The Mountain Girl

by Payne Erskine

  CHAPTER II

  IN WHICH DAVID THRYNG EXPERIENCES THE HOSPITALITY OF THE MOUNTAINPEOPLE.

  Suddenly the jolting ceased. The deep stillness of the night seemed onlyintensified by the low panting of the animals and the soft dropping ofthe wet snow from the trees.

  "What is it?" said Thryng, peering from under the canvas cover."Anything the matter?"

  The beasts stood with low-swung heads, the vapor rising white from theirwarm bodies, wet with the melting snow. His question fell unheard, andthe girl who was climbing down over the front wheel began to unhitch theteam in silence. He rolled the sleeping child in his rug and leaped out.

  "Let me help you. What is the trouble? Oh, are you at home?"

  "I can do this, suh. I have done it a heap of times. Don't go nigh Pete,suh. He's mighty quick, and he's mean." The beast laid back his earsviciously as David approached.

  "You ought not go near him yourself," he said, taking a firm grip of thebridle.

  "Oh, he's safe enough with me--or Frale. Hold him tight, suh, now youhave him, till I get round there. Keep his head towa'ds you. Hecertainly is mean."

  The colt walked off to a low stack of corn fodder, as she turned himloose with a light slap on the flank; and the mule, impatient, stampingand sidling about, stretched forth his nose and let out his raucous andhideous cry. While he was thus occupied, the girl slipped off hisharness and, taking the bridle, led the beast away to a small railedenclosure on the far side of the stack; and David stood alone in thesnow and looked about him.

  He saw a low, rambling house, which, although one structure, appeared tobe a series of houses, built of logs plastered with clay in the chinks.It stood in a tangle of wild growth, on what seemed to be a wide ledgejutting out from the side of the mountain, which loomed dark and highbehind it. An incessant, rushing sound pervaded the place, as it were apart of the silence or a breathing of the mountain itself. Was it windamong the trees, or the rushing of water? No wind stirred now, and yetthe sound never ceased. It must be a torrent swollen by the meltingsnow.

  He saw the girl moving in and out among the shadows, about the open logstable, like a wraith. The braying of the mule had disturbed theoccupants of the house, for a candle was placed in a window, and itslittle ray streamed forth and was swallowed up in the moonlight andblack shades. The child, awakened by the horrible noise of the beast,rustled in the corn fodder where Thryng had left him. Dazed andwondering, he peered out at the young man for some moments, too shy todescend until his sister should return. Now she came, and he scrambleddown and stood close to her side, looking up weirdly, his twisted littleform shivering and quaking.

  "Run in, Hoyle," she said, looking kindly down upon him. "Tell mothahwe're all right, son."

  A woman came to the door holding a candle, which she shaded with agnarled and bony hand.

  "That you, Cass?" she quavered. "Who aire ye talkin' to?"

  "Yes, Aunt Sally, we'll be there directly. Don't let mothah get cold."She turned again to David. "I reckon you'll have to stop with usto-night. It's a right smart way to the cabin, and it'll be cold, andnothing to eat. We'll bring in your things now, and in the morning wecan tote them up to your place with the mule, and Hoyle can go with youto show you the way."

  She turned toward the wagon as if all were settled, and Thryng could notbe effusive in the face of her direct and conclusive manner; but he tookthe basket from her hand.

  "Let me--no, no--I will bring in everything. Thank you very much. I cando it quite easily, taking one at a time." Then she left him, but at thedoor she met him and helped to lift his heavy belongings into the house.

  The room he entered was warm and brightly lighted by a pile of blazinglogs in the great chimneyplace. He walked toward it and stretched hishands to the fire--a generous fire--the mountain home's luxury.

  Something was cooking in the ashes on the hearth which sent up a savoryodor most pleasant and appealing to the hungry man. The meagre boy stoodnear, also warming his little body, on which his coarse garments hunglimply. He kept his great eyes fixed on David's face in a mannerdisconcerting, even in a child, had Thryng given his attention to it,but at the moment he was interested in other things. Dropped thussuddenly into this utterly alien environment, he was observing the girland the old woman as intently, though less openly, as the boy waswatching him.

  Presently he felt himself uncannily the object of a scrutiny fardifferent from the child's wide-eyed gaze, and glancing over hisshoulder toward the corner from which the sensation seemed to emanate,he saw in the depths of an old four-posted bed, set in their hollowsockets and roofed over by projecting light eyebrows, a pair of keen,glittering eyes.

  "Yas, you see me now, do ye?" said a high, thin voice in toothlessspeech. "Who be ye?"

  His physician's feeling instantly alert, he stepped to the bedside andbent over the wasted form, which seemed hardly to raise the clothingfrom its level smoothness, as if she had lain motionless since somecareful hand had arranged it.

  "No, ye don't know me, I reckon. 'Tain't likely. Who be ye?" sheiterated, still looking unflinchingly in his eyes.

  "Hit's a gentleman who knows Doctah Hoyle, mothah. He sent him. Don'tfret you'se'f," said the girl soothingly.

  "I'm not one of the frettin' kind," retorted the mother, never takingher eyes from his face, and again speaking in a weak monotone. "Who beye?"

  "My name is David Thryng, and I am a doctor," he said quietly.

  "Where be ye from?"

  "I came from Canada, the country where Doctor Hoyle lives."

  "I reckon so. He used to tell 'at his home was thar." A pallid hand wasreached slowly out to him. "I'm right glad to see ye. Take a cheer andset. Bring a cheer, Sally."

  But the girl had already placed him a chair, which he drew close to thebedside. He took the feeble old hand and slipped his fingers along torest lightly on the wrist.

  "You needn't stan' watchin' me, Cass. You 'n' Sally set suthin' fer th'doctah to eat. I reckon ye're all about gone fer hunger."

  "Yes, mothah, right soon. Fry a little pork to go with the pone, AuntSally. Is any coffee left in the pot?"

  "I done put in a leetle mo' when I heered the mule hollah. I knowed ye'dwant it. Might throw in a mite mo' now th' gentleman's come."

  The two women resumed their preparations for supper, the boy continuedto stand and gaze, and the high voice of the frail occupant of the bedbegan again to talk and question.

  "When did you come down f'om that thar country whar Doctah Hoyle livesat?" she said, in her monotonous wail.

  "Four days ago. I travelled slowly, for I have been ill myself."

  "Hit's right quare now; 'pears like ef I was a doctah I wouldn't 'lowmyself fer to get sick. An' you seed Doctah Hoyle fo' days back!"

  "No, he has gone to England on a visit. I saw his wife, though, and hisdaughter. She is a young lady--is to be married soon."

  "They do grow up--the leetle ones. Hit don't seem mo'n yestahday 'atCass was like leetle Hoyle yandah, an' hit don't seem that since DoctahHoyle was here an' leetle Hoyle came. We named him fer th' doctah. Waal,I reckon ef th' doctah was here now 'at he could he'p me some. Maybe efhe'd 'a' stayed here I nevah would 'a' got down whar I be now. He was aright good doctah, bettah'n a yarb doctah--most--I reckon so."

  David smiled. "I think so myself," he said. "Are there many herb doctorshere about?"

  "Not rightly doctahs, so to speak, but they is some 'at knows a heapabout yarbs."

  "Good. Perhaps they can teach me something."

  The old face was feebly lifted a bit from the pillow, and the dark eyesgrew suddenly sharp in their scrutiny.

  "Who be ye, anyhow? What aire ye here fer? Sech as you knows a heapa'ready 'thout makin' out to larn o' we-uns."

  David saw his mistake and hastened to allay the suspicion which gleamedout at him almost malignantly.

  "I am just what I said, a doctor like Adam Hoyle, only that I don't knowas much as he--not yet. The wisest man in the world can learn more if hewatches out to d
o so. Your herb doctors might be able to teach me a goodmany things."

  "I 'spect ye're right thar, on'y a heap o' folks thinks they knows itall fust."

  There was a pause, and Thryng leaned back in his stiff, splint-bottomedchair and glanced around him. He saw that the girl, although movingabout setting to rights and brushing here and there with an unique,home-made broom, was at the same time intently listening.

  Presently the old woman spoke again, her threadlike voice penetratingfar.

  "What do you 'low to do here in ouah mountains? They hain't nosettlement nighabouts here, an' them what's sick hain't no money to paydoctahs with. I reckon they'll hev to stay sick fer all o' you-uns."

  David looked into her eyes a moment quietly; then he smiled. The way toher heart he saw was through the magic of one name.

  "What did Doctor Hoyle do when he was down here?"

  "Him? They hain't no one livin' like he was."

  Then David laughed outright, a gay, contagious laugh, and after aninstant she laughed also.

  "I agree with you," he said. "But you see, I am a countryman of his, andhe sent me here--he knows me well--and I mean to do as he did, if--Ican."

  He drew in a deep breath of utter weariness, and leaned forward, hiselbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and gazed into the blazingfire. The memories which had taken possession of his soul during thelong ride seemed to envelop him so that in a moment the present wasswept away into oblivion and his spirit was, as it were, suddenlywithdrawn from the body and projected into the past. He had been unableto touch any of the greasy cold stuff which had been offered him duringthe latter part of his journey, and the heat brought a drowsiness on himand a faintness from lack of food.

  "Cass--Cassandry! Look to him," called the mother shrilly, but the girlhad already noticed his strange abstraction, and the small Adam Hoylehad drawn back, in awe, to his mother.

  "Get some whiskey, Sally," said the girl, and David roused himself tosee her bending over him.

  "I must have gone off in a doze," he said weakly. "The long ride andthen this warmth--" Seeing the anxious faces around him, he laughedagain. "It's nothing, I assure you, only the comfort and the smell ofsomething good to eat;" he sniffed a little. "What is it?" he asked.

  Old Sally was tossing and shaking the frying salt pork in the skillet atthe fireplace, and the odor aggravated his already too keen appetite.

  "Ye was more'n sleepy, I reckon," shrilled the woman from the bed."Hain't that pone done, Sally? No, 'tain't liquor he needs; hit'ssuthin' to eat."

  Then the girl hastened her slow, gliding movements, drew splint chairsto a table of rough pine that stood against the side of the room, and,stooping between him and the fire, pulled something from among the hotashes. The fire made the only light in the room, and David never forgotthe supple grace of her as she bent thus silhouetted--the perfect lineof chin and throat black against the blaze, contrasted with the weird,witchlike old woman with roughly knotted hair, who still squatted in theheat, and shook the skillet of frying pork.

  "Thar, now hit's done, I reckon," said old Sally, slowly rising andstraightening her bent back; and the woman from the bed called herorders.

  "Not that cup," she cried, as Sally began pouring black coffee into acracked white cup. "Git th' chany one. I hid hit yandah in th' cornder'hind that tin can, to keep 'em f'om usin' hit every day. I had a hullset o' that when I married Farwell. Give hit here." She took theprecious relic in her work-worn hands and peered into it, then wiped itout with the corner of the sheet which covered her. This Thryng did notsee. He was watching the girl, as she broke open the hot, fragrantcorn-bread and placed it beside his plate.

  "Come," she said. "You sure must be right hungry. Sit here and eat."David felt like one drunken with weariness when he rose, and caught atthe edge of the table to steady himself.

  "Aren't you hungry, too?" he asked, "and Hoyle, here? Sit beside me;we're going to have a feast, little chap."

  The girl placed an earthen crock on the table and took from it honey inthe broken comb, rich and dark.

  "Have a little of this with your pone. It's right good," she said.

  "Frale, he found a bee tree," piped the child suddenly, gainingconfidence as he saw the stranger engaged in the very normal act ofeating with the relish of an ordinary man. He edged forward and sathimself gingerly on the outer corner of the next chair, and accepted ahuge piece of the pone from David's hand. His sister gave him honey, andSally dropped pieces of the sizzling hot pork on their plates, from theskillet.

  David sipped his coffee from the flowered "chany cup" contentedly.Served without milk or sugar, it was strong, hot, and reviving. The girlshyly offered more of the corn-bread as she saw it rapidly disappearing,pleased to see him eat so eagerly, yet abashed at having nothing else tooffer.

  "I'm sorry we can give you only such as this. We don't live like you doin the no'th. Have a little more of the honey."

  "Ah, but this is fine. Good, hey, little chap? You are doing a verybeneficent thing, do you know, saving a man's life?" He glanced up ather flushed face, and she smiled deprecatingly. He fancied her smileswere rare.

  "But it is quite true. Where would I be now but for you and Hoyle here?Lying under the lee side of the station coughing my life away,--and allmy own fault, too. I should have accepted the bishop's invitation."

  "You helped me when the colt was bad." Her soft voice, low andmonotonous, fell musically on his ear when she spoke.

  "Naturally--but how about that, anyway? It's a wonder you weren'tkilled. How came a youngster like you there alone with those beasts?"Thryng had an abrupt manner of springing a question which startled thechild, and he edged away, furtively watching his sister.

  _"Casabianca, was it?" said Thryng, smiling. Page 17._]

  "Did you hitch that kicking brute alone and drive all that distance?"

  "Aunt Sally, she he'ped me to tie up; she give him co'n whilst I th'owedon the strops, an' when he's oncet tied up, he goes all right." The atomgrinned. "Hit's his way. He's mean, but he nevah works both ends tooncet."

  "Good thing to know; but you're a hero, do you understand that?" Thechild continued to edge away, and David reached out and drew him to hisside. Holding him by his two sharp little elbows, he gave him a playfulshake. "I say, do you know what a hero is?"

  The startled boy stopped grinning and looked wildly to his sister, butreceiving only a smile of reassurance from her, he lifted his great eyesto Thryng's face, then slowly the little form relaxed, and he was drawnwithin the doctor's encircling arm.

  "I don't reckon," was all his reply, which ambiguous remark causedDavid, in his turn, to look to the sister for elucidation. She held along, lighted candle in her hand, and paused to look back as she wasleaving the room.

  "Yes, you do, honey son. You remembah the boy with the quare long namesistah told you about, who stood there when the ship was all afiah andwouldn't leave because his fathah had told him to bide? He was a hero."But Hoyle was too shy to respond, and David could feel his little heartthumping against his arm as he held him.

  "Tell the gentleman, Hoyle. He don't bite, I reckon," called the motherfrom her corner.

  "His name begun like yourn, Cass, but I cyan't remembah the hull of it."

  "Casabianca, was it?" said Thryng, smiling.

  "I reckon. Did you-uns know him?"

  "When I was a small chap like you, I used to read about him." Then theatom yielded entirely, and leaned comfortably against David, and hissister left them, carrying the candle with her.

  Old Sally threw another log on the fire, and the flames leaped up thecavernous chimney, lighting the room with dramatic splendor. Thryngtook note of its unique furnishing. In the corner opposite the one wherethe mother lay was another immense four-poster bed, and before it hung acoarse homespun curtain, half concealing it. At its foot was a huge boxof dark wood, well-made and strong, with a padlock. This and the bedsseemed to belong to another time and place, in contrast to the otherarticles, which were evidently mou
ntain made, rude in construction andhewn out by hand, the chairs unstained and unpolished, and seated withsplints.

  The walls were the roughly dressed logs of which the house was built,the chinks plastered with deep red-brown clay. Depending from nailsdriven in the logs were festoons of dried apple and strips of driedpumpkin, and hanging by their braided husks were bunches of Indian corn,not yellow like that of the north, but white or purple.

  There were bags also, containing Thryng knew not what, although he wasto learn later, when his own larder came to be eked out by sundry giftsof dried fruit and sweet corn, together with the staple of beans andpeas from the widow's store.

  Beside the window of small panes was a shelf, on which were a few wornbooks, and beneath hung an almanac; at the foot of the mother's bedstood a small spinning-wheel, with the wool still hanging to thespindle. David wondered how long since it had been used. The scrupulouscleanliness of the place satisfied his fastidious nature, and gave him asense of comfort in the homely interior. He liked the look of the bed inthe corner, made up high and round, and covered with marvellouspatchwork.

  As he sat thus, noting all his surroundings, Hoyle still nestled at hisside, leaning his elbows on the doctor's knees, his chin in his hands,and his soft eyes fixed steadily on the doctor's face. Thus theyadvanced rapidly toward an amicable acquaintance, each questioning andbeing questioned.

  "What is a 'bee tree'?" said David. "You said somebody found one."

  "Hit's a big holler tree, an' hit's plumb full o' bees an' honey. Frale,he found this'n."

  "Tell me about it. Where was it?"

  "Hit war up yandah, highah up th' mountain. They is a hole thar whatwil' cats live in, Wil' Cat Hole. Frale, he war a hunt'n fer a cat. Somemen thar at th' hotel, they war plumb mad to hunt a wil' cat with th'dogs, an' Frale, he 'lowed to git th' cat fer 'em."

  "And when was that?"

  "Las' summah, when th' hotel war open. They war a heap o' men at th'hotel."

  "And now about the bee tree?"

  "Frale, he nevah let on like he know'd thar war a bee tree, an' thenthis fall he took me with him, an' we made a big fire, an' then we cutdown th' tree, an' we stayed thar th' hull day, too, an' eat thar an'had ros'n ears by th' fire, too."

  "I say, you know. There seem to be a lot of things you will have toenlighten me about. After you get through with the bee tree you musttell me what 'ros'n ears' are. And then what did you do?"

  "Thar war a heap o' honey. That tree, hit war nigh-about plumb full o'honey, and th' bees war that mad you couldn't let 'em come nigh ye'thout they'd sting you. They stung me, an' I nevah hollered. Frale, he'lowed ef you hollered, you wa'n't good fer nothin', goin' bee hunt'n'."

  "Is Frale your brother?"

  "Yas. He c'n do a heap o' things, Frale can. They war a heap o' honey inthat thar tree, 'bout a bar'l full, er more'n that. We hev a hull tub o'honey out thar in th' loom shed yet, an' maw done sont all th' rest toth' neighbors, 'cause maw said they wa'n't no use in humans bein' foolhogs like th' bees war, a-keepin' more'n they could eat jes' fertherselves."

  "Yas," called the mother from her corner, where she had been admiringlylistening; "they is a heap like that-a-way, but hit ain't our way herein th' mountains. Let th' doctah tell you suthin' now, Hoyle,--ye mountlarn a heap if ye'd hark to him right smart, 'thout talkin' th' hulltime youse'f."

  "I has to tell him 'bouts th' ros'n ears--he said so. Thar they be." Hepointed to a bunch of Indian corn. "You wrop 'em up in ther shucks,whilst ther green an' sof', and kiver 'em up in th' ashes whar hit'sright hot, and then when ther rosted, eat 'em so. Now, what do youknow?"

  "Why, he knows a heap, son. Don't ax that-a-way."

  "In my country, away across the ocean--" began David.

  "Tell 'bout th' ocean, how hit look."

  "In my country we don't have Indian corn nor bee trees, nor wild catholes, but we have the ocean all around us, and we see the ships and--"

  "Like that thar one whar th' boy stood whilst hit war on fire?"

  "Something like, yes." Then he told about the sea and the ships and thegreat fishes, and was interrupted with the query:--

  "Reckon you done seed that thar fish what swallered the man in th' Biblean' then th'ow'd him up agin?"

  "Why no, son, you know that thar fish war dade long 'fore we-uns warborn. You mustn't ax fool questions, honey."

  Old Sally sat crouched by the hearth intently listening and asking asnaive questions as the child, whose pallid face grew pink and animated,and whose eyes grew larger as he strove to see with inward vision thethings Thryng described. It was a happy evening for little Hoyle.Leaning confidingly against David, he sighed with repletion of joy. Hewas not eager for his sister to return--not he. He could lean foreveragainst this wonderful man and listen to his tales. But the doctor'sweariness was growing heavier, and he bethought himself that the girlhad not eaten with them, and feared she was taking trouble to preparequarters for him, when if she only knew how gladly he would bunk downanywhere,--only to sleep while this blessed and delicious drowsiness wasoverpowering him.

  "Where is your sister, Hoyle? Don't you reckon it's time you and I wereabed?" he asked, adopting the child's vernacular.

  "She's makin' yer bed ready in th' loom shed, likely," said the mother,ever alert. With her pale, prematurely wrinkled face and uncannilybright and watchful eyes, she seemed the controlling, all-pervadingspirit of the place. "Run, child, an' see what's keepin' her so long."

  "Hit's dark out thar," said the boy, stirring himself slowly.

  "Run, honey, you hain't afeared, kin drive a team all by you'se'f. Darkhain't nothin'; I ben all ovah these heah mountains when thar wa'n't onestar o' light. Maybe you kin he'p her."

  At that moment she entered, holding the candle high to light her waythrough what seemed to be a dark passage, her still, sweet face a bitflushed and stray taches of white cotton down clinging to her bluehomespun dress. "The doctah's mos' dade fer sleep, Cass."

  "I am right sorry to keep you so long, but we are obleeged--"

  She lifted troubled eyes to his face, as Thryng interrupted her.

  "Ah, no, no! I really beg your pardon--for coming in on you this way--itwas not right, you know. It was a--a--predicament, wasn't it? Itcertainly wasn't right to put you about so; if--you will just let me goanywhere, only to sleep, I shall be greatly obliged. I'm making you alot of trouble, and I'm so sorry."

  His profusion of manner, of which he was entirely unaware, embarrassedher; although not shy like her brother, she had never encountered anyone who spoke with such rapid abruptness, and his swift, penetratingglance and pleasant ease of the world abashed her. For an instant shestood perfectly still before him, slowly comprehending his thought, thenhastened with her inherited, inborn ladyhood to relieve him from anysense that his sudden descent upon their privacy was an intrusion.

  Her mind moved along direct lines from thought to expression--fromimpulse to action. She knew no conventional tricks of words or phrasesfor covering an awkward situation, and her only way of avoiding aself-betrayal was by silence and a masklike impassivity. During thismoment of stillness while she waited to regain her poise, he, quick andintuitive as a woman, took in the situation, yet he failed to comprehendthe character before him.

  To one accustomed to the conventional, perfect simplicity seems toconceal something held back. It is hard to believe that all is beingrevealed, hence her slower thought, in reality, comprehended him themore truly. What he supposed to be pride and shame over their meagreaccommodations was, in reality, genuine concern for his comfort, andembarrassment before his ease and ready phrases. As in a swift breezeher thoughts were caught up and borne away upon them, but after a momentthey would sweep back to her--a flock of innocent, startled doves.

  Still holding her candle aloft, she raised her eyes to his and smiled."We-uns are right glad you came. If you can be comfortable where we areobliged to put you to sleep, you must bide awhile." She did not say"obleeged" this time. He had not pronounced it so, and he mus
t know.

  "That is so good of you. And now you are very tired yourself and haveeaten nothing. You must have your own supper. Hoyle can look after me."He took the candle from her and gave it to the boy, then turned his ownchair back to the table and looked inquiringly at Sally squatted beforethe fire. "Not another thing shall you do for me until you are waitedon. Take my place here."

  David's manner seemed like a command to her, and she slid into the chairwith a weary, drooping movement. Hoyle stood holding the candle, his wryneck twisting his head to one side, a smile on his face, eying themsharply. He turned a questioning look to his sister, as he stiffenedhimself to his newly acquired importance as host.

  Thryng walked over to the bedside. "In the morning, when we are allrested, I'll see what can be done for you," he said, taking theproffered old hand in his. "I am not Dr. Hoyle, but he has taught me alittle. I studied and practised with him, you know."

  "Hev ye? Then ye must know a heap. Hit's right like th' Lord sont ye.You see suthin' 'peared like to give way whilst I war a-cuttin' light'ud th' othah day, an' I went all er a heap 'crost a log, an' I reckonhit hurt me some. I hain't ben able to move a foot sence, an' I lay outthar nigh on to a hull day, whilst Hoyle here run clar down to Sally'splace to git her. He couldn't lif' me hisse'f, he's that weak; he triedto haul me in, but when I hollered,--sufferin' so I war jes' 'bleeged toholler,--he kivered me up whar I lay and lit out fer Sally, an' she an'her man they got me up here, an' here I ben ever since. I reckon I neverwill leave this bed ontwell I'm cyarried out in a box."

  "Oh, no, not that! You're too much alive for that. We'll see about itto-morrow. Good night."

  "Hoyle may show you the way," said the girl, rising. "Your bed is in theloom shed. I'm right sorry it's so cold. I put blankets there, and youcan use all you like of them. I would have given you Frale's place upgarret--only--he might come in any time, and--"

  "Naw, he won't. He's too skeered 'at--" Hoyle's interruption stoppedabruptly, checked by a glance of his sister's eye.

  "I hope you'll sleep well--"

  "Sleep? I shall sleep like a log. I feel as if I could sleep for a week.It's awfully good of you. I hope we haven't eaten all the supper, Hoyleand I. Come, little chap. Good night." He took up his valise andfollowed the boy, leaving her standing by the uncleared table, gazingafter him.

  "Now you eat, Cassandry. You are nigh about perished you are thattired," said her mother.

  Then old Sally brought more pork and hot pone from the ashes, and theysat down together, eating and sipping their black coffee in silence.Presently Hoyle returned and began removing his clumsy shoes, by thefire.

  "Did he ax ye a heap o' questions, Hoyle?" queried the old womansharply.

  "Naw. Did'n' ax noth'n'."

  "Waal, look out 'at you don't let on nothin' ef he does. Talkin' mayhurt, an' hit may not."

  "He hain't no government man, maw."

  "Hit's all right, I reckon, but them 'at larns young to hold thertongues saves a heap o' trouble fer therselves."

  After they had eaten, old Sally gathered the few dishes together andplaced all the splint-bottomed chairs back against the sides of theroom, and, only half disrobing, crawled into the far side of the bedopposite to the mother's, behind the homespun curtain.

  "To-morrow I reckon I kin go home to my old man, now you've come, Cass."

  "Yes," said the girl in a low voice, "you have been right kind towe-all, Aunt Sally."

  Then she bent over her mother, ministering to her few wants; lifting herforward, she shook up the pillow, and gently laid her back upon it, andlightly kissed her cheek. The child had quickly dropped to sleep, curledup like a ball in the farther side of his mother's bed, undisturbed bythe low murmur of conversation. Cassandra drew her chair close to thefire and sat long gazing into the burning logs that were fast crumblingto a heap of glowing embers. She uncoiled her heavy bronze hair andcombed it slowly out, until it fell a rippling mass to the floor, as shesat. It shone in the firelight as if it had drawn its tint from the fireitself, and the cold night had so filled it with electricity that itflew out and followed the comb, as if each hair were alive, and made amoving aureola of warm red amber about her drooping figure in the midstof the sombre shadows of the room. Her face grew sad and her hands movedlistlessly, and at last she slipped from her chair to her knees and weptsoftly and prayed, her lips forming the words soundlessly. Once hermother awoke, lifted her head slightly from her pillow and gazed aninstant at her, then slowly subsided, and again slept.