the Tollivers, each with his shot-gun at his hip. At the head of them stoodHale, his face a pale image, as hard asthough cut from stone, his head bare, andhis hand and his hip weaponless. In allthat crowd there was not a man or awoman who had not seen or heard of him,for the power of the guard that was at hisback had radiated through that wild regionlike ripples of water from a dropped stoneand, unarmed even, he had a personalpower that belonged to no other man in allthose hills, though armed to the teeth. Hisvoice rose clear, steady, commanding:

"The law has come here and it hascome to stay." He faced the beetlingeyebrows and angrily working beard ofold Judd now:

"The Falins are here to get revenge onyou Tollivers, if you attack us. I knowthat. But"—he wheeled on the Falins—"understand! We don't want your help!If the Tollivers try to take that man inthere, and one of you Falins draws apistol, those guns there"—waving his handtoward the jail windows—"will be turnedloose on YOU, WE'LL FIGHT YOUBOTH!" The last words shot like bulletsthrough his gritted teeth, then the flash of

his eyes was gone, his face was calm, andas though the whole matter had beensettled beyond possible interruption, hefinished quietly:

"The condemned man wishes to make aconfession and to say good-by. In fiveminutes he will be at that window to saywhat he pleases. Ten minutes later he willbe hanged." And he turned and walkedcalmly into the jailer's door. Not aTolliver nor a Falin made a movement ora sound. Young Dave's eyes had glaredsavagely when he first saw Hale, for hehad marked Hale for his own and he knewthat the fact was known to Hale. Had thebattle begun then and there, Hale's deathwas sure, and Dave knew that Hale mustknow that as well as he: and yet withmagnificent audacity, there he was—

unarmed, personally helpless, andinvested with an insulting certainty that nota shot would be fired. Not a Falin or aTolliver even reached for a weapon, andthe fact was the subtle tribute thatignorance pays intelligence when the latteris forced to deadly weapons as a lastresort; for ignorance faced now belchingshot-guns and was commanded by rifleson every side. Old Judd was trapped andthe Falins were stunned. Old Buck Falinturned his eyes down the line of his menwith one warning glance. Old Juddwhispered something to a Tolliver behindhim and a moment later the man slippedfrom the band and disappeared. YoungDave followed Hale's figure with a lookof baffled malignant hatred and Bub's eyeswere filled with angry tears. Between the

factions, the grim young men stood withtheir guns like statues.

At once a big man with a red faceappeared at one of the jailer's windowsand then came the sheriff, who began totake out the sash. Already the frightenedcrowd had gathered closer again and nowa hush came over it, followed by a rustlingand a murmur. Something was going tohappen. Faces and gun-muzzles thickenedat the port-holes and at the windows; theline of guards turned their faces sidewiseand upward; the crowd on the fencescuffled for better positions; the people inthe trees craned their necks from thebranches or climbed higher, and there wasa great scraping on all the roofs. Even theblack crowd out on the hills seemed tocatch the excitement and to sway, while

spots of intense blue and vivid crimsoncame out here and there from theblackness when the women rose from theirseats on the ground. Then—sharply—therewas silence. The sheriff disappeared, andshut in by the sashless window as by apicture frame and blinking in the stronglight, stood a man with black hair,cropped close, face pale and worn, andhands that looked white and thin—stoodbad Rufe Tolliver.

He was going to confess—that was therumour. His lawyers wanted him toconfess; the preacher who had beensinging hymns with him all morningwanted him to confess; the man himselfsaid he wanted to confess; and now hewas going to confess. What deadlymysteries he might clear up if he would!

No wonder the crowd was eager, for therewas no soul there but knew his record—and what a record! His best friends put hisvictims no lower than thirteen, and therelooking up at him were three womenwhom he had widowed or orphaned,while at one corner of the jail-yard stooda girl in black—the sweetheart ofMockaby, for whose death Rufe wasstanding where he stood now. But his lipsdid not open. Instead he took hold of theside of the window and looked behindhim. The sheriff brought him a chair andhe sat down. Apparently he was weak andhe was going to wait a while. Would hetell how he had killed one Falin in thepresence of the latter's wife at a wild beetree; how he had killed a sheriff bydropping to the ground when the sheriff

fired, in this way dodging the bullet andthen shooting the officer from where helay supposedly dead; how he had thrownanother Falin out of the Court Housewindow and broken his neck—the Falinwas drunk, Rufe always said, and fell out;why, when he was constable, he hadkilled another—because, Rufe said, heresisted arrest; how and where he hadkilled Red-necked Johnson, who wasfound out in the woods? Would he tell allthat and more? If he meant to tell therewas no sign. His lips kept closed and hisbright black eyes were studying thesituation; the little squad of youngsters,back to back, with their repeating shot-guns, the line of Falins along the walltoward whom protruded six shiningbarrels, the huddled crowd of Tollivers

toward whom protruded six more—oldJudd towering in front with young Dave onone side, tense as a leopard about tospring, and on the other Bub, with tearsstreaming down his face. In a flash heunderstood, and in that flash his facelooked as though he had been suddenlystruck a heavy blow by some one frombehind, and then his elbows dropped onthe sill of the window, his chin droppedinto his hands and a murmur arose. Maybehe was too weak to stand and talk—perhaps he was going to talk from hischair. Yes, he was leaning forward andhis lips were opening, but no sound came.Slowly his eyes wandered around at thewaiting people—in the trees, on the roofsand the fence—and then they dropped toold Judd's and blazed their appeal for a

sign. With one heave of his mighty chestold Judd took off his slouch hat, pressedone big hand to the back of his head and,despite that blazing appeal, kept it there.At that movement Rufe threw his head upas though his breath had suddenly failedhim, his face turned sickening white, andslowly again his chin dropped into histrembling hands, and still unbelieving hestared his appeal, but old Judd droppedhis big hand and turned his head away.The condemned man's mouth twitchedonce, settled into defiant calm, and then hedid one kindly thing. He turned in his seatand motioned Bob Berkley, who was justbehind him, away from the window, andthe boy, to humour him, stepped aside.Then he rose to his feet and stretched hisarms wide. Simultaneously came the far-

away crack of a rifle, and as a jet ofsmoke spurted above a clump of bushes ona little hill, three hundred yards away,Bad Rufe wheeled half-way round and fellback out of sight into the sheriff's arms.Every Falin made a nervous reach for hispistol, the line of gun-muzzles coveringthem wavered slightly, but the Tolliversstood still and unsurprised, and whenHale dashed from the door again, therewas a grim smile of triumph on old Judd'sface. He had kept his promise that Rufeshould never hang.

"Steady there," said Hale quietly. Hispistol was on his hip now and aWinchester was in his left hand.

"Stand where you are—everybody!"There was the sound of hurrying feet

within the jail. There was the clang of aniron door, the bang of a wooden one, andin five minutes from within the tallwooden box came the sharp click of ahatchet and then—dully:

"T-H-O-O-MP!" The dangling rope hadtightened with a snap and the windswayed it no more.

At his cell door the Red Fox stood withhis watch in his hand and his eyes glued tothe second-hand. When it had gone threetimes around its circuit, he snapped the lidwith a sigh of relief and turned to hishammock and his Bible.

"He's gone now," said the Red Fox.Outside Hale still waited, and as his

eyes turned from the Tollivers to theFalins, seven of the faces among them

came back to him with startlingdistinctness, and his mind went back to theopening trouble in the county-seat over theKentucky line, years before—when eightmen held one another at the points of theirpistols. One face was missing, and thatface belonged to Rufe Tolliver. Halepulled out his watch.

"Keep those men there," he said,pointing to the Falins, and he turned to thebewildered Tollivers.

"Come on, Judd," he said kindly—"allof you."

Dazed and mystified, they followed himin a body around the corner of the jail,where in a coffin, that old Jadd had sent asa blind to his real purpose, lay the remainsof Bad Rufe Tolliver with a harmless

bullet hole through one shoulder. Near bywas a wagon and hitched to it were twomules that Hale himself had provided.Hale pointed to it:

"I've done all I could, Judd. Take himaway. I'll keep the Falins under guard untilyou reach the Kentucky line, so that theycan't waylay you."

If old Judd heard, he gave no sign. Hewas looking down at the face of his foster-brother—his shoulder drooped, his greatframe shrunken, and his iron face beatenand helpless. Again Hale spoke:

"I'm sorry for all this. I'm even sorrythat your man was not a better shot."

The old man straightened then and witha gesture he motioned young Dave to thefoot of the coffin and stooped himself at

the head. Past the wagon they went, thecrowd giving way before them, and withthe dead Tolliver on their shoulders, oldJudd and young Dave passed with theirfollowers out of sight.

XXXThe longest of her life was that day to

June. The anxiety in times of war for thewomen who wait at home is vaguebecause they are mercifully ignorant of thedangers their loved ones run, but aspecific issue that involves death to thoseloved ones has a special and poignantterror of its own. June knew her father'splan, the precise time the fight would takeplace, and the especial danger that wasHale's, for she knew that young DaveTolliver had marked him with the firstshot fired. Dry-eyed and white and dumb,she watched them make ready for the startthat morning while it was yet dark; dully

she heard the horses snorting from thecold, the low curt orders of her father, andthe exciting mutterings of Bub and youngDave; dully she watched the saddlesthrown on, the pistols buckled, theWinchesters caught up, and dully shewatched them file out the gate and rideaway, single file, into the cold, damp mistlike ghostly figures in a dream. Once onlydid she open her lips and that was toplead with her father to leave Bub athome, but her father gave her no answerand Bub snorted his indignation—he wasa man now, and his now was the privilegeof a man. For a while she stood listeningto the ring of metal against stone that cameto her more and more faintly out of themist, and she wondered if it was reallyJune Tolliver standing there, while father

and brother and cousin were on their wayto fight the law—how differently she sawthese things now—for a man whodeserved death, and to fight a man whowas ready to die for his duty to that law—the law that guarded them and her andmight not perhaps guard him: the man whohad planted for her the dew-drenchedgarden that was waiting for the sun, andhad built the little room behind her for hercomfort and seclusion; who had sent her toschool, had never been anything but kindand just to her and to everybody—whohad taught her life and, thank God, love.Was she really the June Tolliver who hadgone out into the world and had held herplace there; who had conquered birth andspeech and customs and environment sothat none could tell what they all once

were; who had become the lady, thewoman of the world, in manner, dress, andeducation: who had a gift of music and avoice that might enrich her life beyond anydream that had ever sprung from her ownbrain or any that she had ever caught fromHale's? Was she June Tolliver who hadbeen and done all that, and now had comeback and was slowly sinking back into thenarrow grave from which Hale had liftedher? It was all too strange and bitter, but ifshe wanted proof there was her step-mother's voice now—the same old,querulous, nerve-racking voice that hadembittered all her childhood—calling herdown into the old mean round of drudgerythat had bound forever the horizon of hernarrow life just as now it was shuttingdown like a sky of brass around her own.

And when the voice came, instead ofbursting into tears as she was about to do,she gave a hard little laugh and she lifted adefiant face to the rising sun. There was alimit to the sacrifice for kindred, brother,father, home, and that limit was the eternalsacrifice—the eternal undoing of herself:when this wretched terrible business wasover she would set her feet where that suncould rise on her, busy with the work thatshe could do in that world for which shefelt she was born. Swiftly she did themorning chores and then she sat on theporch thinking and waiting. Spinningwheel, loom, and darning needle were tolie idle that day. The old step-mother hadgotten from bed and was dressing herself—miraculously cured of a sudden,miraculously active. She began to talk of

what she needed in town, and June saidnothing. She went out to the stable and ledout the old sorrel-mare. She was going tothe hanging.

"Don't you want to go to town, June?""No," said June fiercely."Well, you needn't git mad about it—I

got to go some day this week, and I reckonI might as well go ter-day." June answerednothing, but in silence watched her getready and in silence watched her rideaway. She was glad to be left alone. Thesun had flooded Lonesome Cove now witha light as rich and yellow as though itwere late afternoon, and she could yet tellevery tree by the different colour of thebanner that each yet defiantly flung into theface of death. The yard fence was

festooned with dewy cobwebs, and everyweed in the field was hung with them aswith flashing jewels of exquisitelydelicate design: Hale had once told herthat they meant rain. Far away themountains were overhung with purple sodeep that the very air looked like mist, anda peace that seemed motherlike intenderness brooded over the earth. Peace!Peace—with a man on his way to ascaffold only a few miles away, and twobodies of men, one led by her father, theother by the man she loved, ready to fly ateach other's throats—the one to get thecondemned man alive, the other to see thathe died. She got up with a groan. Shewalked into the garden. The grass wastall, tangled, and withering, and in it deadleaves lay everywhere, stems up, stems

down, in reckless confusion. The scarletsage-pods were brown and seeds weredropping from their tiny gaping mouths.The marigolds were frost-nipped and onelonely black-winged butterfly was vainlysearching them one by one for the lostsweets of summer. The gorgeous crownsof the sun-flowers were nothing butgrotesque black mummy-heads set on lean,dead bodies, and the clump of big castor-plants, buffeted by the wind, leaned thisway and that like giants in a drunken orgytrying to keep one another from fallingdown. The blight that was on the gardenwas the blight that was in her heart, andtwo bits of cheer only she found—oneyellow nasturtium, scarlet-flecked, whosefragrance was a memory of the spring thatwas long gone, and one little cedar tree

that had caught some dead leaves in itsgreen arms and was firmly holding themas though to promise that another springwould surely come. With the flower in herhand, she started up the ravine to herdreaming place, but it was so lonely upthere and she turned back. She went intoher room and tried to read. Mechanically,she half opened the lid of the piano andshut it, horrified by her own act. As shepassed out on the porch again she noticedthat it was only nine o'clock. She turnedand watched the long hand—how long aminute was! Three hours more! Sheshivered and went inside and got herbonnet—she could not be alone when thehour came, and she started down the roadtoward Uncle Billy's mill. Hale! Hale!Hale!—the name began to ring in her ears

like a bell. The little shacks he had builtup the creek were deserted and gone toruin, and she began to wonder in the lightof what her father had said how much of atragedy that meant to him. Here was thespot where he was fishing that day, whenshe had slipped down behind him and hehad turned and seen her for the first time.She could recall his smile and the verytone of his kind voice:

"Howdye, little girl!" And the cat hadgot her tongue. She remembered when shehad written her name, after she had firstkissed him at the foot of the beech—"JuneHAIL," and by a grotesque mental leap thebeating of his name in her brain now madeher think of the beating of hailstones onher father's roof one night when as a childshe had lain and listened to them. Then she

noticed that the autumn shadows seemedto make the river darker than the shadowsof spring—or was it already the stain ofdead leaves? Hale could have told her.Those leaves were floating through theshadows and when the wind moved,others zig-zagged softly down to jointhem. The wind was helping them on thewater, too, and along came one brown leafthat was shaped like a tiny trireme—itsstem acting like a rudder and keeping itstraight before the breeze—so that itswept past the rest as a yacht that she wasonce on had swept past a fleet of fishingsloops. She was not unlike that swift littleship and thirty yards ahead were rocksand shallows where it and the whole fleetwould turn topsy-turvy—would her owntriumph be as short and the same fate be

hers? There was no question as to that,unless she took the wheel of her fate in herown hands and with them steered the ship.Thinking hard, she walked on slowly, withher hands behind her and her eyes bent onthe road. What should she do? She had nomoney, her father had none to spare, andshe could accept no more from Hale. Onceshe stopped and stared with unseeing eyesat the blue sky, and once under the heavyhelplessness of it all she dropped on theside of the road and sat with her headburied in her arms—sat so long that sherose with a start and, with anapprehensive look at the mounting sun,hurried on. She would go to the Gap andteach; and then she knew that if she wentthere it would be on Hale's account. Verywell, she would not blind herself to that

fact; she would go and perhaps all wouldbe made up between them, and then sheknew that if that but happened, nothingelse could matter...

When she reached the miller's cabin,she went to the porch without noticing thatthe door was closed. Nobody was at homeand she turned listlessly. When shereached the gate, she heard the clockbeginning to strike, and with one hand onher breast she breathlessly listened,counting—"eight, nine, ten, eleven"—andher heart seemed to stop in the fraction oftime that she waited for it to strike oncemore. But it was only eleven, and shewent on down the road slowly, stillthinking hard. The old miller was leaningback in a chair against the log side of themill, with his dusty slouched hat down

over his eyes. He did not hear her comingand she thought he must be asleep, but helooked up with a start when she spoke andshe knew of what he, too, had beenthinking. Keenly his old eyes searched herwhite face and without a word he got upand reached for another chair within themill.

"You set right down now, baby," hesaid, and he made a pretence of havingsomething to do inside the mill, whileJune watched the creaking old wheeldropping the sun-shot sparkling water intothe swift sluice, but hardly seeing it at all.By and by Uncle Billy came outside andsat down and neither spoke a word. OnceJune saw him covertly looking at hiswatch and she put both hands to her throat—stifled.

"What time is it, Uncle Billy?" Shetried to ask the question calmly, but shehad to try twice before she could speak atall and when she did get the question out,her voice was only a broken whisper.

"Five minutes to twelve, baby," said theold man, and his voice had a gulp in it thatbroke June down. She sprang to her feetwringing her hands:

"I can't stand it, Uncle Billy," she criedmadly, and with a sob that almost brokethe old man's heart. "I tell you I can't standit." * * * * * * *

And yet for three hours more she had tostand it, while the cavalcade of Tollivers,with Rufe's body, made its slow way tothe Kentucky line where Judd and Dave

and Bub left them to go home for the nightand be on hand for the funeral next day.But Uncle Billy led her back to his cabin,and on the porch the two, with old Hon,waited while the three hours draggedalong. It was June who was first to hearthe galloping of horses' hoofs up the roadand she ran to the gate, followed by UncleBilly and old Hon to see young DaveTolliver coming in a run. At the gate hethrew himself from his horse:

"Git up thar, June, and go home," hepanted sharply. June flashed out the gate.

"Have you done it?" she asked withdeadly quiet.

"Hurry up an' go home, I tell ye! UncleJudd wants ye!"

She came quite close to him now.

"You said you'd do it—I know whatyou've done—you—" she looked as if shewould fly at his throat, and Dave, amazed,shrank back a step.

"Go home, I tell ye—Uncle Judd's shot.Git on the hoss!"

"No, no, NO! I wouldn't TOUCHanything that was yours"—she put herhands to her head as though she werecrazed, and then she turned and broke intoa swift run up the road.

Panting, June reached the gate. Thefront door was closed and there she gavea tremulous cry for Bub. The door openeda few inches and through it Bub shoutedfor her to come on. The back door, too,was closed, and not a ray of daylightentered the room except at the port-hole

where Bub, with a Winchester, had beenstanding on guard. By the light of the fireshe saw her father's giant frame stretchedout on the bed and she heard his labouredbreathing. Swiftly she went to the bed anddropped on her knees beside it.

"Dad!" she said. The old man's eyesopened and turned heavily toward her.

"All right, Juny. They shot me from thelaurel and they might nigh got Bub. Ireckon they've got me this time."

"No—no!" He saw her eyes fixed onthe matted blood on his chest.

"Hit's stopped. I'm afeared hit's bleedin'inside." His voice had dropped to awhisper and his eyes closed again. Therewas another cautious "Hello" outside, andwhen Bub again opened the door Dave ran

swiftly within. He paid no attention toJune.

"I follered June back an' left my hoss inthe bushes. There was three of 'em." Heshowed Bub a bullet hole through onesleeve and then he turned halfcontemptuously to June:

"I hain't done it"—adding grimly—"notyit. He's as safe as you air. I hope you'resatisfied that hit hain't him 'stid o' yo'daddy thar."

"Are you going to the Gap for adoctor?"

"I reckon I can't leave Bub here aloneagin all the Falins—not even to git adoctor or to carry a love-message feryou."

"Then I'll go myself."

A thick protest came from the bed, andthen an appeal that might have come froma child.

"Don't leave me, Juny." Without a wordJune went into the kitchen and got the oldbark horn.

"Uncle Billy will go," she said, and shestepped out on the porch. But Uncle Billywas already on his way and she heard himcoming just as she was raising the horn toher lips. She met him at the gate, andwithout even taking the time to come intothe house the old miller hurried upwardtoward the Lonesome Pine. The rain camethen—the rain that the tiny cobwebs hadheralded at dawn that morning. The oldstep-mother had not come home, and Junetold Bub she had gone over the mountain

to see her sister, and when, as darknessfell, she did not appear they knew that shemust have been caught by the rain andwould spend the night with a neighbour.June asked no question, but from the lowtalk of Bub and Dave she made out whathad happened in town that day and a wildelation settled in her heart that John Halewas alive and unhurt—though Rufe wasdead, her father wounded, and Bub andDave both had but narrowly escaped theFalin assassins that afternoon. Bub tookthe first turn at watching while Dave slept,and when it was Dave's turn she saw himdrop quickly asleep in his chair, and shewas left alone with the breathing of thewounded man and the beating of rain onthe roof. And through the long night Junethought her brain weary over herself, her

life, her people, and Hale. They were notto blame—her people, they but did astheir fathers had done before them. Theyhad their own code and they lived up to itas best they could, and they had had nochance to learn another. She felt thevindictive hatred that had prolonged thefeud. Had she been a man, she could nothave rested until she had slain the manwho had ambushed her father. Sheexpected Bub to do that now, and if thespirit was so strong in her with thetraining she had had, how helpless theymust be against it. Even Dave was not toblame—not to blame for loving her—hehad always done that. For that reason hecould not help hating Hale, and how greata reason he had now, for he could notunderstand as she could the absence of any

personal motive that had governed him inthe prosecution of the law, no matter if hehurt friend or foe. But for Hale, she wouldhave loved Dave and now be married tohim and happier than she was. Dave sawthat—no wonder he hated Hale. And asshe slowly realized all these things, shegrew calm and gentle and determined tostick to her people and do the best shecould with her life.

And now and then through the night oldJudd would open his eyes and stare at theceiling, and at these times it was not thepain in his face that distressed her as muchas the drawn beaten look that she hadnoticed growing in it for a long time. Itwas terrible—that helpless look in theface of a man, so big in body, so strong ofmind, so iron-like in will; and whenever

he did speak she knew what he was goingto say:

"It's all over, Juny. They've beat us onevery turn. They've got us one by one.Thar ain't but a few of us left now andwhen I git up, if I ever do, I'm goin' together 'em all together, pull up stakes andtake 'em all West. You won't ever leaveme, Juny?"

"No, Dad," she would say gently. Hehad asked the question at first quitesanely, but as the night wore on and thefever grew and his mind wandered, hewould repeat the question over and overlike a child, and over and over, while Buband Dave slept and the rain poured, Junewould repeat her answer:

"I'll never leave you, Dad."

XXXIBefore dawn Hale and the doctor and

the old miller had reached the Pine, andthere Hale stopped. Any farther, the oldman told him, he would go only at the riskof his life from Dave or Bub, or even fromany Falin who happened to be hangingaround in the bushes, for Hale was hatedequally by both factions now.

"I'll wait up here until noon, UncleBilly," said Hale. "Ask her, for God'ssake, to come up here and see me."

"All right. I'll axe her, but—" the oldmiller shook his head. Breakfastless,except for the munching of a piece of

chocolate, Hale waited all the morningwith his black horse in the bushes somethirty yards from the Lonesome Pine.Every now and then he would go to thetree and look down the path, and once heslipped far down the trail and aside to aspur whence he could see the cabin in thecove. Once his hungry eyes caught sight ofa woman's figure walking through the littlegarden, and for an hour after itdisappeared into the house he watched forit to come out again. But nothing more wasvisible, and he turned back to the trail tosee Uncle Billy laboriously climbing upthe slope. Hale waited and ran down tomeet him, his face and eyes eager and hislips trembling, but again Uncle Billy wasshaking his head.

"No use, John," he said sadly. "I got her

out on the porch and axed her, but shewon't come."

"She won't come at all?""John, when one o' them Tollivers gits

white about the mouth, an' thar eyes gits toblazin' and they KEEPS QUIET—they'replumb out o' reach o' the Almighty hisself.June skeered me. But you mustn't blameher jes' now. You see, you got up thatguard. You ketched Rufe and hung him,and she can't help thinkin' if you hadn'tdone that, her old daddy wouldn't be inthar on his back nigh to death. You mustn'tblame her, John—she's most out o' herhead now."

"All right, Uncle Billy. Good-by." Haleturned, climbed sadly back to his horseand sadly dropped down the other side of

the mountain and on through the rocky gap-home.

A week later he learned from the doctorthat the chances were even that old Juddwould get well, but the days went by withno word of June. Through those days Junewrestled with her love for Hale and herloyalty to her father, who, sick as he was,seemed to have a vague sense of thetrouble within her and shrewdly fought itby making her daily promise that shewould never leave him. For as old Juddgot better, June's fierceness against Halemelted and her love came out the stronger,because of the passing injustice that shehad done him. Many times she was on thepoint of sending him word that she wouldmeet him at the Pine, but she was afraid ofher own strength if she should see him

face to face, and she feared she would berisking his life if she allowed him tocome. There were times when she wouldhave gone to him herself, had her fatherbeen well and strong, but he was old,beaten and helpless, and she had given hersacred word that she would never leavehim. So once more she grew calmer,gentler still, and more determined tofollow her own way with her own kin,though that way led through a breakingheart. She never mentioned Hale's name,she never spoke of going West, and intime Dave began to wonder not only if shehad not gotten over her feeling for Hale,but if that feeling had not turned intopermanent hate. To him, June was kinderthan ever, because she understood himbetter and because she was sorry for the

hunted, hounded life he led, not knowing,when on his trips to see her or to do someservice for her father, he might be pickedoff by some Falin from the bushes. SoDave stopped his sneering remarks againstHale and began to dream his old dreams,though he never opened his lips to June,and she was unconscious of what wasgoing on within him. By and by, as oldJudd began to mend, overtures of peacecame, singularly enough, from the Falins,and while the old man snorted withcontemptuous disbelief at them as apretence to throw him off his guard, Davebegan actually to believe that they weresincere, and straightway forged a plan ofhis own, even if the Tollivers did persistin going West. So one morning as hemounted his horse at old Judd's gate, he

called to June in the garden:"I'm a-goin' over to the Gap." June

paled, but Dave was not looking at her."What for?" she asked, steadying her

voice."Business," he answered, and he

laughed curiously and, still withoutlooking at her, rode away. * * * * * * *

Hale sat in the porch of his little officethat morning, and the Hon. Sam Budd, whohad risen to leave, stood with his handsdeep in his pockets, his hat tilted far overhis big goggles, looking down at the deadleaves that floated like lost hopes on theplacid mill-pond. Hale had agreed to go toEngland once more on the sole chance lefthim before he went back to chain and

compass—the old land deal that had cometo life—and between them they had aboutenough money for the trip.

"You'll keep an eye on things overthere?" said Hale with a backward motionof his head toward Lonesome Cove, andthe Hon. Sam nodded his head:

"All I can.""Those big trunks of hers are still here."

The Hon. Sam smiled. "She won't need'em. I'll keep an eye on 'em and she cancome over and get what she wants—everyyear or two," he added grimly, and Halegroaned.

"Stop it, Sam.""All right. You ain't goin' to try to see

her before you leave?" And then at thelook on Hale's face he said hurriedly: "All

right—all right," and with a toss of hishands turned away, while Hale satthinking where he was.

Rufe Tolliver had been quite right as tothe Red Fox. Nobody would risk his lifefor him—there was no one to attempt arescue, and but a few of the guards wereon hand this time to carry out the law. Onthe last day he had appeared in his whitesuit of tablecloth. The little old woman inblack had made even the cap that was tobe drawn over his face, and that, too, shehad made of white. Moreover, she wouldhave his body kept unburied for threedays, because the Red Fox said that on thethird day he would arise and go aboutpreaching. So that even in death the RedFox was consistently inconsistent, andhow he reconciled such a dual life at one

and the same time over and under the starswas, except to his twisted brain, neverknown. He walked firmly up the scaffoldsteps and stood there blinking in thesunlight. With one hand he tested the rope.For a moment he looked at the sky and thetrees with a face that was white andabsolutely expressionless. Then he sangone hymn of two verses and quietlydropped into that world in which hebelieved so firmly and toward which hehad trod so strange a way on earth. As hewished, the little old woman in black hadthe body kept unburied for the three days—but the Red Fox never rose. With hispassing, law and order had becomesupreme. Neither Tolliver nor Falin cameon the Virginia side for mischief, and thedesperadoes of two sister States, whose

skirts are stitched together with pine andpin-oak along the crest of the Cumberland,confined their deviltries with great care toplaces long distant from the Gap. JohnHale had done a great work, but the limitof his activities was that State line and theFalins, ever threatening that they wouldnot leave a Tolliver alive, could carry outthose threats and Hale not be able to lift ahand. It was his helplessness that wasmaking him writhe now.

Old Judd had often said he meant toleave the mountains—why didn't he gonow and take June for whose safety hisheart was always in his mouth? As anofficer, he was now helpless where hewas; and if he went away he could give nopersonal aid—he would not even knowwhat was happening—and he had

promised Budd to go. An open letter wasclutched in his hand, and again he read it.His coal company had accepted his lastproposition. They would take his stock—worthless as they thought it—andsurrender the cabin and two hundred acresof field and woodland in Lonesome Cove.That much at least would be intact, but ifhe failed in his last project now, it wouldbe subject to judgments against him thatwere sure to come. So there was one thingmore to do for June before he left for thefinal effort in England—to give back herhome to her—and as he rose to do it now,somebody shouted at his gate:

"Hello!" Hale stopped short at the headof the steps, his right hand shot like a shaftof light to the butt of his pistol, stayedthere—and he stood astounded. It was

Dave Tolliver on horseback, and Dave'sright hand had kept hold of his bridle-reins.

"Hold on!" he said, lifting the otherwith a wide gesture of peace. "I want totalk with you a bit." Still Hale watchedhim closely as he swung from his horse.

"Come in—won't you?" Themountaineer hitched his horse andslouched within the gate.

"Have a seat." Dave dropped to thesteps.

"I'll set here," he said, and there was anembarrassed silence for a while betweenthe two. Hale studied young Dave's facefrom narrowed eyes. He knew all thethreats the Tolliver had made against him,the bitter enmity that he felt, and that it

would last until one or the other was dead.This was a queer move. The mountaineertook off his slouched hat and ran one handthrough his thick black hair.

"I reckon you've heard as how all ourfolks air sellin' out over the mountains."

"No," said Hale quickly."Well, they air, an' all of 'em are going

West—Uncle Judd, Loretty and June, andall our kinfolks. You didn't know that?"

"No," repeated Hale."Well, they hain't closed all the trades

yit," he said, "an' they mought not gomebbe afore spring. The Falins say theyair done now. Uncle Judd don't believe'em, but I do, an' I'm thinkin' I won't go.I've got a leetle money, an' I want to knowif I can't buy back Uncle Judd's house an' a

leetle ground around it. Our folks is tiredo' fightin' and I couldn't live on t'other sideof the mountain, after they air gone, an'keep as healthy as on this side—so Ithought I'd see if I couldn't buy back June'sold home, mebbe, an' live thar."

Hale watched him keenly, wonderingwhat his game was—and he went on: "Iknow the house an' land ain't wuth much toyour company, an' as the coal-vein haspetered out, I reckon they might not axemuch fer it." It was all out now, and hestopped without looking at Hale. "I ain'taxin' any favours, leastwise not o' you, an'I thought my share o' Mam's farm moughtbe enough to git me the house an' some o'the land."

"You mean to live there, yourself?"

"Yes.""Alone?" Dave frowned."I reckon that's my business.""So it is—excuse me." Hale lighted his

pipe and the mountaineer waited—he wasa little sullen now.

"Well, the company has parted with theland." Dave started.

"Sold it?""In a way—yes.""Well, would you mind tellin' me who

bought it—maybe I can git it from him.""It's mine now," said Hale quietly."YOURN!" The mountaineer looked

incredulous and then he let loose ascornful laugh.

"YOU goin' to live thar?"

"Maybe.""Alone?""That's my business." The mountaineer's

face darkened and his fingers began totwitch.

"Well, if you're talkin' 'bout June, hit'sMY business. Hit always has been and hitalways will be."

"Well, if I was talking about June, Iwouldn't consult you."

"No, but I'd consult you like hell.""I wish you had the chance," said Hale

coolly; "but I wasn't talking about June."Again Dave laughed harshly, and for amoment his angry eyes rested on the quietmill-pond. He went backward suddenly.

"You went over thar in Lonesome with

your high notions an' your slick tongue, an'you took June away from me. But shewusn't good enough fer you THEN—soyou filled her up with yo' fool notions an'sent her away to git her po' little headfilled with furrin' ways, so she could befitten to marry you. You took her awayfrom her daddy, her family, her kinfolksand her home, an' you took her away fromme; an' now she's been over thar eatin' herheart out just as she et it out over herewhen she fust left home. An' in the end shegot so highfalutin that SHE wouldn't marryYOU." He laughed again and Hale wincedunder the laugh and the lashing words."An' I know you air eatin' yo' heart out,too, because you can't git June, an' I'mhopin' you'll suffer the torment o' hell aslong as you live. God, she hates ye now!

To think o' your knowin' the world andwomen and books"—he spoke withvindictive and insulting slowness—"Youbein' such a—fool!"

"That may all be true, but I think youcan talk better outside that gate." Themountaineer, deceived by Hale's calmvoice, sprang to his feet in a fury, but hewas too late. Hale's hand was on the buttof his revolver, his blue eyes wereglittering and a dangerous smile was at hislips. Silently he sat and silently he pointedhis other hand at the gate. Dave laughed:

"D'ye think I'd fight you hyeh? If youkilled me, you'd be elected County Jedge;if I killed you, what chance would I haveo' gittin' away? I'd swing fer it." He wasoutside the gate now and unhitching his

horse. He started to turn the beasts butHale stopped him.

"Get on from this side, please."With one foot in the stirrup, Dave

turned savagely: "Why don't you go up inthe Gap with me now an' fight it out like aman?"

"I don't trust you.""I'll git ye over in the mountains some

day.""I've no doubt you will, if you have the

chance from the bush." Hale was gettingroused now.

"Look here," he said suddenly, "you'vebeen threatening me for a long time now.I've never had any feeling against you. I'venever done anything to you that I hadn't todo. But you've gone a little too far now

and I'm tired. If you can't get over yourgrudge against me, suppose we go acrossthe river outside the town-limits, put ourguns down and fight it out—fist and skull."

"I'm your man," said Dave eagerly.Looking across the street Hale saw twomen on the porch.

"Come on!" he said. The two men wereBudd and the new town-sergeant. "Sam,"he said "this gentleman and I are goingacross the river to have a little friendlybout, and I wish you'd come along—andyou, too, Bill, to see that Dave here getsfair play."

The sergeant spoke to Dave. "You don'tneed nobody to see that you git fair playwith them two—but I'll go 'long just thesame." Hardly a word was said as the four

walked across the bridge and toward athicket to the right. Neither Budd nor thesergeant asked the nature of the trouble,for either could have guessed what it was.Dave tied his horse and, like Hale,stripped off his coat. The sergeant tookcharge of Dave's pistol and Budd ofHale's.

"All you've got to do is to keep himaway from you," said Budd. "If he gets hishands on you—you're gone. You knowhow they fight rough-and-tumble."

Hale nodded—he knew all that himself,and when he looked at Dave's sturdy neck,and gigantic shoulders, he knew furtherthat if the mountaineer got him in his grasphe would have to gasp "enough" in ahurry, or be saved by Budd from being

throttled to death."Are you ready?" Again Hale nodded."Go ahead, Dave," growled the

sergeant, for the job was not to his liking.Dave did not plunge toward Hale, as thethree others expected. On the contrary, heassumed the conventional attitude of theboxer and advanced warily, using his headas a diagnostician for Hale's points—andHale remembered suddenly that Dave hadbeen away at school for a year. Daveknew something of the game and the Hon.Sam straightway was anxious, when themountaineer ducked and swung his leftBudd's heart thumped and he almostshrank himself from the terrific sweep ofthe big fist.

"God!" he muttered, for had the fist

caught Hale's head it must, it seemed, havecrushed it like an egg-shell. Hale coollywithdrew his head not more than an inch,it seemed to Budd's practised eye, andjabbed his right with a lightning uppercutinto Dave's jaw, that made themountaineer reel backward with a grunt ofrage and pain, and when he followed it upwith a swing of his left on Dave's righteye and another terrific jolt with his righton the left jaw, and Budd saw the crazyrage in the mountaineer's face, he felteasy. In that rage Dave forgot his scienceas the Hon. Sam expected, and with abellow he started at Hale like a cave-dweller to bite, tear, and throttle, but thelithe figure before him swayed this wayand that like a shadow, and with everyside-step a fist crushed on the

mountaineer's nose, chin or jaw, until,blinded with blood and fury, Davestaggered aside toward the sergeant withthe cry of a madman:

"Gimme my gun! I'll kill him! Gimmemy gun!" And when the sergeant sprangforward and caught the mountaineer, hedropped weeping with rage and shame tothe ground.

"You two just go back to town," saidthe sergeant. "I'll take keer of him. Quick!"and he shook his head as Hale advanced."He ain't goin' to shake hands with you."

The two turned back across the bridgeand Hale went on to Budd's office to dowhat he was setting out to do when youngDave came. There he had the lawyer makeout a deed in which the cabin in Lonesome

Cove and the acres about it wereconveyed in fee simple to June—her heirsand assigns forever; but the girl must notknow until, Hale said, "her father dies, orI die, or she marries." When he came outthe sergeant was passing the door.

"Ain't no use fightin' with one o' themfellers thataway," he said, shaking hishead. "If he whoops you, he'll crow overyou as long as he lives, and if you whoophim, he'll kill ye the fust chance he gets.You'll have to watch that feller as long asyou live—'specially when he's drinking.He'll remember that lickin' and wantrevenge fer it till the grave. One of youhas got to die some day—shore."

And the sergeant was right. Dave wasgoing through the Gap at that moment,

cursing, swaying like a drunken man,firing his pistol and shouting his revengeto the echoing gray walls that took up hiscries and sent them shrieking on the windup every dark ravine. All the way up themountain he was cursing. Under the gentlevoice of the big Pine he was cursing still,and when his lips stopped, his heart wasbeating curses as he dropped down theother side of the mountain.

When he reached the river, he got offhis horse and bathed his mouth and hiseyes again, and he cursed afresh when theblood started afresh at his lips again. Fora while he sat there in his black mood,undecided whether he should go to hisuncle's cabin or go on home. But he hadseen a woman's figure in the garden as hecame down the spur, and the thought of

June drew him to the cabin in spite of hisshame and the questions that were sure tobe asked. When he passed around theclump of rhododendrons at the creek, Junewas in the garden still. She was pruning arose-bush with Bub's penknife, and whenshe heard him coming she wheeled,quivering. She had been waiting for himall day, and, like an angry goddess, sheswept fiercely toward him. Davepretended not to see her, but when heswung from his horse and lifted his sulleneyes, he shrank as though she had lashedhim across them with a whip. Her eyesblazed with murderous fire from her whiteface, the penknife in her hand wasclenched as though for a deadly purpose,and on her trembling lips was the samequestion that she had asked him at the

mill:"Have you done it this time?" she

whispered, and then she saw his swollenmouth and his battered eye. Her fingersrelaxed about the handle of the knife, thefire in her eyes went swiftly down, andwith a smile that was half pity, halfcontempt, she turned away. She could nothave told the whole truth better in words,even to Dave, and as he looked after herhis every pulse-beat was a new curse, andif at that minute he could have had Hale'sheart he would have eaten it like a savage—raw. For a minute he hesitated withreins in hand as to whether he should turnnow and go back to the Gap to settle withHale, and then he threw the reins over apost. He could bide his time yet a littlelonger, for a crafty purpose suddenly

entered his brain. Bub met him at the doorof the cabin and his eyes opened.

"What's the matter, Dave?""Oh, nothin'," he said carelessly. "My

hoss stumbled comin' down the mountainan' I went clean over his head." He raisedone hand to his mouth and still Bub wassuspicious.

"Looks like you been in a fight." Theboy began to laugh, but Dave ignored himand went on into the cabin. Within, he satwhere he could see through the open door.

"Whar you been, Dave?" asked oldJudd from the corner. Just then he sawJune coming and, pretending to draw onhis pipe, he waited until she had sat downwithin ear-shot on the edge of the porch.

"Who do you reckon owns this house

and two hundred acres o' landroundabouts?"

The girl's heart waited apprehensivelyand she heard her father's deep voice.

"The company owns it." Dave laughedharshly.

"Not much—John Hale." The heart outon the porch leaped with gladness now.

"He bought it from the company. It's justas well you're goin' away, Uncle Judd.He'd put you out."

"I reckon not. I got writin' from thecompany which 'lows me to stay here twoyear or more—if I want to."

"I don't know. He's a slick one.""I heerd him say," put in Bub stoutly,

"that he'd see that we stayed here jus' as

long as we pleased.""Well," said old Judd shortly, "ef we

stay here by his favour, we won't staylong."

There was silence for a while. ThenDave spoke again for the listening earsoutside—maliciously:

"I went over to the Gap to see if Icouldn't git the place myself from thecompany. I believe the Falins ain't goin' tobother us an' I ain't hankerin' to go West.But I told him that you-all was goin' toleave the mountains and goin' out thar fergood." There was another silence.

"He never said a word." Nobody hadasked the question, but he was answeringthe unspoken one in the heart of June, andthat heart sank like a stone.

"He's goin' away hisself-goin' ter-morrow—goin' to that same place he wentbefore—England, some feller called it."

Dave had done his work well. Junerose unsteadily, and with one hand on herheart and the other clutching the railing ofthe porch, she crept noiselessly along it,staggered like a wounded thing around thechimney, through the garden and on, stillclutching her heart, to the woods—there tosob it out on the breast of the only mothershe had ever known.

Dave was gone when she came backfrom the woods—calm, dry-eyed, pale.Her step-mother had kept her dinner forher, and when she said she wanted nothingto eat, the old woman answered somethingquerulous to which June made no answer,

but went quietly to cleaning away thedishes. For a while she sat on the porch,and presently she went into her room andfor a few moments she rocked quietly ather window. Hale was going away nextday, and when he came back she would begone and she would never see him again.A dry sob shook her body of a sudden, sheput both hands to her head and with wildeyes she sprang to her feet and, catchingup her bonnet, slipped noiselessly out theback door. With hands clenched tight sheforced herself to walk slowly across thefoot-bridge, but when the bushes hid her,she broke into a run as though she werecrazed and escaping a madhouse. At thefoot of the spur she turned swiftly up themountain and climbed madly, with onehand tight against the little cross at her

throat. He was going away and she musttell him—she must tell him—what?Behind her a voice was calling, the voicethat pleaded all one night for her not toleave him, that had made that plea a dailyprayer, and it had come from an old man—wounded, broken in health and heart,and her father. Hale's face was before her,but that voice was behind, and as sheclimbed, the face that she was nearinggrew fainter, the voice she was leavingsounded the louder in her ears, and whenshe reached the big Pine she droppedhelplessly at the base of it, sobbing. Withher tears the madness slowly left her, theold determination came back again and atlast the old sad peace. The sunlight wasslanting at a low angle when she rose toher feet and stood on the cliff overlooking

the valley—her lips parted as when shestood there first, and the tiny drops dryingalong the roots of her dull gold hair. Andbeing there for the last time she thought ofthat time when she was first there—agesago. The great glare of light that shelooked for then had come and gone. Therewas the smoking monster rushing into thevalley and sending echoing shrieksthrough the hills—but there was no bootedstranger and no horse issuing from thecovert of maple where the pathdisappeared. A long time she stood there,with a wandering look of farewell toevery familiar thing before her, but not atear came now. Only as she turned away atlast her breast heaved and fell with onelong breath—that was all. Passing thePine slowly, she stopped and turned back

to it, unclasping the necklace from herthroat. With trembling fingers shedetached from it the little luck-piece thatHale had given her—the tear of a fairythat had turned into a tiny cross of stonewhen a strange messenger brought to theVirginia valley the story of the crucifixion.The penknife was still in her pocket, and,opening it, she went behind the Pine anddug a niche as high and as deep as shecould toward its soft old heart. In thereshe thrust the tiny symbol, whispering:

"I want all the luck you could ever giveme, little cross—for HIM." Then shepulled the fibres down to cover it fromsight and, crossing her hands over theopening, she put her forehead against themand touched her lips to the tree.

"Keep it safe, old Pine." Then she lifted

her face—looking upward along its trunkto the blue sky. "And bless him, dear God,and guard him evermore." She clutchedher heart as she turned, and she wasclutching it when she passed into theshadows below, leaving the old Pine towhisper, when he passed, her love. * * * * * * *

Next day the word went round to theclan that the Tollivers would start in abody one week later for the West. Atdaybreak, that morning, Uncle Billy andhis wife mounted the old gray horse androde up the river to say good-by. Theyfound the cabin in Lonesome Covedeserted. Many things were left piled inthe porch; the Tollivers had leftapparently in a great hurry and the two oldpeople were much mystified. Not until

noon did they learn what the matter was.Only the night before a Tolliver had shot aFalin and the Falins had gathered to getrevenge on Judd that night. The warningword had been brought to Lonesome Coveby Loretta Tolliver, and it had comestraight from young Buck Falin himself. SoJune and old Judd and Bub had fled in thenight. At that hour they were on their wayto the railroad—old Judd at the head ofhis clan—his right arm still bound to hisside, his bushy beard low on his breast,June and Bub on horseback behind him,the rest strung out behind them, and in awagon at the end, with all her householdeffects, the little old woman in black whowould wait no longer for the Red Fox toarise from the dead. Loretta alone wasmissing. She was on her way with young

Buck Falin to the railroad on the otherside of the mountains. Between them not aliving soul disturbed the dead stillness ofLonesome Cove.

XXXIIAll winter the cabin in Lonesome Cove

slept through rain and sleet and snow, andno foot passed its threshold. Winter broke,floods came and warm sunshine. A palegreen light stole through the trees, shy,ethereal and so like a mist that it seemedat any moment on the point of floatingupward. Colour came with the wildflowers and song with the wood-thrush.Squirrels played on the tree-trunks likemischievous children, the brooks sang likehappy human voices through the tremulousunderworld and woodpeckers hammeredout the joy of spring, but the awakeningonly made the desolate cabin lonelier still.

After three warm days in March, UncleBilly, the miller, rode up the creek with ahoe over his shoulder—he had promisedthis to Hale—for his labour of love inJune's garden. Weeping April passed,May came with rosy face uplifted, andwith the birth of June the laurel emptiedits pink-flecked cups and therhododendron blazed the way for thesummer's coming with white stars.

Back to the hills came Hale then, andwith all their rich beauty they were asdesolate as when he left them bare withwinter, for his mission had miserablyfailed. His train creaked and twistedaround the benches of the mountains, andup and down ravines into the hills. Thesmoke rolled in as usual through thewindows and doors. There was the same

crowd of children, slatternly women andtobacco-spitting men in the dirty day-coaches, and Hale sat among them—for aPullman was no longer attached to thetrain that ran to the Gap. As he neared thebulk of Powell's mountain and ran alongits mighty flank, he passed the ore-mines.At each one the commissary was closed,the cheap, dingy little houses stood emptyon the hillsides, and every now and thenhe would see a tipple and an empty car,left as it was after dumping its last load ofred ore. On the right, as he approached thestation, the big furnace stood like a deadgiant, still and smokeless, and the piles ofpig iron were red with rust. The samelittle dummy wheezed him into the deadlittle town. Even the face of the Gap was alittle changed by the gray scar that man

had slashed across its mouth, gettinglimestone for the groaning monster of afurnace that was now at peace. The streetswere deserted. A new face fronted him atthe desk of the hotel and the eyes of theclerk showed no knowledge of him whenhe wrote his name. His supper wascoarse, greasy and miserable, his roomwas cold (steam heat, it seemed, had beengiven up), the sheets were ill-smelling, themouth of the pitcher was broken, and theone towel had seen much previous use.But the water was the same, as was thecool, pungent night-air—both blessed ofGod—and they were the sole comfortsthat were his that night.

The next day it was as though he werearranging his own funeral, with but littlehope of a resurrection. The tax-collector

met him when he came downstairs—having seen his name on the register.

"You know," he said, "I'll have to add 5per cent. next month." Hale smiled.

"That won't be much more," he said,and the collector, a new one, laughedgood-naturedly and with understandingturned away. Mechanically he walked tothe Club, but there was no club—then onto the office of The Progress—the paperthat was the boast of the town. TheProgress was defunct and the brillianteditor had left the hills. A boy with an ink-smeared face was setting type and a pallidgentleman with glasses was languidlyworking a hand-press. A pile of fresh-smelling papers lay on a table, and after aquestion or two he picked up one. Two of

its four pages were covered withannouncements of suits and sales to satisfyjudgments—the printing of which was theraison d'etre of the noble sheet. Down thecolumn his eye caught John Hale et al.John Hale et al., and he wondered why"the others" should be so persistentlyanonymous. There was a cloud of them—thicker than the smoke of coke-ovens. Hehad breathed that thickness for a long time,but he got a fresh sense of suffocationnow. Toward the post-office he moved.Around the corner he came upon one oftwo brothers whom he remembered ascarpenters. He recalled his inability onceto get that gentleman to hang a door forhim. He was a carpenter again now and hecarried a saw and a plane. There wasgrim humour in the situation. The

carpenter's brother had gone—and hehimself could hardly get enough work, hesaid, to support his family.

"Goin' to start that house of yours?""I think not," said Hale."Well, I'd like to get a contract for a

chicken-coop just to keep my hand in."There was more. A two-horse wagon

was coming with two cottage-organsaboard. In the mouth of the slouch-hatted,unshaven driver was a corn-cob pipe. Hepulled in when he saw Hale.

"Hello!" he shouted grinning. GoodHeavens, was that uncouth figure thevoluble, buoyant, flashy magnate of theold days? It was.

"Sellin' organs agin," he said briefly.

"And teaching singing-school?"The dethroned king of finance grinned."Sure! What you doin'?""Nothing.""Goin' to stay long?""No.""Well, see you again. So long. Git up!"Wheel-spokes whirred in the air and he

saw a buggy, with the top down, rattlingdown another street in a cloud of dust. Itwas the same buggy in which he had firstseen the black-bearded Senator sevenyears before. It was the same horse, too,and the Arab-like face and the bushy blackwhiskers, save for streaks of gray, werethe same. This was the man who used tobuy watches and pianos by the dozen, who

one Xmas gave a present to every livingman, woman and child in the town, andunder whose colossal schemes the pillarsof the church throughout the State stood assupports. That far away the eagle-nosedface looked haggard, haunted and all butspent, and even now he struck Hale asbeing driven downward like a madman bythe same relentless energy that once haddriven him upward. It was the same storyeverywhere. Nearly everybody who couldget away was gone. Some of these wereyoung enough to profit by the lesson andtake surer root elsewhere—others weretoo old for transplanting, and of themwould be heard no more. Others stayedfor the reason that getting away wasimpossible. These were living, visibletragedies—still hopeful, pathetically

unaware of the leading parts they wereplaying, and still weakly waiting for abetter day or sinking, as by gravity, backto the old trades they had practised beforethe boom. A few sturdy souls, the fittest,survived—undismayed. Logan was there—lawyer for the railroad and the coal-company. MacFarlan was a judge, andtwo or three others, too, had come throughunscathed in spirit and undaunted inresolution—but gone were the youngBluegrass Kentuckians, the young Tide-water Virginians, the New Englandschool-teachers, the bankers, real-estateagents, engineers; gone the gamblers, thewily Jews and the vagrant women thatfringe the incoming tide of a newprosperity—gone—all gone!

Beyond the post-office he turned

toward the red-brick house that sat abovethe mill-pond. Eagerly he looked for theold mill, and he stopped in physical pain.The dam had been torn away, the oldwheel was gone and a caved-in roof andsupporting walls, drunkenly aslant, werethe only remnants left. A red-haired childstood at the gate before the red-brickhouse and Hale asked her a question. Thelittle girl had never heard of the WidowCrane. Then he walked toward his oldoffice and bedroom. There was a voiceinside his old office when he approached,a tall figure filled the doorway, a pair ofgreat goggles beamed on him like beaconlights in a storm, and the Hon. Sam Budd'shand and his were clasped over the gate.

"It's all over, Sam."

"Don't you worry—come on in."The two sat on the porch. Below it the

dimpled river shone through therhododendrons and with his eyes fixed onit, the Hon. Sam slowly approached thethought of each.

"The old cabin in Lonesome Cove isjust as the Tollivers left it."

"None of them ever come back?" Buddshook his head.

"No, but one's comin'—Dave.""Dave!""Yes, an' you know what for.""I suppose so," said Hale carelessly.

"Did you send old Judd the deed?""Sure—along with that fool condition

of yours that June shouldn't know until he

was dead or she married. I've never hearda word."

"Do you suppose he'll stick to thecondition?"

"He has stuck," said the Hon. Samshortly; "otherwise you would have heardfrom June."

"I'm not going to be here long," saidHale.

"Where you goin'?""I don't know." Budd puffed his pipe."Well, while you are here, you want to

keep your eye peeled for Dave Tolliver. Itold you that the mountaineer hates as longas he remembers, and that he neverforgets. Do you know that Dave sent hishorse back to the stable here to be hiredout for his keep, and told it right and left

that when you came back he was comin',too, and he was goin' to straddle that horseuntil he found you, and then one of you hadto die? How he found out you were comin'about this time I don't know, but he hassent word that he'll be here. Looks like hehasn't made much headway with June."

"I'm not worried.""Well, you better be," said Budd

sharply."Did Uncle Billy plant the garden?""Flowers and all, just as June always

had 'em. He's always had the idea thatJune would come back."

"Maybe she will.""Not on your life. She might if you went

out there for her."

Hale looked up quickly and slowlyshook his head.

"Look here, Jack, you're seein' thingswrong. You can't blame that girl for losingher head after you spoiled and pamperedher the way you did. And with all hersense it was mighty hard for her tounderstand your being arrayed against herflesh and blood—law or no law. That'smountain nature pure and simple, and itcomes mighty near bein' human nature theworld over. You never gave her a squarechance."

"You know what Uncle Billy said?""Yes, an' I know Uncle Billy changed

his mind. Go after her.""No," said Hale firmly. "It'll take me

ten years to get out of debt. I wouldn't now

if I could—on her account.""Nonsense." Hale rose."I'm going over to take a look around

and get some things I left at Uncle Billy'sand then—me for the wide, wide worldagain."

The Hon. Sam took off his spectacles towipe them, but when Bale's back wasturned, his handkerchief went to his eyes:

"Don't you worry, Jack.""All right, Sam."An hour later Hale was at the livery

stable for a horse to ride to LonesomeCove, for he had sold his big black to helpout expenses for the trip to England. OldDan Harris, the stableman, stood in thedoor and silently he pointed to a grayhorse in the barn-yard.

"You know that hoss?""Yes.""You know whut's he here fer?""I've heard.""Well, I'm lookin' fer Dave every day

now.""Well, maybe I'd better ride Dave's

horse now," said Hale jestingly."I wish you would," said old Dan."No," said Hale, "if he's coming, I'll

leave the horse so that he can get to me asquickly as possible. You might send meword, Uncle Dan, ahead, so that he can'twaylay me."

"I'll do that very thing," said the oldman seriously.

"I was joking, Uncle Dan."

"But I ain't."The matter was out of Hale's head

before he got through the great Gap. Howthe memories thronged of June—June—June!

"YOU DIDN'T GIVE HER ACHANCE."

That was what Budd said. Well, had hegiven her a chance? Why shouldn't he goto her and give her the chance now? Heshook his shoulders at the thought andlaughed with some bitterness. He hadn'tthe car-fare for half-way across thecontinent—and even if he had, he was apromising candidate for matrimony!—andagain he shook his shoulders and settledhis soul for his purpose. He would get histhings together and leave those hills

forever.How lonely had been his trip—how

lonely was the God-forsaken little townbehind him! How lonely the road and hillsand the little white clouds in the zenithstraight above him—and how unspeakablylonely the green dome of the great Pinethat shot into view from the north as heturned a clump of rhododendron withuplifted eyes. Not a breath of air moved.The green expanse about him sweptupward like a wave—but unflecked,motionless, except for the big Pine which,that far away, looked like a bit of greenspray, spouting on its very crest.

"Old man," he muttered, "you know—you know." And as to a brother heclimbed toward it.

"No wonder they call you Lonesome,"he said as he went upward into the brightstillness, and when he dropped into thedark stillness of shadow and forest gloomon the other side he said again:

"My God, no wonder they call youLonesome."

And still the memories of June thronged—at the brook—at the river—and whenhe saw the smokeless chimney of the oldcabin, he all but groaned aloud. But heturned away from it, unable to look again,and went down the river toward UncleBilly's mill. * * * * * * *

Old Hon threw her arms around himand kissed him.

"John," said Uncle Billy, "I've got three

hundred dollars in a old yarn sock underone of them hearthstones and its yourn.Ole Hon says so too."

Hale choked."I want ye to go to June. Dave'll worry

her down and git her if you don't go, and ifhe don't worry her down, he'll come backan' try to kill ye. I've always thought oneof ye would have to die fer that gal, an' Iwant it to be Dave. You two have got tofight it out some day, and you mought aswell meet him out thar as here. You didn'tgive that little gal a fair chance, John, an' Iwant you to go to June."

"No, I can't take your money, UncleBilly—God bless you and old Hon—I'mgoing—I don't know where—and I'mgoing now."

XXXIIIClouds were gathering as Hale rode up

the river after telling old Hon and UncleBilly good-by. He had meant not to go tothe cabin in Lonesome Cove, but when hereached the forks of the road, he stoppedhis horse and sat in indecision with hishands folded on the pommel of his saddleand his eyes on the smokeless chimney.The memories tugging at his heart drewhim irresistibly on, for it was the last time.At a slow walk he went noiselesslythrough the deep sand around the clump ofrhododendron. The creek was clear ascrystal once more, but no geese cackledand no dog barked. The door of the

spring-house gaped wide, the barn-doorsagged on its hinges, the yard-fenceswayed drunkenly, and the cabin was stillas a gravestone. But the garden was alive,and he swung from his horse at the gate,and with his hands clasped behind hisback walked slowly through it. June'sgarden! The garden he had planned andplanted for June—that they had tendedtogether and apart and that, thanks to theold miller's care, was the one thing, savethe sky above, left in spirit unchanged.The periwinkles, pink and white, werealmost gone. The flags were at half-mastand sinking fast. The annunciation lilieswere bending their white foreheads to thenear kiss of death, but the pinks werefragrant, the poppies were poised onslender stalks like brilliant butterflies at

rest, the hollyhocks shook soundless pinkbells to the wind, roses as scarlet asJune's lips bloomed everywhere and therichness of mid-summer was at hand.

Quietly Hale walked the paths, taking alast farewell of plant and flower, and onlythe sudden patter of raindrops made himlift his eyes to the angry sky. The stormwas coming now in earnest and he hadhardly time to lead his horse to the barnand dash to the porch when the veryheavens, with a crash of thunder, brokeloose. Sheet after sheet swept down themountains like wind-driven clouds of mistthickening into water as they came. Theshingles rattled as though with the heavyslapping of hands, the pines creaked andthe sudden dusk outside made the cabin,when he pushed the door open, as dark as

night. Kindling a fire, he lit his pipe andwaited. The room was damp and musty,but the presence of June almost smotheredhim. Once he turned his face. June's doorwas ajar and the key was in the lock. Herose to go to it and look within and thendropped heavily back into his chair. Hewas anxious to get away now—to get towork. Several times he rose restlessly andlooked out the window. Once he wentoutside and crept along the wall of thecabin to the east and the west, but therewas no break of light in the murky sky andhe went back to pipe and fire. By and bythe wind died and the rain steadied into adogged downpour. He knew what thatmeant—there would be no letting up nowin the storm, and for another night he wasa prisoner. So he went to his saddle-

pockets and pulled out a cake ofchocolate, a can of potted ham and somecrackers, munched his supper, went tobed, and lay there with sleepless eyes,while the lights and shadows from thewind-swayed fire flicked about him. Aftera while his body dozed but his rackedbrain went seething on in an endlessmarch of fantastic dreams in which Junewas the central figure always, until of asudden young Dave leaped into the centreof the stage in the dream-tragedy formingin his brain. They were meeting face toface at last—and the place was the bigPine. Dave's pistol flashed and his ownstuck in the holster as he tried to draw.There was a crashing report and he sprangupright in bed—but it was a crash ofthunder that wakened him and that in that

swift instant perhaps had caused hisdream. The wind had come again and wasdriving the rain like soft bullets against thewall of the cabin next which he lay. Hegot up, threw another stick of wood on thefire and sat before the leaping blaze,curiously disturbed but not by the dream.Somehow he was again in doubt—was hegoing to stick it out in the mountains afterall, and if he should, was not the reason,deep down in his soul, the foolish hopethat June would come back again. No, hethought, searching himself fiercely, thatwas not the reason. He honestly did notknow what his duty to her was—whateven was his inmost wish, and almostwith a groan he paced the floor to and fro.Meantime the storm raged. A tree crashedon the mountainside and the lightning that

smote it winked into the cabin so like amocking, malignant eye that he stopped inhis tracks, threw open the door andstepped outside as though to face anenemy. The storm was majestic and hissoul went into the mighty conflict of earthand air, whose beginning and end were ineternity. The very mountain tops wererimmed with zigzag fire, which shotupward, splitting a sky that was as blackas a nether world, and under it the greattrees swayed like willows under rollingclouds of gray rain. One fiery streak lit upfor an instant the big Pine and seemed todart straight down upon its proud, tossingcrest. For a moment the beat of thewatcher's heart and the flight of his soulstopped still. A thunderous crash cameslowly to his waiting ears, another flash

came, and Hale stumbled, with a sob,back into the cabin. God's finger waspointing the way now—the big Pine wasno more.

XXXIVThe big Pine was gone. He had seen it

first, one morning at daybreak, when thevalley on the other side was a sea of mistthat threw soft, clinging spray to the verymountain tops—for even above the mists,that morning, its mighty head arose, solevisible proof that the earth still sleptbeneath. He had seen it at noon—but littleless majestic, among the oaks that stoodabout it; had seen it catching the last lightat sunset, clean-cut against the after-glow,and like a dark, silent, mysterious sentinelguarding the mountain pass under themoon. He had seen it giving place withsombre dignity to the passing burst of

spring, had seen it green among dyingautumn leaves, green in the gray of wintertrees and still green in a shroud of snow—a changeless promise that the earth mustwake to life again. It had been the beaconthat led him into Lonesome Cove—thebeacon that led June into the outer world.From it her flying feet had carried her intohis life—past it, the same feet had carriedher out again. It had been their trystingplace—had kept their secrets like afaithful friend and had stood to him as thechangeless symbol of their love. It hadstood a mute but sympathetic witness ofhis hopes, his despairs and the strugglesthat lay between them. In dark hours it hadbeen a silent comforter, and in the lastyear it had almost come to symbolize hisbetter self as to that self he came slowly

back. And in the darkest hour it was thelast friend to whom he had meant to saygood-by. Now it was gone. Always he hadlifted his eyes to it every morning when herose, but now, next morning, he hung backconsciously as one might shrink fromlooking at the face of a dead friend, andwhen at last he raised his head to lookupward to it, an impenetrable shroud ofmist lay between them—and he was glad.

And still he could not leave. The littlecreek was a lashing yellow torrent, andhis horse, heavily laden as he must be,could hardly swim with his weight, too,across so swift a stream. But mountainstreams were like June's temper—upquickly and quickly down—so it wasnoon before he plunged into the tide withhis saddle-pockets over one shoulder and

his heavy transit under one arm. Even thenhis snorting horse had to swim a fewyards, and he reached the other banksoaked to his waist line. But the warm suncame out just as he entered the woods, andas he climbed, the mists broke about himand scudded upward like white sailsbefore a driving wind. Once he lookedback from a "fire-scald" in the woods atthe lonely cabin in the cove, but it gavehim so keen a pain that he would not lookagain. The trail was slippery and severaltimes he had to stop to let his horse restand to slow the beating of his own heart.But the sunlight leaped gladly from wetleaf to wet leaf until the trees lookeddecked out for unseen fairies, and thebirds sang as though there was nothing onearth but joy for all its creatures, and the

blue sky smiled above as though it hadnever bred a lightning flash or a storm.Hale dreaded the last spur before the littleGap was visible, but he hurried up thesteep, and when he lifted his apprehensiveeyes, the gladness of the earth was asnothing to the sudden joy in his own heart.The big Pine stood majestic, stillunscathed, as full of divinity and hope tohim as a rainbow in an eastern sky. Haledropped his reins, lifted one hand to hisdizzy head, let his transit to the ground,and started for it on a run. Across the pathlay a great oak with a white woundrunning the length of its mighty body, fromcrest to shattered trunk, and over it heleaped, and like a child caught his oldfriend in both arms. After all, he was notalone. One friend would be with him till

death, on that border-line between theworld in which he was born and the worldhe had tried to make his own, and he couldface now the old one again with a stouterheart. There it lay before him with itssmoke and fire and noise and slumberingactivities just awakening to life again. Helifted his clenched fist toward it:

"You got ME once," he muttered, "butthis time I'll get YOU." He turned quicklyand decisively—there would be no moredelay. And he went back and climbedover the big oak that, instead of his friend,had fallen victim to the lightning's kindlywhim and led his horse out into theunderbrush. As he approached within tenyards of the path, a metallic note rangfaintly on the still air the other side of thePine and down the mountain. Something

was coming up the path, so he swiftlyknotted his bridle-reins around a sapling,stepped noiselessly into the path andnoiselessly slipped past the big tree wherehe dropped to his knees, crawled forwardand lay flat, peering over the cliff anddown the winding trail. He had not long towait. A riderless horse filled the openingin the covert of leaves that swallowed upthe path. It was gray and he knew it as heknew the saddle as his old enemy's—Dave. Dave had kept his promise—he hadcome back. The dream was coming true,and they were to meet at last face to face.One of them was to strike a trail morelonesome than the Trail of the LonesomePine, and that man would not be JohnHale. One detail of the dream was goingto be left out, he thought grimly, and very

quietly he drew his pistol, cocked it,sighted it on the opening—it was an easyshot—and waited. He would give thatenemy no more chance than he would amad dog—or would he? The horsestopped to browse. He waited so long thathe began to suspect a trap. He withdrewhis head and looked about him on eitherside and behind—listening intently for thecracking of a twig or a footfall. He wasabout to push backward to avoid possibleattack from the rear, when a shadow shotfrom the opening. His face paled andlooked sick of a sudden, his clenchedfingers relaxed about the handle of hispistol and he drew it back, still cocked,turned on his knees, walked past the Pine,and by the fallen oak stood upright,waiting. He heard a low whistle calling to

the horse below and a shudder ran throughhim. He heard the horse coming up thepath, he clenched his pistol convulsively,and his eyes, lit by an unearthly fire andfixed on the edge of the bowlder aroundwhich they must come, burned an instantlater on—June. At the cry she gave, heflashed a hunted look right and left,stepped swiftly to one side and stared pasther-still at the bowlder. She had droppedthe reins and started toward him, but at thePine she stopped short.

"Where is he?"Her lips opened to answer, but no

sound came. Hale pointed at the horsebehind her.

"That's his. He sent me word. He leftthat horse in the valley, to ride over here,

when he came back, to kill me. Are youwith him?" For a moment she thought fromhis wild face that he had gone crazy andshe stared silently. Then she seemed tounderstand, and with a moan she coveredher face with her hands and sank weepingin a heap at the foot of the Pine.

The forgotten pistol dropped, fullcocked to the soft earth, and Hale withbewildered eyes went slowly to her.

"Don't cry,"—he said gently, starting tocall her name. "Don't cry," he repeated,and he waited helplessly.

"He's dead. Dave was shot—out—West," she sobbed. "I told him I wascoming back. He gave me his horse. Oh,how could you?"

"Why did you come back?" he asked,

and she shrank as though he had struck her—but her sobs stopped and she rose to herfeet.

"Wait," she said, and she turned fromhim to wipe her eyes with her handerchief.Then she faced him.

"When dad died, I learned everything.You made him swear never to tell me andhe kept his word until he was on hisdeath-bed. YOU did everything for me. Itwas YOUR money. YOU gave me backthe old cabin in the Cove. It was alwaysyou, you, YOU, and there was neveranybody else but you." She stopped forHale's face was as though graven fromstone.

"And you came back to tell me that?""Yes."

"You could have written that.""Yes," she faltered, "but I had to tell

you face to face.""Is that all?"Again the tears were in her eyes."No," she said tremulously."Then I'll say the rest for you. You

wanted to come to tell me of the shameyou felt when you knew," she noddedviolently—"but you could have writtenthat, too, and I could have written that youmustn't feel that way—that" he spokeslowly—"you mustn't rob me of thedearest happiness I ever knew in mywhole life."

"I knew you would say that," she saidlike a submissive child. The sternness lefthis face and he was smiling now.

"And you wanted to say that the onlyreturn you could make was to come backand be my wife."

"Yes," she faltered again, "I did feelthat—I did."

"You could have written that, too, butyou thought you had to PROVE it bycoming back yourself."

This time she nodded no assent and hereyes were streaming. He turned away—stretching out his arms to the woods.

"God! Not that—no—no!""Listen, Jack!" As suddenly his arms

dropped. She had controlled her tears buther lips were quivering.

"No, Jack, not that—thank God. I camebecause I wanted to come," she saidsteadily. "I loved you when I went away.

I've loved you every minute since—" herarms were stealing about his neck, herface was upturned to his and her eyes,moist with gladness, were looking into hiswondering eyes—"and I love you now—Jack."

"June!" The leaves about them caughthis cry and quivered with the joy of it, andabove their heads the old Pine breathed itsblessing with the name—June—June—June.

XXXVWith a mystified smile but with no

question, Hale silently handed hispenknife to June and when, smiling butwithout a word, she walked behind the oldPine, he followed her. There he saw herreach up and dig the point of the knife intothe trunk, and when, as he wonderinglywatched her, she gave a sudden cry, Halesprang toward her. In the hole she wasdigging he saw the gleam of gold and thenher trembling fingers brought out beforehis astonished eyes the little fairy stonethat he had given her long ago. She hadleft it there for him, she said, throughtears, and through his own tears Hale

pointed to the stricken oak:"It saved the Pine," he said."And you," said June."And you," repeated Hale solemnly,

and while he looked long at her, her armsdropped slowly to her sides and he saidsimply:

"Come!"Leading the horses, they walked

noiselessly through the deep sand aroundthe clump of rhododendron, and there satthe little cabin of Lonesome Cove. Theholy hush of a cathedral seemed to shut itin from the world, so still it was belowthe great trees that stood like sentinels oneternal guard. Both stopped, and June laidher head on Hale's shoulder and theysimply looked in silence.

"Dear old home," she said, with a littlesob, and Hale, still silent, drew her tohim.

"You were never coming back again?""I was never coming back again." She

clutched his arm fiercely as though evennow something might spirit him away, andshe clung to him, while he hitched thehorses and while they walked up the path.

"Why, the garden is just as I left it! Thevery same flowers in the very sameplaces!" Hale smiled.

"Why not? I had Uncle Billy do that.""Oh, you dear—you dear!"Her little room was shuttered tight as it

always had been when she was away, and,as usual, the front door was simplychained on the outside. The girl turned

with a happy sigh and looked about at thenodding flowers and the woods and thegleaming pool of the river below and upthe shimmering mountain to the big Pinetopping it with sombre majesty.

"Dear old Pine," she murmured, andalmost unconsciously she unchained thedoor as she had so often done before,stepped into the dark room, pulling Halewith one hand after her, and almostunconsciously reaching upward with theother to the right of the door. Then shecried aloud:

"My key—my key is there!""That was in case you should come

back some day.""Oh, I might—I might! and think if I had

come too late—think if I hadn't come

now!" Again her voice broke and stillholding Hale's arm, she moved to her owndoor. She had to use both hands there, butbefore she let go, she said almosthysterically:

"It's so dark! You won't leave me, dear,if I let you go?"

For answer Hale locked his armsaround her, and when the door opened, hewent in ahead of her and pushed open theshutters. The low sun flooded the roomand when Hale turned, June was lookingwith wild eyes from one thing to anotherin the room—her rocking-chair at awindow, her sewing close by, a book onthe table, her bed made up in the corner,her washstand of curly maple—the pitcherfull of water and clean towels hanging

from the rack. Hale had gotten out thethings she had packed away and the roomwas just as she had always kept it. Sherushed to him, weeping.

"It would have killed me," she sobbed."It would have killed me." She strainedhim tightly to her—her wet face againsthis cheek: "Think—think—if I hadn'tcome now!" Then loosening herself shewent all about the room with a caressingtouch to everything, as though it werealive. The book was the volume of Keatshe had given her—which had been loanedto Loretta before June went away.

"Oh, I wrote for it and wrote for it," shesaid.

"I found it in the post-office," saidHale, "and I understood."

She went over to the bed."Oh," she said with a happy laugh.

"You've got one slip inside out," and shewhipped the pillow from its place,changed it, and turned down the edge ofthe covers in a triangle.

"That's the way I used to leave it," shesaid shyly. Hale smiled.

"I never noticed that!" She turned to thebureau and pulled open a drawer. In therewere white things with frills and blueribbons—and she flushed.

"Oh," she said, "these haven't even beentouched." Again Hale smiled but he saidnothing. One glance had told him therewere things in that drawer too sacred forhis big hands.

"I'm so happy—so happy."

Suddenly she looked him over fromhead to foot—his rough riding boots, oldriding breeches and blue flannel shirt.

"I am pretty rough," he said. Sheflushed, shook her head and looked downat her smart cloth suit of black.

"Oh, you are all right—but you must goout now, just for a little while."

"What are you up to, little girl?""How I love to hear that again!""Aren't you afraid I'll run away?" he

said at the door."I'm not afraid of anything else in this

world any more.""Well, I won't."He heard her moving around as he sat

planning on the porch.

"To-morrow," he thought, and then anidea struck him that made him dizzy. Fromwithin June cried:

"Here I am," and out she ran in the lastcrimson gown of her young girlhood—hersleeves rolled up and her hair braideddown her back as she used to wear it.

"You've made up my bed and I'm goingto make yours—and I'm going to cookyour supper—why, what's the matter?"Hale's face was radiant with the heaven-born idea that lighted it, and he seemedhardly to notice the change she had made.He came over and took her in his arms:

"Ah, sweetheart, my sweetheart!" Aspasm of anxiety tightened her throat, butHale laughed from sheer delight.

"Never you mind. It's a secret," and he

stood back to look at hen She blushed ashis eyes went downward to her perfectankles.

"It is too short," she said."No, no, no! Not for me! You're mine

now, little girl, mine—do you understandthat?"

"Yes," she whispered, her mouthtrembling, Again he laughed joyously.

"Come on!" he cried, and he went intothe kitchen and brought out an axe:

"I'll cut wood for you." She followedhim out to the wood-pile and then sheturned and went into the house. Presentlythe sound of his axe rang through thewoods, and as he stooped to gather up thewood, he heard a creaking sound. Junewas drawing water at the well, and he

rushed toward her:"Here, you mustn't do that."She flashed a happy smile at him."You just go back and get that wood. I

reckon," she used the word purposely,"I've done this afore." Her strong barearms were pulling the leaking moss-covered old bucket swiftly up, hand underhand—so he got the wood while sheemptied the bucket into a pail, andtogether they went laughing into thekitchen, and while he built the fire, Junegot out the coffee-grinder and the meal tomix, and settled herself with the grinder inher lap.

"Oh, isn't it fun?" She stopped grindingsuddenly.

"What would the neighbours say?"

"We haven't any.""But if we had!""Terrible!" said Hale with mock

solemnity."I wonder if Uncle Billy is at home,"

Hale trembled at his luck. "That's a goodidea. I'll ride down for him while you'regetting supper."

"No, you won't," said June, "I can'tspare you. Is that old horn here yet?"

Hale brought it out from behind thecupboard.

"I can get him—if he is at home."Hale followed her out to the porch

where she put her red mouth to the oldtrumpet. One long, mellow hoot rangdown the river—and up the hills. Then

there were three short ones and a singlelong blast again.

"That's the old signal," she said. "Andhe'll know I want him bad." Then shelaughed.

"He may think he's dreaming, so I'llblow for him again." And she did.

"There, now," she said. "He'll come."It was well she did blow again, for the

old miller was not at home and old Hon,down at the cabin, dropped her iron whenshe heard the horn and walked to the door,dazed and listening. Even when it cameagain she could hardly believe her ears,and but for her rheumatism, she wouldherself have started at once for LonesomeCove. As it was, she ironed no more, butsat in the doorway almost beside herself

with anxiety and bewilderment, lookingdown the road for the old miller to comehome.

Back the two went into the kitchen andHale sat at the door watching June as shefixed the table and made the coffee andcorn bread. Once only he disappeared andthat was when suddenly a hen cackled,and with a shout of laughter he ran out tocome back with a fresh egg.

"Now, my lord!" said June, her hairfalling over her eyes and her face flushedfrom the heat.

"No," said Hale. "I'm going to wait onyou."

"For the last time," she pleaded, and toplease her he did sit down, and every timeshe came to his side with something he

bent to kiss the hand that served him."You're nothing but a big, nice boy,"

she said. Hale held out a lock of his hairnear the temples and with one fingersilently followed the track of wrinkles inhis face.

"It's premature," she said, "and I loveevery one of them." And she stooped tokiss him on the hair. "And those arenothing but troubles. I'm going to smoothevery one of them away."

"If they're troubles, they'll go—now,"said Hale.

All the time they talked of what theywould do with Lonesome Cove.

"Even if we do go away, we'll comeback once a year," said Hale.

"Yes," nodded June, "once a year."

"I'll tear down those mining shacks,float them down the river and sell them aslumber."

"Yes.""And I'll stock the river with bass

again.""Yes.""And I'll plant young poplars to cover

the sight of every bit of uptorn earth alongthe mountain there. I'll bury every bottleand tin can in the Cove. I'll take awayevery sign of civilization, every sign ofthe outside world."

"And leave old Mother Nature to coverup the scars," said June.

"So that Lonesome Cove will be just asit was."

"Just as it was in the beginning," echoedJune.

"And shall be to the end," said Hale."And there will never be anybody here

but you.""And you," said June.While she cleared the table and washed

the dishes Hale fed the horses and cutmore wood, and it was dusk when hecame to the porch. Through the door hesaw that she had made his bed in onecorner. And through her door he saw oneof the white things, that had lain untouchedin her drawer, now stretched out on herbed.

The stars were peeping through the bluespaces of a white-clouded sky and themoon would be coming by and by. In the

garden the flowers were dim, quiet andrestful. A kingfisher screamed from theriver. An owl hooted in the woods andcrickets chirped about them, but everypassing sound seemed only to accentuatethe stillness in which they were engulfed.Close together they sat on the old porchand she made him tell of everything thathad happened since she left the mountains,and she told him of her flight from themountains and her life in the West—of herfather's death and the homesickness of theones who still were there.

"Bub is a cowboy and wouldn't comeback for the world, but I could never havebeen happy there," she said, "even if ithadn't been for you—here."

"I'm just a plain civil engineer, now,"said Hale, "an engineer without even a joband—" his face darkened.

"It's a shame, sweetheart, for you—"She put one hand over his lips and withthe other turned his face so that she couldlook into his eyes. In the mood ofbitterness, they did show worn, hollowand sad, and around them the wrinkleswere deep.

"Silly," she said, tracing them gentlywith her finger tips, "I love every one ofthem, too," and she leaned over and kissedthem.

"We're going to be happy each andevery day, and all day long! We'll live atthe Gap in winter and I'll teach."

"No, you won't.""Then I'll teach you to be patient and

how little I care for anything else in theworld while I've got you, and I'll teachyou to care for nothing else while you'vegot me. And you'll have me, dear, foreverand ever——"

"Amen," said Hale.Something rang out in the darkness, far

down the river, and both sprang to theirfeet. "It's Uncle Billy!" cried June, and shelifted the old horn to her lips. With thefirst blare of it, a cheery halloo answered,and a moment later they could see a grayhorse coming up the road—coming at a

gallop, and they went down to the gate andwaited.

"Hello, Uncle Billy" cried June. Theold man answered with a fox-hunting yelland Hale stepped behind a bush.

"Jumping Jehosophat—is that you,June? Air ye all right?"

"Yes, Uncle Billy." The old manclimbed off his horse with a groan.

"Lordy, Lordy, Lordy, but I wasskeered!" He had his hands on June'sshoulders and was looking at her with abewildered face.

"What air ye doin' here alone, baby?"June's eyes shone: "Nothing Uncle

Billy." Hale stepped into sight."Oh, ho! I see! You back an' he ain't

gone! Well, bless my soul, if this ain't thebeatenest—" he looked from the one to theother and his kind old face beamed with ajoy that was but little less than their own.

"You come back to stay?""My—where's that horn? I want it right

now, Ole Hon down thar is a-thinkin' she'sgone crazy and I thought she shorely waswhen she said she heard you blow thathorn. An' she tol' me the minute I got here,if hit was you—to blow three times." Andstraightway three blasts rang down theriver.

"Now she's all right, if she don't die o'curiosity afore I git back and tell her whyyou come. Why did you come back, baby?Gimme a drink o' water, son. I reckon mean' that ole hoss hain't travelled sech a gait

in five year."June was whispering something to the

old man when Hale came back, and whatit was the old man's face told plainly.

"Yes, Uncle Billy—right away," saidHale.

"Just as soon as you can git yo'license?" Hale nodded.

"An' June says I'm goin' to do It.""Yes," said Hale, "right away."Again June had to tell the story to Uncle

Billy that she had told to Hale and toanswer his questions, and it was an hourbefore the old miller rose to go. Halecalled him then into June's room andshowed him a piece of paper.

"Is it good now?" he asked.

The old man put on his spectacles,looked at it and chuckled:

"Just as good as the day you got hit.""Well, can't you——""Right now! Does June know?""Not yet. I'm going to tell her now.

June!" he called."Yes, dear." Uncle Billy moved

hurriedly to the door."You just wait till I git out o' here." He

met June in the outer room."Where are you going, Uncle Billy?""Go on, baby," he said, hurrying by her,

"I'll be back in a minute."She stopped in the doorway—her eyes

wide again with sudden anxiety, but Halewas smiling.

"You remember what you said at thePine, dear?" The girl nodded and she wassmiling now, when with sweet seriousnessshe said again: "Your least wish is nowlaw to me, my lord."

"Well, I'm going to test it now. I've laida trap for you." She shook her head.

"And you've walked right into it""I'm glad." She noticed now the

crumpled piece of paper in his hand andshe thought it was some matter ofbusiness.

"Oh," she said, reproachfully. "Youaren't going to bother with anything of thatkind now?"

"Yes," he said. "I want you to look overthis."

"Very well," she said resignedly. He

was holding the paper out to her and shetook it and held it to the light of thecandle. Her face flamed and she turnedremorseful eyes upon him.

"And you've kept that, too, you had itwhen I——"

"When you were wiser maybe than youare now."

"God save me from ever being such afool again." Tears started in her eyes.

"You haven't forgiven me!" she cried."Uncle Billy says it's as good now as it

was then."He was looking at her queerly now and

his smile was gone. Slowly his meaningcame to her like the flush that spread overher face and throat. She drew in one longquivering breath and, with parted lips and

her great shining eyes wide, she looked athim.

"Now?" she whispered."Now!" he said.Her eyes dropped to the coarse gown,

she lifted both hands for a moment to herhair and unconsciously she began to rollone crimson sleeve down her round, whitearm.

"No," said Hale, "just as you are."She went to him then, put her arms

about his neck, and with head thrown backshe looked at him long with steady eyes.

"Yes," she breathed out—"just as youare—and now."

Uncle Billy was waiting for them on theporch and when they came out, he rose to

his feet and they faced him, hand in hand.The moon had risen. The big Pine stoodguard on high against the outer world.Nature was their church and stars weretheir candles. And as if to give them evena better light, the moon had sent aluminous sheen down the darkmountainside to the very garden in whichthe flowers whispered like waiting happyfriends. Uncle Billy lifted his hand and ahush of expectancy seemed to come evenfrom the farthest star.

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