A girl of the Blue Ridge

tClje Hibrarp

of tfje

Wini\)tv&itv ofi^ortf) Carolina

Collection of i^ortfj Caroliniana

This book must not
be taken from the
Library building.

Form No. 471

A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

PAYNE ERSKINE

A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

THE EYE OF DREAD

JOYFUL HEATHERBY

THE MOUNTAIN GIRL

WHEN THE GATES LIFT UP
THEIR HEADS

Lury found comfort in the hollow of his arm.
Frontispiece. See Page 211.

A GIRL OF THE BLUE

RIDGE

BY

PAYNE ERSKINE

AUTHOR OF "THE MOUNTAIN GIRL," "THE

n

EYE OF DREAD," ETC.

WITH FRONTISPIECE BY

J. DUNCAN GLEASON

fRm^EMSfl

SwVAD-a3S

BOSTON

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY

1915

Copyright, igi^,
By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved
Published, April, 191 5

Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Gushing Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGB

I. B'ar Waller i

II. The Rhododendron Flower 24

III. The Meeting 31

IV. LuRY ON Guard 45

V. Judgment 59

VI. Daniel McEwen's Hospitality .... 72

VII. The Dog Stands Guard Alone .... 82

VIII. " Dan'l M'Cune has Feelings'' .... 94

IX. Lury's Return 107

X. The King's Highway 115

XL The Sisters 122

XII. School Opens 129

XIII. Daphne 140

XIV. Providence Intervenes 152

XV. Barney's Suggestion 164

XVI. Peg Decides for Herself 172

XVII. A Decisive Blow 186

XVIII. Idealism 198

XIX. Dave and Lury 210

XX. The Arrest 219

XXI. Peg's Way 232

XXII. The Way of Progress 241

XXIII. The "Preaching" .251

XXIV. Lury Learns about Dave . . . . . 263
XXV. Dave's Letter 377

V

VI

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

XXVI. The Verdict 289

XXVII. Daniel's Dilemma 297

XXVIII. Confession 307

XXIX. LuRY Decides . . 313

XXX. Sally Cloud's Message 324

XXXI. The Cove is Deserted 337

XXXII. Dave Plans . 347

XXXIII. Daniel's Gift 355

XXXIV. Love or Duty 363

XXXV. Dave's Awakening ........ 374

XXXVI. Daniel Comes Home 387

A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

CHAPTER I

b'ar waller

The top of Old Abe mountain was covered with a cap
of tumbled, white cloud, as if he had lifted his head sleepily
from an uneasy bed. His aspect was blue and cold, and
all up his rugged slopes the trees glistened and dripped, as
if the very heavens had wept in the night. Old Abe is a
wild, uncivilized mountain, deeply scarred with gorges,
rock-bound and precipitous ; uncivilized but not uninhab-
ited, as paths winding along the steep sides, half hidden
with rank shrubbery, would indicate.

Down one of these paths a mule was slowly descending,
with a careful setting of her small hoofs among the rocks
at each step, as is the way of the wise, cautious mules of
the mountains. She was a sleek, well-fed, and altogether
contented animal, and she might well be, for she was her
rider's best friend ; at least, the mountain people did not
know of his having any other friend, and certainly no friend
could be better treated than her rider treated her.

One sign of this friendship was that no matter how
drunk her rider might be, the mule always took good care
of him. If he reeled and leaned this way and that, the
mule swayed her large body so as to keep him carefully

2 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

balanced; if he fell off, she stood patiently and waited
while he struggled to mount again ; or, if that were impos-
sible, she browsed among the shrubs and awaited her
master's pleasure. She had been known to wait thus all
night long, stamping impatiently, but never leaving the
sleeping man.

This morning her rider was not drunk. He sat his mule
easily, with a lithe grace, yielding to each swing of the ani-
mal with a natural poise that was at the same time erect
and nonchalant, as if the world and all that it contained
were surmounted by him as certainly as was his mule, or
the mountain path, or as Old Abe over-topped the low coun-
try, which he looked down upon from his cloud-capped
eminence.

No sounds were to be heard but those of the wildwood
— varied, interesting sounds, harmonious and pleasant.
High overhead, an eagle swam in air as a fish swims in the
deep, circling widely, far, far to the east, then coming back
with a swoop, near to the mountain top and close to an
overhanging rock that jutted out from the perpendicular
face of the precipice and held a gnarled and twisted bundle
of branches and sticks in its hollow, open to the sun and
wind, yet sheltered by its own isolation and inaccessibiUty.
That was the eagle's nest, and not far from it, separated
from the world also by the barrier of isolation, was the
home of the sleek mule's rider.

Daniel McEwen had always been a law unto himself. {
He asked odds of no one and sought the companionship
of none. Wifeless and childless, he kept his own counsel ;
and his manner of quiet derision and unh6stile aloofness,
an easy, flattering kind of courtesy that disarmed enmity

B'AR WALLER 3

yet betrayed nothing and held his neighbors at bay through
their fear of ridicule, made him the object of their curious
speculation. All his life he had been to them a sort of
question mark. They regarded him with a fascinated awe,
even while pretending to themselves and each other that
they were indifferent to his strangeness. His cabin was
out of their way. Seldom any one passed there, and
never did they visit him; yet continually they argued
among themselves as to his way of living and what he
owned.

Some said he was rich and was afraid to be one of them,
lest they learn how much he possessed and ask help from
him in their poverty. Some said he had left a wife down
in the low country and had come up to the mountain to
get away from her, for some mysterious cause. Some said
he had held a public trust and had made way with the
funds and dared not return; and others said he did not
belong to the low country at all but had been raised over
*' t'other side the mountain", and that because he had
quarreled with his folks he had left his home and lived
on the mountain top, where none of his family could get
to him, just to spite them. These were only a few of the
many rumors about him ; but all inferred a history of great
interest, could it only be known, and a secret reason for
his lonely Hfe.

Yet he came and went freely, avoiding no one, riding his
well-fed mule over to the settlement at Cloud's Mill for
his corn-meal each week, greeting every one he met with
that curious, baffling smile, accompanied by a nod or a
pleasant word in a voice that would touch a chord of interest
in any listener. No one ever dared supplement the word

4 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

of greeting with a question concerning him or his affairs,
no matter what curious thought might be trembHng on their
lips; and while they invariably looked back after him as
they passed, he never turned his head but rode on, uncon-
cerned about them, swaying to the motion of his mule, in
and out among the shadows of the overhanging trees.

Rarely was he disturbed by any human interest other
than those which his own affairs provided, but this morn-
ing, distinct and separate from all other noises, a plaintive
wail came up to him — a lonely, weird Httle call, like
nothing he had ever heard in that wild spot before. He
reined in his mule and waited, his head Kfted ; only the
song of a thrush in a laurel thicket, — only the early twit-
tering of a family of yellow-hammers in a hollow tree near
by; yet he could not be mistaken; there was a human
note in that thread-Hke wail.

He still waited, making no sound. His mule stamped and
pawed to go on. '' Still, Bess," he whispered, and the beast
obeyed. Thus quiet, as if cast in bronze, they waited, the
rider and his mule, then suddenly, as if with a burst that
could no longer be controlled, came a sound of sobbing,
hysterical, unrestrained.

*' Stand, Bess," he commanded, casting the rein over her
neck, and with a bound he was off, striding down the hill-
side toward the spot whence the wail had seemed to come.
As he went crashing through the thick underbrush, the
sound of weeping ceased, but he held on, seemingly drawn
by instinct to the right place. The crying was like that of
a girl, yet what was a girl doing in *'B'ar Waller", miles
away from any cabin, at that early hour? Once within
the memory of those still living at the settlement around

B'AR WALLER 5

Cloud's Mill, a bear had been killed there, and it was
fondly believed that bears were in the habit of going there
to wallow in the hole that was certainly a convenient
rolHng-place for animals of some sort, whether wild or tame,
in the shallows of the stream that was a mountain torrent
whenever it rained and which was always a rapids, except
for these pools, where it paused, seemingly, for intervals
of rest.

Here he quickly found the weeping girl. He stood in
silence for a moment, looking down on her and taking in her
whole appearance, as if he were dazed by the forlorn spec-
tacle. The look of derision disappeared from his face,
and a quiver tugged at the corners of his mouth. His eye-
Kds drooped, giving a look of pecuHar softness to his expres-
sion. She sat on a large, mossy stone, cowering back in a
small cavern of rock, as if she had crawled there to hide.
Her face was swollen with crying, and her eyes still streamed
with tears, although she no longer wept aloud but drew in
short, sobbing breaths through her parted, red lips.

To her breast she hugged a bundle wrapped in an old,
blue gingham apron, and she mechanically swayed her body
back and forth, rocking it in her arms, while she gazed at
Daniel with a frightened stare. Her feet were thrust
into coarse shoes, which were covered with red clay, and
she wore no stockings. Her bare legs were red and bleeding
from the thorns and brambles through which she had
scrambled. Her sleeves were torn, allowing her elbows
to protrude through the rents, and her scant dress was too
short and was ragged and badly mended.

For a long instant they waited thus, gazing straight into
each other's eyes; then slowly Daniel McEwen dropped

6 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

on one knee close to her and touched the bundle of blue
gingham with his finger.

*'What ye got thar?" he said in a hushed voice. Her
heart was beating with frightened thumps, so that he could
see the rapid palpitation through her thin dress and in
the pulse of her slender neck, yet she managed to utter the
one word, her voice only a whisper :

^^Baby.''

** Won't ye 'low me to look at hit?" He spoke very
gently. She hesitated.

''You won't — won't — tech 'im?"

*'I never did hu't a creeter in my Hfe — ef I knowed hit.'*

Reassured, she tremblingly laid the bundle on her knees
and turned back the rag in which it was wrapped. There
lay a naked, new-born baby, beautifully formed, its queer
wrinkled little face working to utter a cry at being thus
roused from sleep. Quickly she covered it and again
rocked it in her arms, cooing to it softly, while the tears
streamed afresh from her eyes.

''Whose babe be this'n ? " His eyes gleamed as he looked
at her again, appraising her size and probable age.

"He be mine."

His long fingers closed around her thin arm, and he felt
it quiver under his touch. "Hu-come you by this babe?"
he demanded, his eyes fixed on hers with h3^notic steadi-
ness.

"He be mine. He be. Leave 'im be weth me. Oh, I
reckon he'll die ! "

"Tell me hu-come you by 'im," he demanded again, in
the same low, steady voice.

"Maw done give 'im to me." She controlled herself

B'AR WALLER 7

«

with a visible effort, then her words poured forth, mingled
with hysterical sobs. "Maw's dade — she's dade — lyin'
thar still an' white, an' the' 's no box to put 'er in. I seed
'er lyin' so — Oh, Gawd, oh, Gawd ! Wisht me an' baby
could die an' He thar weth 'er."

Daniel McEwen slowly reHnquished her arm and stood
with his back toward her; and his face worked like one
perplexed and troubled, but his eyes w^ere dry and hard.
She talked on, as if the stream of her thoughts, like a moun-
tain torrent, could not be stayed now that they had burst
forth.

"Hit's awful to ouah place. They hain't nobody thar
only paw an' Ellen, an' she be'n drinkin', and paw give hit
to her, an' he be'n drinkin', too. Maw's dade — an' — an' —
paw done hit. I seed 'im pull 'er up to git 'im somethin'
to eat, and she died. I seed 'im. I wisht I hed a long,
sharp knife Kke Jim's, an' I'd stick hit into paw's heart an'
laugh whilst I war doin' hit. I'd go down to the still an'
stick hit into 'im whilst he were lyin' thar drunk and laugh
to do hit."

Fiercely she clasped the infant to her breast and swayed
and lulled him, filled with the mother sense, even while her
slight body was torn with her sobs at the remembrance of
the horrors she had passed through. "Thar — thar —
baby, sisteh won't 'low 'im tech you, thar. I seed her dyin'.
She stood thar tryin' to stir up the co'n-meal fer bread, and
she drapped whar she stood — jes' — dade. An' Jim put
'er on the bade, an' kivered 'er weth th' quilt, an' Ht out —
cussin'. I do' know whar he went — likely to fetch ol'
woman Basle. He run an' said they was a raid on, an' the
damned revenues was after us, so him an' Uncle Joe an'

8 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

paw had to hide the worm; an' jes' then maw drapped,
an' Jim laid 'er on the bade, and ran out agin, cussin' like
I said."

She drew the Kttle bundle up, and hid her tear-stained
face in the folds of blue gingham, and rocked and sobbed.
Daniel turned again and looked down upon her ; his eyes
glittered, and his mouth twitched, as he placed his hand on
her tangled head of yellow hair and softly stroked it.

*'Be you Sally Cloud's leetle gal?" he asked. ^'Be yore
name Sally?"

She shook her head. ^' Maw's name were Sally Cloud — ■
fo' she were married. My name's jes' Lury. Lury Bab."
She spoke without lifting her head.

Daniel McEwen's face looked as no man had ever seen it.
The old derisive smile was gone, and his eyes seemed lighted
from an inward fire, like those of a tortured soul, while his
thin lips tightened and drew back from his perfect teeth
as if with a snarl of hatred. His hand pressed harder on
her head and tipped her face up toward his, and as he did
so, his expression softened to one of infinite pity.

*'Hu-come you way off here to B'ar Waller this time th'
mawnin', Lury? Yore clothes is half off'n ye, an' no thin'
on the child."

*'Maw give 'im to me. She hedn't nothin' to put on 'im,
an' ol' woman Basle said she'd bring 'im some clo's, but she
hain't been thar no more, an' maw said, she said: *You
take 'im an' keer fer 'im, Lury. They hain't nobody else
to keer fer 'im. Be good to 'im, Lury, he's yourn.' So he
be mine — Oh, Gawd, he'll die, fer I hain't nothin' to give
'im to eat. Thar, honey, sisteh won't 'low 'im tech you,"
she moaned.

B^AR WALLER

a-

Who be ye feared of."

Paw. The' hain't nobody else to be feared of . Ihearn
'im screech af teh us ; Gawd, how I run — I be'n runnin'
all night, seem like. I run here, f er I knowed ef he come here,
the Lord would sen' b'ars to tear out his damned soul, ef
he come nigh to hurt we-uns. I be more feared o' him
than I be of a hunderd b'ars. Hell fieh'll be too good fer
sich. My legs is all tore up weth th' briehs, an' I don't
keer, ef only I hed suthin' fer to give 'im to eat, only he
cain't eat. I snatched a rind o' bacon fat fer 'im to suck,
but I done los' hit whilst I were runnin' ! Oh, Gawd, he'll
die," she wailed, as a weak little cry struggled out from the
bundle.

''You quit cryin', Lury. I'll he'p ye, an' he'll not die.
Come ! "

He took the bundle from her cHnging arms, loath to
rehnquish it, and lifted her from her seat. She rose stifHy,
as if she were wearied to the Kmit of her strength. He
half carried her along as they climbed the steep hillside
back to the road, where the faithful mule waited; there
Daniel McEwen allowed her to take her precious bundle
again and Kfted her up where no one had ever sat except
himself. The mule shuddered a little and threatened to
rebel, but he quieted her.

''She's only a leetle gal, Bess, like you be. You 'low
her to set. Thar, easy now. Kin ye ride, sis?"

''I reckon, but ouah mule kicks. I kin ride 'er, though."

''Wall, you hold the babe, an' I'll tend to the mule.
She's kind-hearted, when she knows what's wanted of 'er,
but she's the devil to fuss when ye don't explain." He
sKpped his arm through the rein and walked up the road

lo A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

down which he had been riding half an hour before. Bess
followed docilely enough, and Lury, wondering yet com-
forted, held her bundle to her breast and sat easily on the
man's saddle. Evidently she was used to riding the mule
that kicked.

Now and then the babe wailed its pitiful, little cry, and
Lury patted it and cooed to it, as if her tenderness could
save it. She watched furtively lest the man leading the
mule should be angry with the whimpering child. He did
not look back, seemingly wrapped in his own thoughts ;
but once, when her voice went broken and quivering in her
anguished efforts to quiet the little one, he glanced at her
and smiled and spoke comfortingly.

*' Leave 'im cry," he said; *'I reckon hit comes natchel
to a babe to cry. They alius do hit, an' hit shows he's
Kvin'."

"Be you goin' to yore home?" she asked.

"I reckon so. The's no otheh place I kin take ye."

''Will yore ol' woman 'low ye to fetch me to yore house?"

''The's no ol' woman thar to botheh ye. Never ye
fret."

"Be you livin' all alone?"

"Not e'zakly so ; thar's Josephine." The derisive smile
broke over his face and passed.

"Be she kin to you?"

"Not e'zakly. She be the cow."

"Oh! Be you — " She dropped her voice as if she
feared she might be overheard. "Be you Dan'l M'Cune?"
she asked, pronouncing the name as it was pronounced
by all his neighbors on the hills.

"That's my name. Be ye feared to speak hit?"

B'AR WALLER ii

**Naw. Hit^s jes' ouah way, maw's an' mine. When she
spoke yore name, she spoke hit sof Uke, and paw say ef
she say that name, he shore would kill 'er. He neveh say
what fer, an' she neveh say what fer, an' so I neveh heered
why he say hit. I 'lowed 'twas on'y his natchel meanness."

*' I reckon so," said the man and strode on, lost in his own
thoughts.

The road they were traveling had been an old coach line,
winding over the mountains from the valleys of the interior
to the towns lying on the plains extending to the sea. In the
old days, it had been well kept and much traveled, being the
only highway, but since the invasion of the mountains by
railways, enterprise, and steam, it had been used only
by the dwellers of the hills, and as a wagon way had become,
in some places, almost impassable. Little use have the
mountaineers for wheeled vehicles, when on foot or in the
saddle they may take the short cuts, thread their way
among the timber and underbrush, and scramble among
rocks and over them with a wayward and primitive di-
rectness.

By the time they reached the highest point of the ridge,
the sun had risen on the mountain, and they looked down
on the settlement around Cloud's Mill, still sleeping in the
purple shadows. Half-way up the side of Old Abe drifted
lazy clouds like huge puffs of down, now lighted with the
rose tints of the wonderful mountain dawn. In the night
the rain had fallen, adding to the difl5.culty of Lury's flight
from her home in the gorge, making the paths slippery with
mud and hard to find in the darkness. Now the warm sun
dried her scant clothing and warmed her through. Already
the labor and terror of the night were becoming things of the

12 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

past, and with the instinct of youth, she began to hope and
to look forward to her next move in the game of life, —
what she should do, and how she should play it.

They turned off from the old highway and took a nar-
rower path, a mule trail very winding and having steep
ascents and descents, and crossing a rapid little stream of
clear cold water singing its way down to the Little river that
turned Cloud's Mill, which ground their grain for the people
of the hills and also crushed their corn for their sour mash
whiske}^ Thus winding and turning, their general course
was still upward. Here the vegetation was backward
because of the altitude ; and the flaming azalea was still in
bloom, v/hile in the valley the beautiful blossoms had long
since slid down their long pistils and dropped off.

Held in Lury's careful arms and lulled by the swaying
of the mule, the babe had ceased wailing by the time they
reached the clearing where Daniel McEwen's log cabin
stood, completely surrounded by a crooked rail fence, with
no bars or gate. Here he dropped the reins and lifted her
off in his arms, babe and all, and set her over the fence
easily and Kghtly. She seemed so Httle when he had her
in his arms, the poor little waif — so small and helpless —
and when she fixed her eyes on his, childishly old and elflike,
the spirit behind them seemed to be struggling for self-
expression and to be putting into a look more than might be
expressed in words ; the very soul of her looking intently
through those limpid, clear brown depths into his soul and
holding him.

"Go right in thar, an' I'll f oiler ye in a minute. No,
the's nobody thar. You hain't afeared, be ye?"

"I hain't afeared o' nothin' 'ceptin' he mount die. Oh,

B*AR WALLER 13

I'm skeered." The tiny mortal slightly moved in her arms,
and a feeble wail answered her.

^'Thar, now, long's he kin cry, he's not dyin'. Stand,
Bess," he called to the mule, then picking Lury up again,
he carried her into the cabin and laid her on his bed. "Lie
still, thar, an' don't hold the pore leetle feller too clost.
Ye're like to smother 'im. I'll be back in a minute."

She obeyed him through sheer exhaustion and lay staring
around the clean, bare room, watching his every movement
in a way that reminded him of a wounded deer.

Ranged on a small table contrived by a board swung to
the wall by leather hinges and held up by a leg also hinged
to the wall were a few dishes, a very few, all clean and
orderly. He selected a cup and left the room. "Leave
'im cry, an' He still till I come," he commanded, and she
obeyed him.

Soon he returned with a cup of warm milk. "Now we'll
see ef the leetle un has right good sense, fer ef he has, he'll
know what to do."

He fumbled around on some shelves in the comer and
brought forth an old piece of Knen from which he tore off
enough to serve his purpose. This he folded and tied in a
soft little wad and dipped into the milk.

"Thar, now — le' me take the leetle feller. So."

The man's long arms seemed to adapt themselves to their
unusual task as if it were a customary thing for him to tend
on infancy. As he Hf ted the wee morsel in its blue gingham
wrapping, almost might one of his large, slender hands, curved
cupKke, hold it. Lury slipped from the bed and stood
beside him, watching eagerly, but not so eagerly as the babe,
feeling the warm milk pressed against his lips, sucked at the

14 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

rag — sucked and sucked — and then straightened his lit-
tle, naked body in anger when it was removed to be dipped
again in the cup.

''He war perishin' fer hunger," said Lury, kneeling down
and holding one of the tiny little hands. ''My Gawd!
Hain't he sof ' an' weenty ! You reckon at he'll eveh grow
big as you be?"

"I reckon I wa'n't no mo' than what he be oncet. He
has right good sense, too. Now watch him ; how mad he
gits when I take hit f'om 'im. He hain't goin' to 'low this
to git away f'om 'im, be ye, sonny?"

, Thus the two, the proud, self-sufficient man of the moun-
{ tain, who recognized no being on earth higher than himself,
living to himself and for himself, asking odds of none,
gifted with some strange inheritance of savoir /aire which
would have graced a king's courtier or even the king him-
self, and coupling with that gift the true nobleman's in-
■ herent sense of ^^ noblesse oblige ^ ^ ; ignorant, it is true, yet
schooled by the hills and the sky, and the sweet, natural
world all about him to a singular understanding of freedom
and law ; of orderhness despite apparent disorder ; knowing
the true coherence of all the created things around him, so
that now, untaught, he knew how to hold and feed this Kttle,
starving, naked, human thing, and found the sympathy
stirred in his soul sweet to feel ; this man and the child-
woman, soiled and ragged and pinched and worn, kneeling
at his feet and feeling of the baby's Kttle hand, smiling to
find it soft, — these two were each, unknown to themselves,
touching the hem of the Savior's robe and finding the con-
tact thrilling and sweet.

Daniel McEwen looked at the girl's face, the tears

B'AR WALLER 15

scarcely dry on her long lashes, as she knelt there, tenderly
covering the bare limbs of the babe with the old apron in
which she had wrapped him and smiHng to see him take the
rag from which he sucked the milk in his tiny fist and cling
to it.

*'An' he so leetle he don't know nothin' an' can hoF on
like that-a-way. 'Pears like he's not goin' to die ef I kin
make out to get 'im some clo's and somethin' to feed 'im.
I kin get money sometimes, ef — " She stopped and caught
her breath, as if she had said something she regretted.

*' You kin ! Then you be peart. How kin ye git hit?"

She said no more, but glanced up sidewise with a look of
veiled secretiveness very unlike the open gaze of sorrow and
fear with which her eyes had fixed themselves on his there
in Bear Wallow. He noted the change and the firm set
of her lips, and forbore to press the point, though curious
as to her meaning.

"Thar, now he's fallin' asleep, 'cause he's satisfied.
See, his leetle fingers is leavin' go the rag. So, so, thar,
sof now. We'll lay him on the bade an' leave 'im sleep
a while, an' likely you wouldn't mind havin' a bite to eat
yerself . I'll fin' out ef thar's somethin' lef ' — leetle corn
bread or sich."

Very gently the babe was laid on the bed, and Lury
watched with hungry eyes as her rescuer moved about his
clean, bare premises and placed a cake of corn bread on the
table and a jug of molasses. He set a plate before her and
poured molasses generously upon it.

*'Thar, you jes' sop yer bread in that."

She was famished, but had thought nothing of herself
until the food was before her, when she seized upon it as

1 6 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

eagerly as the babe had taken his milk and quite as prim-
itively. She sopped the bread and sucked the molasses
from it and ate Hke one who had always been indifferent
to knives and forks. The man sat on his door-step and
lighted his pipe and smoked and thought. He lifted his
eyes to the sky and watched the eagle coming back with a
long, sweeping circle to her nest in the hollow of the jutting
rock. She had something in her -claws — some small ani-
mal — he could not descry what.

"Hit's the way things is," he said to himself. '^Hit
looks mean, but the leetle creeter would be boim' to die
some way — an' the ol' bird has to feed them as is dependent
on 'er — them leetle birds stretchin' up their hades tow'ds
'er, now — thar ! How they grab at hit ! "

From where he sat, the ledge and the nest were easily seen,
and he would not have shot the birds for a goodly sum in
gold. These creatures in this wild, lonely spot were like
companions to the solitary man. For years they had had
their nest on that crag, and he had watched them in their
daily flight. From time to time he glanced behind him
into his cabin. His mind was on the child and his perplex-
ity as to what he must do with her.

Presently he rose and entered, knocking the ashes from
his pipe against the door frame as he walked in. Having
wiped the last bit of the molasses from the plate, leaving it
clean, Lury was picking up the crumbs from her lap and
the table around the plate. Never had he known his corn
bread to disappear so neatly and so completely. He
handed her a tin dipper.

*'I reckon ye mount be wantin' a drink," he said.
"You'll find some water I jes' drawed in the bucket."

B'AR WALLER 17

She took it silently and went out to the well and drank
deeply of the cold, clear water. He had laid a towel over the
curb. She looked down at her soiled hands and knew what
he would have her do, and proceeded quickly to wash her
hands and tear-stained face. Then she slipped her feet out
of her muddy shoes and likewise washed her scratched and
bleeding legs and blistered feet, and leaving the shoes at
the well, returned barefooted and slid into the cabin with a
shy glance up at him that was at once pretty and unex-
pected.

As she stood before him, digging one toe into a knot-
hole in the floor, he regarded her earnestly, apart from
his interest in the babe. When she again raised her eyes
to his, he stooped and looked steadily into them, then
moved by what feeHng he did not know, he seated himself
on his one chair, and taking her by the arm, pulled her to
his side.

"Thar, now we'll talk a leetle. How old be ye?"

"Fo'teen."

He started and looked at her earnestly again. ''Ye
reckon so?"

''Maw say I be fo'teen, las' month, an' I be fo'teen."

" Of co'se yore maw knows, but ef you had said ten, I'd 'a
believed ye. Now you tell me ev'y thing about hit. I'll
neveh do you a hurt, no, not for nothin' on earth. Jes'
think back an' tell me ev'y thing ye kin remember and ev'y
thing ye know."

She stood silent for a moment, trying to bring her mind
to respond to his wish, but as she thought of the night that
had just passed, all else left her, and sobbing, she sank to
the floor at his side. Her tears flowed afresh as she rocked

i8 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

back and forth, her arms over her eyes, and her elbows pro-
truding through her torn sleeves. He waited a little,
leaning over her with his elbows on his knees and his brows
drawn in perplexity ; then he placed his hand on her head
and turned her face up to his, as before.

*'What made ye run away so far?"

" Paw said he'd kill the baby an' me, too. I seed 'im go
out fer the ax, an' I run — Gawd, how I run ! "

"He were drunk, I reckon."

''He's awful bad when he's drunk."

"I reckon so."

*' An' maw's dade — oh, oh ! she's dade. I seed 'er lyin'
thar so still an' white ! I'm skeered to go home. I'm
skeered I'll see 'er again, an' they hain't no box to put 'er
in — she's jes' lyin' thar. Oh, Gawd ! oh. Gawd ! I
hain't no place to go ; I'm skeered to go home — "

*'Hush, Lury, listen at me. I hain't goin' to 'low no hu-
man bein' tech ye nor hurt ye, nor baby, neither. Be ye
hearkin' ? I'm goin' down the mountain, to take my co'n
to Cloud's Mill, an' you bide here ontwel I come back.
You'll be a heap safer here than you'd be at B'ar Waller
settin' on a stone, let alone havin' milk fer the babe."

A singular beauty crept into her face, the same wild,
haggard beauty he had recognized when he found her.
She seized his hand and pressed it to her tear- wet cheek,
then clasped it to her breast in an abandon of passionate
response to his kindness. His face turned crimson under
the brown tan, although he did not draw his hand away
but allowed it to lie passively in her grasp, with a delicate
comprehension of her nature; knowing that to seem to
give her the slightest rebuff would silence her and keep

ii

B'AR WALLER 19

her from unlocking her heart to him, as he was deter-
mined she should do. He knew well that she had the art
of concealment, learned by experience, but he rightly
judged that it was not inherent, and that she would be
frank by nature when she dared. He felt instinctively how
her starved soul hungered for love. He had not lived
a solitary man for nothing.

''Will ye bide here an' not run away ag'in?"
I'll do whateveh you tell me," she sobbed.
Then I tell ye to bide here a bit. Can ye milk?" She
nodded. " Good ! I'll take ye out an' make ye 'quainted
with Josephine. When yore baby wakes up, you leave
him cry a leetle, while you go out an' milk half a cup of warm
milk fer 'im, an' give hit to 'im like I showed ye. Then
ef he cries fer mo', give 'im a leetle wateh, an' make 'im hush
jes' that-a-way. Don't give 'im no mo'n what I tell ye.
I hevn't raised calves fer no thin'. I've raised baby pigs
that-a-way, too, when they come pindUn', an' puppies, too.
I reckon a sound leetle human hain't so turrible dif'unt."

Again she nodded, still clasping his hand and caressing it.

''Now as fer you — kin ye make co'n bread?"

"I reckon."

"So? Then they's meal an' salt an' hxin's yandah on
the shelf, an' meat, too, if ye like to fry a leetle ; an' they's
matches fer lightin' a fiah, an' kindlin' outside the do'.
Be ye shore ye kin do fer yerse'f, or shall I cook a leetle
fer ye 'fore I leave? Ye hain't bigger'n a skeeter."

"I kin cook. Maw teached me. She hed to, fer Ellen's
mostly porely an' pow'ful weak with a hurtin' in 'er side."

"Who's Ellen?"

" She's Jim's wife. Jim's my uncle or cousin — I cain't

20 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

rightly say which — on'y he he's kin to we-uns, maw
say."

''I reckon he's Jim Furman. The Furmans is kin to
the Babs. You'll be safe here. 01' Abe'U take keer of
ye."

^'Whobehe?"

''He be th' mountain. He takes keer o' me — don't ye
reckon? Now you leave go my han', leetle sis, fer I must
git off. I reckon I'll go roun' by yore place, an' you tell me
— quit cryin' — tell me hain't they nobody thar you like
to sen' some word to?"

''They hain't nobody but Dave, an' he's not thar. He
went oveh t' otheh side the mountain with a load, an' he
won't be back fo' two days. Ef he hed been thar, they
wouldn't nothin' hev happened, fer he'd 'a' kilt paw 'fo'
he'd low'd him tech maw er me. He done tol' me he'd
kill paw some day, an' I reckon he will."

He be Dave Turpin, I reckon. Be he kin to you-uns ? "
No, he jes' live thar. He hev no kin. I beam ol'
woman Basle say he hev' no kin, fer he were a love chil'."

"I reckon so." The old, derisive smile played about his
lips.

"I wisht I were sich, fer my kin's awful mean to me, all
'cept maw, an' now she's dade." Again her tears flowed,
but he hastened to turn her thoughts.

" Come along out here, an' I'll make ye acquainted with
Josephine," he said.

He bent over the bed and looked again at the sleeping
infant lying there pitifully naked but for the old apron, and
a certain womanly instinct natural to men of finest quality
and to the manliest, stirred within him and taught him

B'AR WALLER 21

what to do. He stooped and drew a large box out from
under the bed, and took from it a soft old sheet of moun-
tain homespun, coarse and heavy, but of loose weave and
not by any means harsh to the touch. This he tore across
and across, making four large squares. Then he fumbled
in the box and pulled from the bottom a worn patchwork
quilt, which he spread out on the floor, and with his big
hasp knife he cut it across in the same way.

''This'll serve the babe ontwel ye kin git some of that
money ye was speakin' about. Here's whar I do my hand
sewin'. I be beholden to nobody on this earth, not even a
woman, to do my leetle jobs. I does 'em myse'f, or they
neveh do be done." He lifted a cover from a box beside
the table and took therefrom a little mountain basket,
woven in the melon pattern and shape peculiar to the hills,
wherein were great needles and coarse thread and fine cotton
yarn in balls.

"You jes' set here an' sew the aidge o' these pieces what
I've cut off, oveh an' oveh, so the cotton won't come out,
like that-a-way. Then you wrop 'im in them sof ol' sheet
pieces and lay these here ol' quilts oveh 'im an' round 'im,
an' I reckon he'll do well ontwel ye kin make out to git
aholt o'some o' that money ye was tellin' ye could git." He
glanced at her as he again referred to it, and saw the same
secretive look between narrowed Kds, gHnting through her
beautifully curved lashes as she furtively looked, not at
him but past him.

'^Afteh ye have 'im wropped in them clean pieces, ye
mount wash what he has on 'im now thar in the trough by
the well, an' ye'll fin' the soap yandah on the winder-sill.
Ye may need hit, 'thout ye kin git that thar money quick,

22 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

fer he's goin' to grow pow'ful when he gits started oncet.
Calves an' pigs is that-a-way."

*'He ain't no calf nor no pig. He's a human."

"I reckon so. Well, how about that money, anyway?
You tell me hu-come you git hit, an' you tell me quick."
He turned on her with such sternness that she shrank back
quivering, but her Hps only closed tightly.

Again he tried gentleness. "Do Dave give hit to ye —
fer — "

"Dave do' know nothin' 'bouts hit."

"Who do ye git hit f'om?"

"I do' know."

"Jes' — anybody what comes along? Do you git hit
from sich?" Into his eyes had crept a sadness along with
the sternness, and she looked in his face and saw something
that caused her to cease quivering and speak frankly.

"They is nobody on earth knows how I come by hit, but
I done got five dollahs hid, er mo'n five, an' I cain' spen' hit,
'thout they take hit from me an' lick me fer gettin' hit. I
'lowed I'd wait ontwel I could git a lot, an' then I'd steal
maw off on the railroad an' we'd neveh come back, an'
now maw's dade." Again she cried out her pitiful wail.

"Thar, now you hush, an' come with me. We'll git
'quainted with Josephine," which at last they did, stroking
the cow's smooth sides and giving her tufts of long grass,
as she stood gazing at them over the crooked rail fence at
the back of the cabin, closing and opening her great soft
eyes, and slowly chewing her cud.

"This here's Lury, Josephine. She wants a leetle milk
fer the babe oncet in a while, an' you give hit to 'er when
she come fer hit, will ye? See 'er how she's lookin' at ye,

B'AR WALLER 23

jes* as kind an' gentle. You stroke 'er along the side, so,
an' she'll let ye git the milk stiddy an' quiet."

Lury put her arms around Josephine's neck and stroked
and petted her, and Daniel McEwen walked oE toward the
mule, smiling his old smile and communing with himself.
Then Lury went back to the cabin and stood in the doorway
looking after him. He waved his hand to her.

*'Bide right thar ontwel I come back, an' don't ye be
skeered o' nothin', fer they hain't nothin' to hurt ye nigh
my place," he called to her.

CHAPTER II

THE RHODODENDRON FLOWER

Daniel McEwen descended the mountain, but not by
the way he had set out in the early dawn of that day. He
kept to the old coach road but a short distance; then,
where an enormous chestnut tree had fallen, almost block-
ing the way — a tree which had lain thus undisturbed for
twenty years and was like to lie thus, gradually returning
to its native soil, for twenty years longer — he guided Bess
around a mass of rhododendron that quite concealed a nar-
row track beyond its impenetrable barrier. The trail he
took wound almost parallel with the road, but below it, for a
long distance, then began a more sudden descent, skirting
the steep sides of a gorge that was so narrow and so shut
in by giant trees of balsam and spruce-pine, or hemlock,
and so secluded and wild, that oialy bear and wild-cat were
supposed to penetrate its depths.

A mountain stream tumbled and foamed over the rocks
at its bottom, rushing on as it had been doing for ages,
cutting its channel deeper and tearing continually at its
walls like some undying spirit eternally chained in and
eternally struggling to break loose, yet grown used to its
fetters until it had learned to find a certain joy in the strife
and in its own mad power. Therefore it took its way sing-
ing as it leaped and swirled and laughed in the sunlight
that sifted down through over-arching boughs, as who
should say: ''Oh, you trees who tower above me and look

THE RHODODENDRON FLOWER 25

down upon my prison, I am less bound than you, for you are
chained to the earth and must one day return to feed other
trees with your own decay, while I shall yet be free, to rise
and float above you and to descend upon you from the
heavens. I, who seem to be chained and to forever descend,
shall yet be free as the wind that sings in your tops ; while
you, who seem to be forever ascending, shall fall low and
know the song of the winds no more. Therefore will I in
pity fling out to you my sparkling drops to feed and water
your roots, lest you famish where you stand and die before
your time."

Gradually descending, Bess kept her careful way, plant-
ing her small hoofs between the rocks and feeling in the soft
clay for firm foothold before trusting herself to the yielding
surface. Her rider sat easily, one with her in every supple
movement, bending beneath low-hung boughs and leaning
toward every sharp curve, yet apparently oblivious of her
and all about him, as if long habit had made him so familiar
with the way as to enable him to ride through its labyrinth
unseeing. Riding thus, absorbed in his thoughts and lost
to all but some inward vision, his face assumed a look of
gravity, and with it an unusual beauty.

Although he was going deeper and deeper into the gorge,
he was not descending greatly ; it was the hills on either side
which were rising higher the farther he penetrated among
them ; and now he came upon a place that seemed to be a
sort of pocket, a widening of the gorge itself, where there
was room for level patches of corn on one side or the other
of the stream. Here he guided his mule across to the far-
ther side of the Httle river and allowed her to swing her
nose in the clear, cold water.

26 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

As he sat, he lifted his eyes to an enormous rhododendron
that hung over the stream, spreading its great clusters of
splendid white blossoms only faintly touched with pink, out
to the light. Here the sun might touch the blossoms only
a part of each day, and for the rest they bloomed alone in
the shade, making beauty in the wilderness for the joy of
the Creator and for any lover of sohtude and nature.

He reached up and carefully broke off a cluster that hung
near, invitingly fragrant and perfect, and turned it about,
looking at the velvety under side of the stiff leaves that
bulwarked its deUcacy about, and into the heart of each
flower, out of which came the fine, threadlike filaments and
the fairy wands of stamens and pistils, dusted at their tips
with the wonderful Hfe germs of pollen.

*' Now look thar — how that thar's made. They hain't a
human livin' 'at could make a thing the like o' that. Hit's
like she were oncet, an' now she be'n done to death. Come
up, Bess." The mule looked around at him, the clear water
dripping from her sensitive nose. She stretched out her
head and fumbled with her lips at the beech leaves drooping
over her. ''Ye hev to move on, Bess."

He turned her up the stream a short distance and then
climbed the steep bank, following the windings of the stream
a little farther, then took a path that led him into a cove
which seemed like a branch of the gorge he had been travers-
ing. Here were signs of human habitation in the form of a
few old, moss-covered apple-trees grown thick with sucker
shoots. A few small, green apples were already formed on
them, which Bess tried to nibble as she passed. There,
under a giant blackheart cherry-tree, he tied her and
walked on.

THE RHODODENDRON FLOWER 27

She turned her head, nickering after him. "Stand,
Bess. I'm comin' back to ye."

A great granite rock loomed high above him, making the
cabin on the other side of it look smaller than it really was.
The cabin indeed was a large one, with log additions that had
been built from time to time in a rambhng way, as if they
had grown of themselves out of the parent cabin without
human aid. It was a haphazard sort of habitation, and
weeds were growing all about as if it were a home that had
been long deserted, yet paths showing frequent use led this
way and that away from the door.

He took one of these paths, and a hog wallowing behind
a shrub under the bank jumped out with a startled grunt
and scuttled off among the laurel. Beyond the house, as
wild as the jungle fowl from which they sprang, a few pheas-
ant-like chickens, rich red and golden brown in color,
cackled and fluttered away at his approach. The window
spaces were unglazed, and their shutters hung wide open ;
the door also was open, and an old dog, neither mastiff,
shepherd, nor hound, yet hinting somewhat of each, crept
out from under the house and slowly drew near, regarding
him intently and sniffing at his legs.

Daniel McEwen stooped and patted his head. "Pore
beast critter, be ye mo'nin' fer her?" he said and entered
the cabin, — then stopped and drew in a long breath through
lips that trembled.

The chimney-place loomed black and empty before him,
and unwashed cooking utensils of the simplest, all cold and
covered with grease, with half eaten scraps still in them,
lay about in the ashes as they had been used. The dog
sniffed at them as if even he found their contents unpala-

28 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

table, then turned and walked out in the sunshine, and
again crawled under the cabin, where he lay whining.

On an old, four-poster mahogany bed in the corner, a
splendid waif out of the dim past, much scratched and
marred, under a homespun counterpane that had once been
white, lay a wasted form, long and so sKght as scarcely to
lift the covering above the level of the bed. Soft, pale
brown hair waved back from the waxen face, just as it had
fallen, not as if arranged by any careful hand, leaving the
brow bared. It was a broad, smooth brow, looking in death
as if it had not suffered, but about the mouth were Hnes of
sorrow deeply traced. In another corner of the large room
was another bed, a rude, home-made affair, on which lay a
dark-haired, low-browed woman in a state of unconscious-
ness and complete abandon. One foot hung over the edge
of the bed, and the unlaced shoe had dropped from it to the
floor. One arm was thrown over her head, and the ragged,
brown calico sleeves had slipped back to her shoulder,
leaving it bare. Her dress was open at the breast, and a
babe, apparently a year old, lay at her side also heavily
sleeping, evidently having crawled there and taken un-
bidden his natural sustenance and then rolled back in a
half-drugged sleep.

Daniel McEwen stood there, taking in every wretched
detail; the rickety, splint-bottomed chairs of mountain
make, each holding its burden of ragged, unwashed clothing ;
the pair of black trousers on the floor, the ''galluses" at-
tached ; and on the foot of the drunken woman's bed, the
black coat lying as it had been thrown, the post protruding
through a hole in the sleeve. Great footprints of heavy
boots loaded with red mud crossed the floor to the fireplace

THE RHODODENDRON FLOWER 29

and back, and smaller prints of a man's long, bare foot also
stained the floor, as if it had walked through soft, red clay ;
and the tracks of hounds, were here, there, and everywhere
over the worn, uneven boards.

For a long, dazed moment his eyes roved over the place,
instinctively avoiding the mahogany bed in the far corner ;
then with light, stealthy steps he crossed the floor as if the
dead might be wakened too rudely and stood beside it.
The thin eyehds with their long, brown lashes were only
partly closed. He gently pressed his finger upon them and
touched the waving, pale brown hair. It held no streak of
gray, and was soft as the finest floss.

''Pore leetle gal, pore leetle gal, they done ye to death at
las','' tie murmured.

He still held the rhododendron flower in his hand, and he
looked from the dead face to it and again at the face. Now,
like chiseled, yellowed marble, it held in its perfect Knes a
singular and fascinating beauty and what it might have been
in happy days, when the parted lips smiled, and the eyes
opened and glowed with light from the soul ; what marvel-
ous charm might lie in the delicate skin tinted with the
roses of health could only be dreamed of, but certainly the
face, as well as the mahogany bed where the wasted form
lay, was a waif from the past, a jewel that had lost its
setting.

''I reckon I best leave 'the dead bury ther dead'; but
she wern't never theirn, nohow." He straightened his tall
form and looked through the open window space to the top
of Old Abe, blue as sapphire after the night's rain. " Least-
ways, she's not here, an' she mount be up thar.'* He moved
toward the door, then glancing again at the flower in his

30 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

hand, he stepped softly back to the bedside and laid it on
the dead woman's breast.

The lean old mongrel, still whining and whimpering,
crept out from under the house and followed at his heels
until he mounted his mule and rode away, but this time he
did not notice it, nor stoop to pat its head.

CHAPTER III

THE MEETING

The village around Cloud's Mill was called '^ The Settle-
ment." It had no other name. The little frame houses
and cabins were scattered about in a hit-or-miss way, as if
they had been thrown down by some giant hand, as v;orn is
scattered to fowls, falling where they might on hillock,
knoll, or hollow, or hanging on to steep ledges. They all
had lodged in such fashion as to be able to look over at, or
down upon, or up to each other, as the case might be.

Thus every one in the village could see almost into his
neighbors' doors, or windows, if they had them, and know
all about their goings and comings, their visitings and
gossipings, their courtings or snubbings, their quarrelings
and janglings ; whatever, in fact, interested one, interested
all, and all knew the affairs of each, in such a way as to
make the place exactly what it was called — ''The Settle-
ment" — a little community so bound up in themselves and
their own hillsides that to them there was no large, outside
world, and no other interests, and no need for any.

In the Settlement was neither school nor church. Very
few of the settlers could either read or write, and those few
were regarded by their neighbors with more or less covert
suspicion. Yet a curiosity about human affairs caused the
men to gather around the one or two who took a weekly
county paper, when the paper arrived at the Settlement

32 • A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

post-office and store, to listen to such bits as the solons
could extract by slow reading and dole out to them.

Whatever necessities of life they could not raise, or make,
or do without, they obtained by an occasional trip to the
nearer towns in the low country, in their long, canvas-
covered wagons, drawn by slow-going oxen or by mule team.
In these wagons they carried various mountain products
for sale or barter ; anything from a patchwork quilt to a jug
of corn whisky, — hidden among the fodder for their team,
— or a side of pork or quarter of mutton, or baskets of
splint or willow, or wooden spoons and bowls rudely shaped
by jackknife and chisel.

Not all had a means of conveyance for these trips, hence
those who had, when they were minded to go down the
mountain, would carry for their neighbors, gathering along
their route here a peck of onions, there a few eggs or a
chicken, a sack of potatoes, or a watermelon, or even a few
yards of cotton, homespun toweling, or a hank of woollen
yarn. Seldom were these trips made regularly or at stated
intervals, but that was not necessary when every family
in the Settlement knew when the team was being ''hooked
up", and the fodder being placed in the wagon.

Never was the trip made in a day and back ; sometimes
even three or four days would be consumed in the slow prog-
ress, as the traveler stopped to exchange news at each home
and gossip with every acquaintance on the road. So at
night-fall, near some stream or spring by the roadside, the
wagon would stop, the team be ''unhooked", led to water,
and fed, a fire lighted close by, and supper prepared over
it. Then the man would creep under his patchwork quilt
and sleep on the fodder in the wagon. Often the whole

THE MEETING 33

family would be along, and sometimes a father would take
one of his little sons for company.

The Settlement was a regular stopping-place for such
wagons, and the one primitive store and post-office combined
depended on them to bring up its supplies, — such neces-
sities as tobacco and snuff and coffee, brown sugar, and
molasses, and patent medicines, liniments, salves, and
bitters. Then there were the things women needed. They
no longer spun the warp for their weaving but bought it
on large reels. It saved them a world of labor and gave
them more time to sit in their cabin doors with their snuff-
sticks in their mouths, and gossip.

It was about the noon hour of the same day that Daniel
McEwen had found Lury Bab in B'ar Waller that he en-
tered the store and stepped behind the counter where the
case of post-boxes were and took out his paper. He was one
of those who was able to read, and he never failed to come
for the Ccunty News. He folded and refolded the paper
until he had made it into a small wad, which he placed in
his hip pocket ; then he selected tobacco, one or two large
twists which it v/as his habit to crush into his pipe, or chew
if he preferred. Sauntering through the store, he looked
into a cracker box which stood back of the scales and
foimd it empty.

"What's 'come of yore cob pipes ? " he asked. It was the
first word he had spoken since he had entered.

Comp Ross, the storekeeper and postman, looked up
from imder bushy, red eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead
across in deep creases and drawing his heavy, overhanging
thatch of russet hair forward with a peculiar jerk as he
did so.

34 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"Them's done be'n tuk. I hain't hed no chanct fer to
git up any mo', for the' 's be'n sech a row goin' on bout's
th' raiders. Hain't nobody what dars to go down th'
mountain, I reckon." He leaned over a woman who was
standing before him fingering a bolt of red calico and asked
the professional question of merchants the world over,
without which no purchase is ever made. *'Nothin' else,
mam ? "

The woman glanced sidewise at Daniel, concluded there
was more she would like to consider, and asked for blue
caKco in the place of the red. ''Ef ye got any blue 'at'U
wash, I'll best look at hit," she said.

Ross turned to take out a bolt of blue cotton, and the
woman leaned against the counter and watched McEwen,
who still searched among the empty boxes and half-filled
barrels in the back of the store.

"Be they anythin' pertic'lar ye mount be lookin' fer,
M'Cune?" said Ross with friendly intonation.

"I be lookin' fer a skunk trap, an' I reckon I'd like to
git a blue one, ef ye nev sich," was the slowly drawled
reply.

The woman frowned and turned again to the much
whittled counter and fingered the blue calico, holding it up
to the light and chewing at a corner to see if the color would
run, while Daniel McEwen sauntered to the door and stood
there looking out.

"I be'n lookin' fer Dave Turpin along to-day or to-
morrer. He said he'd fetch me up some o' them thar pipes.
They was a couple o' fellers along lookin' out whar to make
th' new road. Ef ye look in yore papeh, ye mount fin'
somethin' in hit 'bouts what they is doin', don't ye guess?

THE MEETING 35

They done tuk the las' cob pipe I hed, an' I mus' 'a' hed a
dozen, I reckon."

''Yandah be Dave, pullin' up th' las' rise, an' his mules
lookin' like they hed gone fer enough."

''I hain't through yit," said the woman, as Ross started
for the door, "an' I be turr'ble driv. I got to git a few
molasses."

" Whar's yer bucket?" asked Ross irritably.

"I done forgot to bring hit. Hain't ye got a ol' grease
bucket or somethin' what ye c'n loan me ? I mus' hev the
'lasses." She leaned heavily on the counter and looked
loweringly at McEwen's back.

"How many ye want?" asked Ross, as he hunted behind
the counter. ''Here be a gallon jug. Hit's be'n used fer
licker, but that won't hurt the 'lasses none."

''Wall, ye mount 'low me to take hit. I want quite a
few, an' I'll fetch hit back to-morrer, likely."

Then came the clug-clug of the molasses as it flowed
thickly into the jug, and presently the woman went away.
Passing McEwen, she did not look up and only nodded at
his pleasant "Good day, mam." But as she took her
crooked path to her cabin in a hollow lower down, she
glanced back at his imperturbable profile outlined against
the dark interior of the store.

"Wall, he be quare," she said.

Now the canvas-covered wagon which McEwen had spied
drew slowly up and stopped under a monstrous white oak
that stretched its great, twisted branches over the store and
the road and the wide square of hard, bare earth in front.
Howdy, Dave," said Daniel, and Dave responded
Howdy, M'Cune," looking out from under the arching

36 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

hood of the wagon and peering around, up and down the
empty village street.

''Howdy, Dave," said Ross, slouching out to him. *' Any
news?"

''Wall, I reckon so. Listen here. The's a lot o'
rev'nues 'at's goin' to make a clean-up in Dark Corner
this night. I reckon Bab an' the hull dam crew'll be
ketched this time, an' I don't 'low to be thar. I hed got
shet o' my hull load an' come up 'roun' on tother side o'
Woodville, when th' darn fools set on me to see did I carry
any licker. I toF 'em ev'ybody know'd me, *at I neveh
hev nothin' to do weth them as teches licker, an* I tu'ned
loose my wagon to 'em. They 'low'd I c'd set 'em on some
secret trail to git into Dark Corner onbeknownst, an' I
set 'em one."

He paused, and his dark eyes looked intently into those
of Daniel McEwen, and his red lips drew back in a boyish,
rollicking smile, showing even, white teeth. He stepped
down from his seat and stroked the flank of his mule, as he
stood facing the two men, and swung his broad shoulders
with a swagger.

" Gawd a'mighty ! I be'n settin' thar undeh thet hood,
makin' out I were too peaceable to even stan' on my feet,
ontwel I cain't ha'dly git the twist out 'n my laigs. An'
I done worked them pore mules up this side the mountain
ontwel they be like to perish."

He began to unhitch the traces, clanking the chains on
the ground, and talked on. "I reckon we cain't coimt
much on their keepin' to the road I sont 'em, fer they mount
ask some damned party what hain't in ouah favor much.
They is sich."

THE MEETING 37

''Reckon ye betteh bide 'long o' we-uns?'^ asked Ross.

'' Ef hit be all the same to you, hit's agreeable to me. Ef
they come 'long here an' fin' my wagon and my mule critters
stompin' and feedin' in yore yard, hkely they'll see fer
therselves 'at what I tol' 'em is true, 'at I'm livin' here an'
haulin' fer ye."

*'I reckon so. Jes' you lead 'em 'roun' thar. My
fodder'U do ye as well as yourn. Leave yourn be here an'
tie 'em in the shed 'hind the store."

Then Dave walked away, leading his weary, sweating
mules around to the sheds back of the store, and Daniel
McEwen and Comp Ross were left alone, facing each other.
Daniel smiled, as he looked over the cabins scattered about,
to see how suddenly the incoming wagon had brought a
show of life to the Settlement. Sunbonneted women and
bareheaded and barefooted children, slouching men, and
scantily clad boys and girls appeared, trailing along the
diverging paths in all directions.

Wall, I reckon I'll be goin'. Ye got any Hcker handy ? "
Not right handy, no. You go on up the trail, — be ye
goin' by Cloud's Mill? So. Then ye may find a jug
somewher's thar, nigh a notched sweet-gum off somewhere's
tow'ds yer right afteh ye cross the branch. Hit may hev
licker in hit, an' hit may not."

Daniel felt in his pocket and drew out two silver coins,
which he dropped in Compton Ross's palm without looking
at them. He lifted his soft felt hat to one or two women
who were passing. "Wall, I reckon I betteh be goin', an'
pay ye now fer thet tobacco. Good day." He swung
off with leisurely stride, and soon he and Bess were climb-
ing back up the mule path towards Cloud's Mill, where

38 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

he had left his sack of com for grinding an hour or more
before.

Some one was climbing the path ahead of him, he knew
by the set of Bess's ears, although he saw no one. Presently
she started and shied as a rolling stone rustled through the
brush above her and crossed her path. Whoever it was had
left the trail and was cutting straight up through the laurel
in careless haste.

"Whar be Dave goin', this plum fool way?" he asked
himself and urged Bess to a rapid walk. " Git on, Bess.
Ye hain't af eared o' sich a fool boy, git." Bess broke into
a trot, and soon they were above the cHmber as the path
woimd and turned upon itself, and Dave appeared shoulder-
ing his way upward, apparently unheeding their presence.

His face was pale with fatigue and exertion, and his hair,
matted and damp, fell heavily over his forehead. He
carried his old black felt hat in his hand, and his homespun
shirt clung to his lean, huge frame as wet as if he were emerg-
ing from a stream.

"Howdy," said Daniel McEwen.

"Howdy," said Dave.

" 'Pears like you be in right smart of a hurry."

"I be," said Dave, offering no further explanation, yet
he stood without making any move to go on.

"We-all knows each otheh here on these mountains, an'
I 'low we Stan's by one anotheh, but will you tell me hu-
come you thar 'long o' Lee Bab? You know's me, Dan'l
M'Cune." A dark flush spread over the younger man's face.

"Oh, I'm frien'ly. I neveh do be givin' any of ouah
mountain people away. You reckon the officers kin find
the Cove? Ef they do, the's Hkely to be trouble."

THE MEETING 39

"Yas, I reckon, an' likely the'll be mo' trouble fer who
hev tol' 'em how to git thar. Hit'll be hell fer sich."

"Look here, lad, you be a coon dawg a-barkin' up the
wrong tree. I'm willin' to he'p ye, but I thought I'd say
to ye 'at ye'd betah keep whar ye won't hev to go on the
chain gang. Be ye goin' up thar now?"

" I be. I be goin' to he'p the women an' chil'en git away.
Ther'll be some shoo tin' an' killin', fer they be ready fixed
fer doin' damage, an' thet means hell fer th' women. I'll
give warnin' an' carry them down as can come, an' the
men thar can stan' fer therselves.'.'

"Be ye lowin' to take 'em to Cloud's place?"

" She be kin to ol' man Cloud, but he's thet pizen mad at
her fer marryin' 'gainst him, they hev no doin's together. I
'lowed I'd likely git ol' woman Basle to keer fer the women,
down to the Settlement. Ef only I kin git thar befo' the
officers fin' out the trail, but they be hot fer hit, I tell ye. I
hearn 'em talkin' how they were goin', an' I see they had the
right scent, but I th'owed 'em off all I could."

**Bes' thing to cl'ar the Cove an' leave 'em satisfy ther-
selves huntin'. Then leave 'em cool off fer a spell. I'll
'low ye to ride Bess up thar, an' likely ye kin fetch th' mule
back's fer as the mill, whar I'll wait fer ye. You'll mebbe
fin' things some dif 'unt from what ye mount think. I cain't
say 'at I'm right friendly with Lee Bab myse'f, but I hain't
nothin' 'gainst women, nohow." He dismounted and made
the young man take his place. " Thar, Bess. He'll be good
to ye."

"I'll not fergit this," said Dave, and Daniel McEwen
walked on, knowing he had won a friend.

But it was not for that he allowed his mule to leave him,

40 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

nor for any regard for the woman he had seen lying uncon-
scious in drunken abandon in the cabin. He knew that
were the officers to come and find the place empty, they
would respect the dead. It was because he wished that poor
wasted form to be laid respectably away in her grave, and
he would not be seen there himself, nor would he have Dave
Turpin know he had ever been to the Cove, or that he had
ever known Sally Cloud. His secrets were his own, and
there was now nothing he could do for her but to thus cov-
ertly help the young man on.

He supposed Lury and the babe were safe for the present,
and decided to let the young man find out things for himself ;
but he would, in common humanity, lend him his mule,
the more readily because he saw that Dave was near the end
of his strength and feared he might not be able to reach the
Cove until the officers would be there. As for " oV man
Cloud", he knew well the bitter enmity that existed between
him and Lee Bab. Bab had married Cloud's niece against
her uncle's wishes, when he had cared for her as a daughter.
It was an ancient feud, a hundred years old, surely, and the
natural death of a Cloud had long been to be shot by a Bab ;
and for a Bab to meet his death by a bullet sent by a Cloud
was but customary and to be expected in the course of moun-
tain events.

''I reckon they's nothin' mo' fer me to do," said Daniel
softly. ^* Hit's like the Bible say: 'Let the dead bury
ther dead,' fer she hain't thar, nohow. I'll neveh turn
'gainst mountain people fer the revenues, but ef eveh I c'n
git Lee Bab to know why I'm doin' hit, I'll put a bullet in
his heart and feel like Lury say. I'll laugh to do hit. I
hain't neveh teched him fer her sake, but I will now."

THE MEETING 41

He crossed the branch, and finding the notched sweet-gum
tree, he knew where to find the jug. It was a farce played
between him and Ross, yet one always gravely adhered to.
He Kfted the jug and set it in a thick clump of wild flag near
the margin of the branch, where it would be more securely
hid, and continued his way to the mill. The sound of water
falHng over the dam and the burring of the great wheel
were pleasant to hear. The interior was sweet smelKng
and whitened with meal dust. Only the boy who helped
around stood within, chewing corn and watching the slowly
turning millstone. The miller and his wife were sitting in
the door of their cabin on the hillside above the mill.

The couple were idly watching the honey bees fly out and
in at the peaked gable end of the mill. A colony had pre-
empted the gable a year before, and the Clouds were specu-
lating as to how they were ever going to get their toll of
honey from those vagrant lodgers on their premises. They
were a comfortable looking couple, low-voiced and gentle
of manner, not at all the sort one would imagine entertaining
a feud, and the miller certainly was not one who would
naturaUy be suspected of being "pizen mad" about any-
thing.

''I don't keer ef they fill the hull roof full o' honey,"
the miller was remarking. "I reckon we betteh 'low 'em
hev the place ontwel hit's clar plum full o' honey, an' then
smoke the durn, leetle, hot-tailed fellers out. We'd hev
enough honey to las' the rest o' ouah Hves, an' hit be bes'
kin' o' sweetnin' fer corn-bread or licker, heap betteh'n
'lasses, an' cost us no thin'. Howdy, M'Cune, howdy.
Be ye afteh yore meal? I reckon hit's ground." He
hunched himself along down the beaten path to his mill,

42 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

lifting shoulders and elbows at each step, talking as he
went. *' Go on up an' have a glass o' buttermilk with the
or woman. Whar's yer mule?"

" I lef ' Bess a piece back, — thank ye, I won't stop fer
th' buttermilk, but I'll ask ye to give me a leetle salt, ef
ye'll be that kind. I clar plumb forgot to get hit at th' store,
an' hit's a right smart piece to go back fer hit. I'll jes' git
my meal, an' tote hit long whar I lef the mule, and git on up
th' mountain."

He lifted his hat and waved his hand in salute to the
miller's wife, seated in the doorway. A smile was on his
lips, and his carriage was that of a prince. Even as he
walked away from the mill with his sack of meal on his
shoulder, he stepped off with it as if it were a feather
weight, and his hat a crown.

"Wall, he be a quare one ! " said the miller's " oV woman",
as her " ol' man " returned and sat by her side again. " Now
what did he leave thet mule o' his'n down the road an' tote
thet meal down that-a-way fer? He's plum foolish oveh
thet mule, pettin' her like she were a human."

" He hev to be foolish oveh some thin', I reckon ; he hain'
no ol' woman to make oveh an' do fer."

"He'd oughter 'a' married Sally, an' thar he were thet
fooHsh to 'low her take up with sich a low-down critter —
the' hain't nothin' low-down 'nuff to call him as she mar-
ried." The wife spat contemptuously, as if nothing else
would express her feeling, and continued: "What did he
ask fer salt fer? He be goin' on a drunk, thet's what. He
won't go home this night. He'll make him some bread in a
holler, an' fill hisse'f plum full o' whisky, an' lie thar. Ef
he'd married Sally, she'd ' a' looked af teh him, an' thar she

THE MEETING 43

be, nothin' on this earth but slave fer sich — a — low-
down — "

'^ Wall, leave be talkin' 'bouts hit. Ef I hed 'a' done my
duty, or M'Cune eitheh, Lee Bab'd 'a' be'n undeh the
yarth now, whar he b'long. You neveh would 'low me put
thet bullet whar hit'd oughter go, an' they hain't no death
fer a Bab but jes' only with a Cloud bullet in his heart, an'
thet be too good a death fer this Bab. Hit's yore fault he
be Uvin'."

^' An' my fault you be hvin' an' settin' here 'long side me.
I neveh were hankerin' fer my ol' man to be shot or workin'
roads on a chain gang down in the low country."

''Women be turr'ble skeered critters."

''Turr'ble skeered fools fer them as they keer fer, but ef
I'd 'a' hed the chanct, I'd 'a' put Bab undeh the groun'
myse'f. Hit weren't yore place nor mine, neitheh, to do hit.
Hit were the duty of M'Cune, an' he mus' 'a' hed a wife, as
some say, some'ers, or he would 'a' done hit."

So the two took up the usual endless speculation over the
past of Daniel McEwen, while that individual walked on to
a place overlooking the mill road, his meal sack on his
shoulder, and his jug of whisky in his hand. There, where
he could watch for the return of Dave Turpm without
being himself seen, he dropped his load and threw his hat
beside it, and stood a while looking up at the sky arching
over him, lighted with the glow of a red sunset.

Then he uncorked his jug and drank a few swallows of
the raw liquor, and sat with his head in his hands, patiently
waiting.

After a while, he unfolded his county paper, and opened
the meal sack. Taking out a few handfuls of meal, he

44 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

carried it down to the banks of the stream in the paper.
There he searched until he found two thin, flat stones of
broad surface, and washed them carefully ; then he pro-
ceded to knead on each one of them a cake of meal, mixed
with water from the brook and seasoned with the salt he
had brought from the mill.

Carrying his neatly shaped cakes on the two stones, he
returned to his point of outlook, where he scraped away the
dead leaves from the red soil, gathered sticks, and built
a fire, before which he set the stones propped on edge, and
watched the cooking of his supper. As they slowly baked,
he took from many wrappings of paper a few sHces of white
salt pork and laid them above the browning cakes, and soon
the air around him was pervaded by the fragrance, appetiz-
ing and sweet, of roasting corn and toasting meat.

It was a good supper and a satisfying one, only too fre-
quently he savored the contents of the jug. It was long
before Dave returned with Bess, and when he did so, Mc-
Ewen was still sober enough to call out to him :

"Tie her thar, an' I'll come an' fetch 'er. You take
yore se'f back to the store, while the way's still cl'ar."

''Thank ye," said Dave huskily, and no more was said
between them. Then Daniel, carrying himself a little un-
steadily, went down and placed his sack across the mule,
and tying his jug to his saddle, mounted and rode away
under the twinkling stars, swaying and swinging a little
too far over as the mule moved from side to side, yet always
recovering his poise and clinging to the saddle.

CHAPTER IV

LURY ON GUARD

LuRY stood in the doorway, looking after Daniel
McE wen's retreating form until it was lost to sight ; then
she turned into the cabin and there stood still in the middle
of the room, looking all about her. On the bed the babe
slept, and without the sun shone brightly, and silence
reigned, the soft, rustUng, whispering silence of the wilder-
ness. She drew a deep, long breath and stepped over to the
bed, moving softly with her bare feet, and lifted the square
of quilt Daniel had covered the little one with, and peered
at him.

" Jes' me an' him," she said and crept away and began to
sew the edges of the other pieces of quilt as she had been
directed to do. For a long time she sat thus clumsily
working, with long stitches crudely turning the edges to
hold in the cotton. She had never been taught to use a
needle, but by nature she was deft and observant, and soon
she became deeply absorbed in her womanly task ; before
the day was half gone, she had done all Daniel had told her
she might do and more, for when she went to get a little
milk for the child, she also thought of the welfare of Jose-
phine. So, after comforting the little babe and wrapping
him in the clean squares of sheeting, and washing the old
blue apron and hanging it to dry on a laurel shrub, she fed
the cow and led her to water at the hollowed log by the well,
where she had washed herself that morning.

46 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Then she searched about and found the meal, and baked
some corn bread as her mother had taught her, and fried
meat, and ate, always watching the babe and thinking of
him with busy brain. She had no time to think of herself,
only now and again, when she remembered the still, wasted
form lying on the mahogany bed in the cabin at the Cove,
she would cover her face and sob. What troubled her most
was the thought that there was no one left there to take
care of it. She knew that Ellen Furman was lying in the
cabin in a drunken stupor, and that her father was crazed
with the terrible corn whisky he himself made ; that Dave
Turpin, always her friend and protector in that disordered
home, was off selling his load in the low country, and that
rumors of the revenue officers' approach had sent Lee Bab
and Jim Furman into hiding in the deeper recesses of the
hills, where they took their worm, the only thing of value
belonging to their still, to conceal it until the danger had
passed.

She reasoned that when Ellen awoke and found herself
alone with the dead, she would take her baby boy and walk
down to the Settlement for help, but when would that be?
Meanwhile, with Dave away, she dared not return. She
could not stay there alone with the dead and her terrible
crazed father until the rest came back to look after her and
the babe, and when that would be she could not know. So
for the time she was most utterly forlorn and homeless. Her
heart brooded with warm gratitude on the thought of Daniel
McEwen and his gentle kindness, yet here she could not stay
for long, either, for her father must never know she had been
here at all. She had not forgotten his threat to shoot
''Dan'l M'Cune" on sight, if ever they even mentioned his

LURY ON GUARD 47

name. No wonder she sobbed and trembled when she
thought of the motherless home and the helpless babe her
hungering, childish heart, with premature motherly in-
stinct, had begun to cherish !

Seated in the cabin, close to the bed whereon the babe
lay sleeping the deep, passive sleep of the newly born in-
fant, and thinking with childish brain those unchildish
thoughts which necessity had taught her, trying to con-
trive a way to nourish and guard and keep the little one,
and how to clothe it, and how to live, now that her mother
no longer could stand between her and the rest of her wild,
irresponsible kinsfolk, — absorbed thus, she was startled
by hearing voices at the well, men's voices and laughter.

She sprang to the window and looked out furtively,
keeping in the shadow and peering through the crack of the
hinges of the half open shutter. Two young men had halted
there and were pulling water up by means of the long well-
sweep. One of them held the bucket tipped toward him as
it rested on the curb, and the other stood ready to dash its
contents over his companion the moment he began to drink.

*'I say, hold on a moment, will you? You've had a
drink ; stop your row, or you'll have some one out here to
shoot you up."

The other cast a glance at the cabin. "It's empty.
Go ahead and 'quaff the water free.' I'm holding up.
Quaff, quaff, I say."

*'Well, why not say *drink'? It's good English; just
as good as quaff."

'' I can't, I'm living in the past — two hundred years in
the past, earlier even than the CoUer^s Saturday Night.
I'm living in the days of the border strifes, with smugglers

48 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

hiding in the hills, and Scots Wha Hae, and Erm go Bragh,
and all that sort of thing. No one knows what a night may
bring forth, or when the border rufSan may slip up on you
and stick a knife in your throat. Therefore, instead of say-
ing drink, I say quaff. It's more in keeping with the times
in which I find myself up here, and it's more hke Robert
Louis Stevenson and the poets."

His friend took a long draft and then lifted his head, still
holding the bucket tipped.

" I say, Bob Kitchel, hold up ! " he shouted. '' The poets
make me sick. I'm here for business." He grinned over
the bucket's brim and then began again to "quaff."

The grin was too much for Bob Kitchel, and with a deft
movement he lifted his foot and turned the bucket over his
friend's head. There was a moment of gasping silence,
broken by Bob's shout of laughter, as his friend straightened
up, wearing the bucket as a helmet.

"Well, come and take it off," he said, speaking in smoth-
ered tones from its depths. "That was a very good shower,
best I've had in these regions." Bob Hfted the heavy,
watersodden bucket from his friend's shoulders. "And
now I'm quite cool, thank you, I'll just give you a lift,"
and stooping quickly, he caught Bob amidships and hfted
him in the air; swinging the shght, slender fellow easily
over his own broad shoulders, he stooped as if to drop him
down the well.

Lury cringed back and clasped her hands as she saw the
kicking, struggling young man being dangled helplessly over
the depths, but when his bigger friend whirled about and
laid him down in the brimming trough which she herself
had so lately filled, she laughed outright. At the sound of

LURY ON GUARD 49

her laughter, both the dripping men laughed also, shaking
the water from their streaming hair, and approached the
cabin.

They were looking for the place of Daniel McEwen, but
seeing this ragged, barelegged, Httle girl standing there in
the doorway, they hesitated, having been told he lived
alone.

^' We've lost our way, it seems," said the big engineer,
Barney O'Harrow. "Can you tell us where Daniel McEwen
Hves?"

Instantly Lury's fears and suspicions were aroused. All
the tales of nefarious reasons for McEwen's isolated Hfe
here came into her mind, and with them the determination
to shield him from capture ; for what purpose did men of
this class ever come to these hills other than to bring to justice
some offender against their troublesome and always to be
evaded laws? Fortunately, Daniel was away, and they
might continue to think, for all the information she would
give them, that they were far out of their way, indeed.

^'1 don't guess," she replied vaguely, gazing steadily into
the eyes of the questioner, her soft brown eyes peering
out from under her long, sweeping lashes with that peculiar
faunlike expression, innocent and infantile, which had first
touched Daniel's heart,

A swift glance of mystification passed between the two
young men, which did not escape her steady, dreamlike
gaze, but no shadow of understanding passed over her face.
Then Bob Kitchel stepped forward, smiling, and sought
to elicit some more definite information.

"You mean Daniel McEwen does not live here?"

"I reckon so."

50 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

''WeU, do you live here?''

'*Yas, I reckon."

^* Don't you know where Daniel McEwen lives?"

^' Not rightly."

*'Well, we were told he lived here or near here, with a
well like this with a long sweep in front of the cabin."

Lury did not reply to this but stood in passive silence.

Then Barney spoke. ''Take the grin off your face, you
goat, and let me try," he said. ''Do you know where
Daniel McEwen Hves?" he asked peremptorily, as if to
shake her out of her apparent lethargy.

*'I don't reckon," she said; then, with a little gasp of
fear, as she saw his stern look, she added explanatorily.
''He be no kin to we-uns."

"No kin to we-uns," gave him an idea. "Who are your
kin? You don't Kve here alone, surely." She remained
silent. "Who lives here with you?"

"I lives with my brotheh."

"Where's he?"

"In yandah. He be sleepin'." She stood squarely in
the doorway, and the men glanced in toward the bed in
the corner and saw only a confused heap of a little
bundle.

"Only a kid," said Bob. "Won't you tell me what your
name is ? " he asked, speaking more gently than his friend
had done.

The sense of loyalty was strong in her. She was on the
defensive, as they could see, but for what theyhttle dreamed.
If she gave them her name, they would guess she belonged
to the crowd for which they were no doubt searching, and
that she would know where Bab's still was. Yet why they

LURY ON GUARD 51

desired to learn the whereabouts of Daniel she could not
imagine, unless to secretly turn him over to the law also.
In her extremity, she thought of what Daniel had asked
her when he found her there in Bear Wallow, "Be yore
name Sally Cloud?'* and she answered:

"Sally Cloud."

Now the young men looked at each other in surprise.
They had stopped earlier in the day at Cloud's Mill and had
eaten breakfast there. They had been through the Settle-
ment and had bought up all the cob pipes, as Ross had said,
and they had received very careful directions how to find
the cabin belonging to McEwen.

"Be you kin to miller Cloud, down to the Settlement?"
asked Bob Kitchel, tiying the mountain vernacular.

"Yas, I reckon. Maw say so."

"They said it was a cabin with a rail fence around it and
a well with a sweep in front, exactly like this, — " ruminated
Bob.

"They be a heap o' wells Hke this'n weth a long stick to
haul the bucket on ouah mountains." She spoke with more
animation, and her face lighted with the thought that thus
she might rid herself of her strange visitors. "The* were
a man name' Dan. M'Cune. He hved a right smaht piece
oveh that-a-way." She pointed vaguely in the opposite
direction from the way they had come. "I reckon he
mount be thar yit, ef hit be him ye lookin' fer."

"Well, I guess that's about all we can learn here,"
grumbled Barney. "We may as well get our grub and go
on. Can you lend us a pail, Sissy, to carry a Httle water to
make our coffee with ? "

Lury never heard of a pail, but she well knew how water

52 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

was to be carried, so she stepped swiftly back in the cabin
and brought a lard pail.

**I reckon ye c'n tote wateh in this 'ere grease bucket/'
she said.

^' Thank you. This will do finely." Bob took it, and
lifted it to his nose and sniffed suspiciously. It was only
to learn if it was clean, but Lury resented the action for
quite another reason.

"We neveh don't hev no licker to ouah house," she said.
Why should he sniff, if he were not searching for stills and
"Kcker?" No doubt they were really searching the moun-
tains for the cunningly hid still beyond the house in the
Cove where her dead mother was now lying. No one had
ever discovered this particular still, for which Dark Corner
was famed, and it was the boast of Bab and his crew that
no one could find it. Poor, loyal, Httle Lury, resenting the
action of the sniffing stranger, who only wanted a clean pail
in which to carry water for his coffee, fearing lest he discover
her worthless father's deadly secret ! She was glad now she
had not told him her name. If she had said Bab, they
might watch her, and might trace her there sometime, for
she thought of nothing else than that she must eventually
go back and live in the only place she had ever known as
home.

The two men strode off toward the well. *' We'll fetch
this back soon, thank you," called Barney.

"I c'n come fer hit, when yer through weth hit," she said,
as they glanced back at her standing in the door, watching
them.

She went over to the bed, where the babe, fed and warm,
slept sweetly on. Glancing through the crack of the

LURY ON GUARD 53

shutter, she saw them fill the pail and walk off. A little
later she saw smoke rising not far away, where they had
built a fire for their coffee, and sKpping out of the cabin, she
made a circuit and drew near them through the thick laurel,
until she stood close enough to hear their conversation.
There, crouching low, silent as a rabbit, she waited.

^'I wonder how much that child knows!" said Bob,
raking dead leaves into the fire with a long stick from where
he sat, while Barney the practical laid out the lunch. He
was speaking of that which may be learned in schools, but
poor Lury deemed the wonder to refer to her knowledge of
stills and the deeds of the mountains in her own Dark
Corner. "I can imagine Daphne with eyes like hers."

*' Never saw the lady," said Barney. " Friend of yours ? "

''Imagine Daphne looking out of a tree at you as you
cook there. Her eyes would be wood brown, with golden
lights in them, and her lashes — Gee Whitaker ! Did
you ever see such lashes ! She would look aslant at you
from under them, as if she were hiding something from you,
and thus tantalize you into finding out her secrets. Now
if I were a poet, I would make a song of Daphne and paint
her to look like that child."

''Would you have her elbows out of her sleeves, and her
bare legs scratched and sore, or would you have her clean
and neat?"

Poor little waif! How old do you suppose she is?"
Nothing but a kid. She's probably ' kin' to some tough
old moonshiner here. You bet she knows something about
'Kcker', as they call it. She thought you were sniffing for
it in that pail, or why did she say what she did, and she
looked startled too."

54 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

**I guess I'll sit over nearer that fire where I can dry off.
If I had more than one layer of clothing on me, I'd remove
a Httle, one layer, at least."

"Do it. The air's so soft you won't take cold."

"No, I'm accustomed to dine in full dress."

Bob changed his seat and came over where Lury saw only
his back, but closer to her. Could they have seen her thus,
crouching and Kstening with eager expression and parted
lips, they would not have known her for the same child
who, a moment before, was standing in the doorway passive
and vague, giving slow, laconic replies to their questions.

"You know they say there is a still here in these hills,
hidden away so cleverly that even the natives, half of them,
don't know how to reach it," said Barney O'Harrow. "I
think that's a dream, myself. I wager I could hit the trail
— give me time. Ever see a still — a really primitive one
such as they make moonshine in here?"

"No. I've a very good reason for that, though. I never
was in these hills before. Say, you who are wise in the lore
of the hills, what's ' Barwaller ' ? "

"Here's your coffee. Why, haven't you got busy yet?
Open those sardines for me. You Gink — you've lived too
long abroad to understand American. In this country
you have to guess a Kttle. Know what a'b'ar'is?"

"'I reckon.' A bar is a thing a lawyer is admitted to,
when he has learned how wisely to pervert the law ; and a
bar is where you stand to \adgarly take a drink and mis-
treat your fellows ; also a bar is a long piece of timber so
arranged in a fence as to prevent cattle from leaving a pas-
ture unbidden, and it is likewise, in athletics, so arranged
that long-legged students may leap over it and gain a prize.

LURY ON GUARD 55

thus attaining by their legs what they have failed to acquire
by means of their brains ; also a bar is — "

^'In mountain vernacular a wild beast of the plantigrade
species, thus called from the formation of their feet, which
are so made that the foot is placed on the ground from the
heel to the toe, instead of having the heel suspended where
the elbow or the knee should be, as in the equine, bovine — "

"Hold up. I know a b'ar when I see one. I'm not ig-
norant. Where's this place, ' do you guess' ?"

"You should say 'don't you guess.'" Barney spoke
with his regard fixed on a sandwich of bread and cheese.

"Whar's B'ar Waller, don't you guess? That doesn't
sound right, either. They have another way of bringing it
in."

What's your idea?"

My idea is to find the place called 'B'ar Waller' — I've
got it, hooray ! A waller is a holler, whar b'ars go to waller,
like hogs or chickens in a road. But do they, though?"

"Assume that they do and go on. Just dig out that idea
from among the rubbish with which you've stocked your
brain."

Bob stretched himself on the ground, face up, and pulled
his hat over his eyes. Lury shifted her position a httle for
better concealment and settled back on her heels. He
heard the stealthy movement and Kfted his head, looking
suspiciously around. "Wild creatures in these thickets.
Hear them rustling? I do." He lay back again, Hstening
and waiting. "Rabbit, maybe. Well, my idea is, find
'B'ar Waller ' and then worry along through by degrees until
you find the still. Remember that young guy we saw be-
tween Woodville and the Settlement, standing in the road

56 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

while the officers went through his wagon and fodder, hunt-
ing for moonshine ?''

^'Oh, you'll see those anywhere, covered wagons and a
pair of mules or oxen. They always carry moonshine.
That's what they go down the mountain for. That's their
stock in trade. Make it up here and sell it down there, all
they don't drink themselves."

*' There's romance in these mountains. Did you hear
what they called that young chap ? Turpin — only it was
Dave Turpin, instead of Dick, as in the old ballad. An
outlaw and the descendant of outlaws. In the blood. I've
been watching them all along. They're not all alike, by
any means. The ones who belong to the wilderness —
actually belong — are the fascinating ones. You recognize
the difference as soon as you set eyes on them. You know
they belong to the wild. That kid standing in the doorway
does. You know it. You see it in their eyes and their
lithe, strong bodies, but you don't find them hanging around
the towns. You have to get clear up here at the very top
to find them in their native haunts."

''Now just let me tell you, my boy, the less you have to
do with that kind of still hunting the better. You'll have a
bullet through your heart — they're your natural enemies."

''Well, I have something of the wild in me."

"You have. You are as wild as Mary's Httle lamb."
Barney rose and began to stamp out the fire. "Take these
culinary utensils to the well, will you? And wash them.
Return also the 'grease bucket.' I'll pack the kit."

In the sHght stir of moving about, they did not notice
the rustling in the leaves near by and were surprised by
the sight of the Kttle maid standing close to them.

LURY ON GUARD 57

*'I done come fer th' grease bucket/' she said.

Bob stood looking down on her, holding a few tin dishes
and a fr}dng-pan in his hands, and Barney handed her the
lard pail without a word, only that he felt in his pocket
for a coin. She did not seem to know why he was handing
the coin to her, and looked up at him as it lay in her palm
with wide-eyed surprise. She had sold him nothing; at
the Cove hospitahty was always extended gratuitously,
and pay was only taken for that which alone they had for
sale, corn liquor, and then, except among themselves, always
surreptitiously.

*^ What be this fer ? I don't reckon I hev' nothin' to give
ye for hit."

''Why, that's for the loan of your grease bucket."

She still demurred. ''You done give the bucket back to
me," she said and returned the coin.

''And that's fair, too," said Bob, with a smile. "You
have given her back the pail, so she gives back the coin.
Put it in your pocket and get understanding by experience.
Come on, Sally Cloud, we'll wash these things."

A thin wail drifted toward them from somewhere; the
child heard it and started back to the cabin on a run.

"There is something odd about all this," said Barney to
himself. "I can't think she lives here alone with that
infant rolled up there on the bed." He shook his head as
he packed their small shoulder sack with the remainder of
their canned food, lifted it to his back, and sauntered up the
slope to the well.

The waiHng had ceased when he reached his friend, who
was scrubbing the frying-pan out with sand. Lury returned
and looked on at the process with interest.

58 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

*'That the way you wash dishes?" asked Bob.

She shook her head gravely, then surprised them with the
inquiry : *' Wha' be you-uns here fer?"

"We're here to find a way to make a road over this
mountain, up this side and down on the other side, clear to
the ocean."

She gazed where he pointed and then up to the top of
Old Abe.

*'Wha' you want to make a road thar fer?"

"Oh, there are a lot of people who want a road there.
They want to get over the mountain without going around
it."

"Wha'fer?"

"Oh, they like to be running around and seeing things
and doing things. Can't you tell me the names of some of
the people Kving up here? We may want to see some of
them. Which way from here is B'ar Waller?"

Her eyes opened wide, and her Hps quivered. She
pointed vaguely in the direction which she had indicated
before as the possible way to Daniel McEwen's.

"I reckon hit's yon' way," she said.

CHAPTER V

JUDGMENT

''Who's Daniel McEwen, anyway. Where did you
ever hear of him?" asked Bob Kitchel, as the two young
men took their uncertain direction from the vague indica-
tion given them by Lury as **Yon' way."

"I heard of him from a banker in Woodville. He said
this McEwen comes down to the bank once in so often
with a few little pellets of gold, deposits them as so much
currency and takes a receipt for them, and only uses a
small portion to live on. He comes regularly about twice
a year and never is seen in Woodville except on those
occasions; never makes a friend of any one, is pleasant
to all, but holds himself aloof, appearing from no one
knows whence and disappearing no one knows whither."

''Who's the banker?"

"Richard Hadley. He's a very interesting man —
lived there for the last half of his life and knows more
about these mountains than any low-country man around.
Hadley is the only man down there who knows McEwen,
really, or could find his place ; but he told me miller Cloud
might direct me, if he could be convinced that the errand
we were on was only a matter of road-making. They're
so jealous of their rights here that they don't care to have
the country opened up by roads. It only means innova-
tion and the invasion of aliens."

6o A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"Well, why shouldn't they feel that way? Why should
a lot of strangers be allowed to swoop down on them and
change their customs, and impose their laws on them,
and teach them dissatisfaction and unrest? They're con-
tent; why not let them stay so?"

"You can't get a thing out of me by your philosophizing.
I'm no philosopher. Philosophers are hinderers of prog-
ress. I'm a road-maker, and from the beginning of the
world pathfinders and road-makers have been the fore-
runners of progress and civihzation. People talk a lot
of bosh about the spirit of unrest and the discontent of the
times. I say, why shouldn't people be discontented?
Discontent has been good for the world. Philosophers
always make me think of toads sitting back on their
haunches and bhnking and catching flies with their
tongues.'*

"What are we in the world for, if not to be happy? If
these people are happy, what more do they need?"

"Live among them a while and find out for yourself,
as I have. How did you like the looks of the kid there
in that cabin?"

"I thought her the most beautiful specimen of youth,
poetic youth, without any influence of modern sophistica-
tion I ever saw or hope to see."

"Like her dirty, ragged dress and bare, scratched legs?
Like her hair, tangled and unkempt?"

"She needn't have had a rag on, for all of me ; she would
have been a wonder of beauty. Why, didn't you see
that she had sensitive Kps, and wonderful eyes, and delicate
color, and shapely hands and feet? Didn't you see that
she held her shoulders like a — a — free, untrammeled

JUDGMENT 6 1

creature? One of God's own wild ones, that's what she

is."

''She no doubt is that last, and I think she has exercised
her natural right to say anything that will suit her purpose
and has set us, for some reason of her own, off the track.
I believe we were at the home of Daniel McEwen, and
she lied to us."

''Then I would advise that we go no farther this way,
but go back and learn the truth."

"For a philosopher, that's a sensible suggestion. How
find out the truth?"

"Oh, hang around there somewhere and wait for your
friend Daniel's return."

"Not there. If we wait where she can see us, she will
find a way to set some of her tribe to watch us. I scent a
mystery. She has some reason for being there and for
setting us wrong, and she distrusts us."

"Well, let's hang around here then. Lie here and argue
out a point in philosophy, sitting Uke toads in the sun,
blinking and catching flies — symbohc for ideas — with
our tongues. Then, after dark, let's find our way back
to that cabin and see what we shall see. If he Hves there,
he will no doubt have returned, and we will have a way
of learning the truth and whatever it is you want of him."

So the young men paused and stretched themselves out
on the mountainside and looked up at the floating puffs
of cloud and at the eagles soaring round and round above
the craggy top of Old Abe; and they smoked in silence
or varied the monotony of waiting with wordy arguments.

Meanwhile Lury stirred herself to immediate action.
She had not understood much of what the young men had

62 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

said, but she was sure they were hunting her father's still
and that they had met Dave on his way back ; also she
was sure they had some sinister reason for finding Daniel
McEwen and for making a road over the mountain. The
news Jim Furman had brought to the Cove that the
sheriff was coming up the mountain with a posse must
have been true ; and yet it might not have amoimted to
anything, for often such rumors were rife, and then the
danger would be averted by some of their scouts, who, ever
on the lookout, were sometimes able, with a well-directed
bullet or a word of warning, to send the officers back to
safer quarters.

She well knew that the brothers Joe and Jim Furman
and Lee Bab could take care of themselves, for they were
on their own ground and knew their own hiding-places,
but there was Dave Turpin coming back and likely to be
on his way up to the Cove even now. No one would warn
him there or at the still, where he would go first of all.
She would go to the Settlement herself and wait there for
him. She would go to "ol' woman Basle^s" and take the
baby and ask her to look after him while she went to find
Dave.

So she searched the cabin for something in which she
could carry milk for the babe and found an empty whisky
bottle. This she filled with milk warm from the cow, and
wrapping the infant in the covering Daniel had given her,
she made a bundle of the rest, and tied it all together with
the bottle in one of the pieces of sheeting. Then she
started down the mountain with the babe in her arms.

Her fear of her father and her horror of the place where
she had left her mother lying dead caused her to take a

JUDGMENT 63

way leading around by the mill, thus avoiding the Cove
entirely, for although she was certain her father was hiding
in the gorge, he might go to the cabin stealthily for food,
unless the raiders were still there. Whatever came, she
must warn Dave, and this seemed to be the only way.

Although she had never before been to the cabin of
Daniel McEwen, she w^as able to trace her way back as
far as Bear Wallow easily, but from there on she had to
depend on her native instinct for the paths of the wilder-
ness. Now she pattered along the smoothest of the trails
in her bare feet, putting on her shoes only where she must
to keep from cutting her flesh with the ragged stones at
the steep places, where they had been washed bare of earth.
This time she did not try to avoid the more traveled paths,
for they were the ones where she was least Hkely to meet
her father or either of the other men. The weight of the
babe and the bundle, and the heavy shoes dangling from
her elbow, though not great, became wearisome to the
tired child, who had not slept throughout the whole of the
night before. So wearisome did it become that she paused
often to rest, as needs she must.

The stream that turned Cloud's Mill wound on its down-
ward course for a long distance above the mill, crossing
and recrossing the trail she took, and here, at one of these
crossings, just before the sun went down behind the moun-
tain, she sat where the last rays Hngered and fed the httle
one, crooning to it and comforting herself by clasping its
soft Httle body to her heart, and feeling the Httle round
head Ld her neck. Then, when it again slept, she wrapped
it warmly in a fresh piece of the sheeting and laid it rolled
in the quilt, higher up on the bank, while she washed and

64 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

wrung the piece she had removed, and spread it over a
sweet shrub to dry, instinctively acting the part of a veri-
table mother.

She ate a bit of the corn-bread she had baked and some
fried pork, and then, drowsy in the soft, warm air, crept
up and curled herself around the babe, and with her head
on the bundle, she slept. Long she slept, and gradually
the sun sank, and the shadows stole over her, and the bird
songs ceased, all except the whippoorwills, who insistently
called their demand through the hollows and over the hills.

Here, an hour after leaving Daniel McEwen near the
mill, Dave Turpin, urging Bess up the short cuts and over
the stream, heard a faint little sound unlike the usual
sounds of the wild to which he was accustomed; and
looking above him in the direction from which it came, he
spied something white gleaming through the dusk. It
was the piece of sheeting Lury had spread to dry. Paus-
ing there and wondering, he heard another sound, a child's
voice, cooing and crooning and sobbing all in one. He
dismounted, in spite of his haste, and scrambKng up the
steep bank, he found them, the child and the babe. So
absorbed was Lury in trying to comfort the babe that
she did not hear his approach, for now the little one cried
lustily.

^'Thar, thar, honey-son. Thar, sisteh won' 'low nothin'
hurt you," she sobbed, albeit frightened at waking and
finding herself alone in the fast thickening darkness.

"Lury," said Dave, in astonishment. "Be thet
you-uns?"

She sank down close to the earth, silent as a rabbit seek-
ing cover, but the babe wailed on, to her dismay.

JUDGMENT 65

" Don't ye be skeered, Lury ; hit's on'y me." Dave knelt
down at her side. "Hu-come you here with that kid?"

^'Oh, Dave, Dave! Gawd a'mighty! I'm glad hit be
you!" she cried, catching him by the sleeve and twisting
her hand in it to hold him the more securely, in her terror.
^'Dave, I be'n runnin' down the mountain; I be'n —
Dave, they is men comin' for sure this time to break up the
still, and Dave, maw's dade, and she give the baby to me,
an' Dave, I'm skeered he'll die, an' I be'n runnin' all las'
night, an' I'll tell ye hu-come I come here, but Dave, I be
that tired I cain't walk no more."

''Pore little un. Now how about this?"

Mechanically again she began to rock and comfort the
Uttle one. "Thar, thar, sisteh won' 'low nobody tech
you," she crooned, but the babe still wailed. "He be
hongry, and his milk be cold. Don't leave me, Dave."
She frantically clutched again at his sleeve. "I dasn't go
home, 'thout paw'll kill me an' baby, too. He be'n drunk
eveh sence you lef, an' hit's hell to ouah place, an' maw
lyin' thar dade — an' — an' no box to put 'er in."

Dave still stood aghast ; then he lifted Lury to her feet,
and she stood in the darkness nestled close to him, clasping
the babe. "I bin that skeered you'd come home an' not
know the revenues was thar, an' they'd git you an' sen' you
to the chain gang, that I b'en runnin' down the mountain
to git you the word to keep away f'om thar, Dave ; thet's
hu-come I run here. I did'n know which-a-way you
mount come up the mountain, ef by the Settlement or
not; but I jes' run this-a-way an' chanced hit so. Hit
were las' evenin' she drapped dade whar she stood by the
fieh, stirrin' co'n-bread, an' paw hollerin' Uke hell."

66 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Dave meditated heavily, and the waiKng of the babe
flustered him. "Well, how about this! Yore maw dade!
How about it?" was all he could say, and he repeated it
over and over until his thoughts grew coherent and prac-
tical. Then he said: ''You bes' come weth me, Lury;
I cain' leave you be here, an' I hev' hearn 'bouts the sheriff
an' a lot o' men comin' up this-a-way. I were jes' goin'
up to git you an' yore maw away f'om thar, anyway, 'fore
the men could git up ; but now she's dade an' you're here,
I 'low I'll jes' let the res' on 'em take keer o' therselves.
Come on. 01' woman Basle'U look after ye fer one while
I reckon, ef I pay 'er."

It was after Dave had taken Lury to the Settlement
and put her in charge of the only woman whom he knew
who could care for her and the child that he returned the
mule to Daniel. Then he went back to the store and lay
all night among the fodder under the shed where he had
taken the mules. He was weary and heart-sick and lonely
and hungry. He said to himself that now Lury was away
and her ''maw dade", the officer might come and "bust
up the still and kill the hull gang" for all of him. He'd
"done his best fer 'em, an' now he'd quit."

The kindness and care of the woman who lay there dead
were all that had held him to the Cove. Long since he
would have left and gone to make his way in Woodville,
for his trips down the mountain to sell Hquor for Bab had
given him a taste for the town. He had conceived an
ambition to work in a livery stable where he often sold a
large part of his "load", and earn enough money to buy a
farm ; and then it was his plan to get Lury and her mother
to leave the mountain and live with him.

JUDGMENT 67

His ideas on the subject were very vague, but at least
he had been where there were schools and churches, and
where people wore better clothing and Kved in houses with
gardens and flowers around them, and he had made his
comparisons. He knew Bab despised these things and
gloried only in his Hfe of danger and secrecy, in the triumph
of successfully evading the law, and in the thought that
he would some day avenge himself on the officer who had
once caught him and sent him up for two years on the
chain gang. Always, when filled with his own whisky,
he would lustily swear that the day would come when he
would "cut that man's heart out."

Now, while Dave at last slept and Lury lay on a shake-
down on the floor in the cabin of "ol' woman Basle '^
Daniel McEwen rode on up the trail and brooded. Never
for a moment was the thought of the dead Sally Cloud
out of his mind. All the years since he had known her
came confusedly into his excited brain. Again he was
parting from her as once he parted, when she left "totheh
side the mountain" to come, an orphan, and live with her
uncle, the miller Cloud. They had quarreled over some
little thing, and she had said she would never see him again,
and so the next time he passed her, she had turned her head
away, but he had pursued her and kissed her. Ah, well
he remembered it. Then, before he ever saw her again,
she had gone. He had meant to follow her, but gossiping
tongues kept them apart.

Now as he rode, it seemed as if he had but just ended
running after her that summer evening and kissing her.
He would go to her again. He would learn if tlicfe was
any truth in the story that she had "gone to the singing

68 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

with Lee Bab, onbeknownst to her uncle.'' He would
find out about that. The years that had passed between
that moment and the present were as if they had never
been.

^'She be spoke fer, an' she be mine," he said again and
again, as he clung to the saddle and swayed about on his
patient, cHmbing mule.

That was a fateful night. Why Bess should have carried
her master unguided along the trail he had taken that
morning, when she would have preferred going home and
standing quietly in her own log stall before her own box
of corn, who may know. Certain it is she once more made
her way to the Cove. It was still deserted. The officers
had been there and gone. Awed, they had stood beside
the dead woman and had stealthily crept away, and for
the time had abandoned the place without carrying out
their purpose of finding the still or taking possession of
the cabin until they could locate the hiding-place of Bab's
store of Kquor.

Instead, they searched for the still all through the gorge,
as often they had searched before. They had searched and
had gone back to the low country again, baffled. As in
the morning, Bess paused under the blackheart cherry-
tree, and again Daniel McEwen tied her there. He had
taken no more liquor since he left Dave, and he thought
himself quite sober.

The moon shone by this time ; it was late in rising, and
he stood steadying himself in the door of the cabin. Only
the deacj v;ay there now, for Ellen had fled in horror when
she roused herself at the approach of the officers, and had
taken her baby and gone down to the Settlement, as Lury

JUDGMENT 69

knew she would. They had allowed her to go without
question.

The moonlight streamed through the still open shutter,
and fell slantwise across the bed. The dead face and the
counterpane gleamed luminously white in its rays, and
all the squalor and disorder and dirt of the wretched room
was mercifully hid in the darkness. Still the rhododendron
flower, drooping a Httle, lay on her breast, white as her
white face and as deHcately pure. Now indeed as he
gazed, Daniel McEwen was sober. He felt no awe nor
fear of the dead. Once he had kissed her. Once she had
laughed in his eyes. Once he had loved her. — He loved
her still. — Once he had hoped in spite of all to take her
to himself, for she was his, — yes, his, — and now — He
dropped on his knees at the side of the bed, with his
arms stretched out across the wasted form and his head
bowed.

Kneeling there, he heard a sound — half a whine, half a
growl — was it the dog whining under the cabin? He
lifted his head and Hstened, then rose to his feet, his heart
pounding in his breast. He turned and saw a dark figure
slinking back in the shadows of the weeds growing tall
about the door, and he stepped down and went toward it.

'"Git up f'om thar, Lee Bab," he said, and the thunder
of his anger muttered low in his voice.

*'What you doin' here," said Lee thickly, rising and
leaning against the side of the house.

"Be ye too drunk to stan' up?"

''What you doin' here?" asked Lee again, standing
straight and taking a step toward him. "You hev come
at las', hev ye? Well, come on."

70 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

No, for once Lee Bab was not drunk. He had been in
hiding all day and now, remembering how in the morning
his wife had fallen while preparing his food, he was creeping
back, fearing to meet the sheriff, yet seeking to learn if
what Jim Furman had told him was true, — that she was
dead.

"I hev come at las', Lee Bab. Hev ye anythin' to say
fer yerse'f? Ye took f'om me one as belonged to me;
hev ye done fa'r by her?"

The two men stood facing each other. A white heat
of rage burned in Daniel's bosom, and Lee Bab quailed
before him, but assumed an air of bravado while his hand
sought his hip pocket.

^* Shall we cut hit out, or shoot hit out?" he said, but
the other was too quick for him and held him with the
muzzle of his gun at Lee's breast.

**Drop yore han', Lee Bab, an' tell me: hev ye done
fa'rbyher?"

"Drap yore gun, Dan'l M'Cune, an' leave me go to
'er," the other whined. *' You no call to come here."

'*Naw, you'll neveh set eyes on her dead body. Hit's
too white an' clean fer yore damned eyes to look on. They
is no name undeh heaven mean enough to call ye by, 'er
I'd call ye by hit fer the way ye hev done 'er. Ye hev
done 'er to death at las', an' ye hev done hit slow an' sure,
Uke I knowed ye would. She come back to you to save
yore soul f'om hell fieh, an' you hev took the heart out'n
her an' th'owed hit to the houn' dogs to keer fer. She
be settin' up yandah now, longside o' the angels o' Gawd,
an' I'm goin' to sen' ye whar yore damned, low-down
soul'll bum in the hottest fieh o' hell to the end o' all time,

JUDGMENT 71

an* the devirU set oveh ye and know what-all name to
call ye by, fer I don't."

He fired, and Lee Bab dropped where he stood, with
never a groan. Daniel McEwen stood for a moment,
then tossed his gun at the dead man's feet and lifted his
arms toward heaven. Then he threw back his head and
covered his eyes with his hands. *'I hev done this fer
her. Hit were all I could do fer her. Gawd! Gawd I
Gawd !" he cried. ^'I wisht I hed 'a' done hit long ago.'*

CHAPTER VI

y

DANIEL McEWEN'S HOSPITALITY

The two young pathfinders awoke early the next morn-
ing, after the most delicious sleep possible to human kind —
in the dry, soft air of the open, under the star-set sky, on
a hillside overlooking the plain below.

Bob Kitchel aroused first and sat long with his arms
clasped about his knees and his ears open to the songs of
birds and insects, his eyes taking in the wonderful coloring
of the dawn on cloud and valley and mountain peak. No
dream could be more beautiful than the scene unrolled
before him. It was as if he were on an island surrounded
by a strange and nebulous sea of floating cobwebs, heaped
and swung in mid space, waving and swaying out of aerial
distances on circling air currents ; touched on their heights
with the purest gold, dissolving into rose and amethyst,
and fading at last into the pale greens and blues of the
mysterious island on which he sat.

Like a veil of diaphanous tissue spread between him and
the valley below, they drifted past and gathered together
in shifting masses, swept slowly up the heights, and entered
into the vast blue overhead, revealing the plains beneath
Uke a delicate carpet reaching from the mountain's base
even to the farthest verge of eternity and disappearing in
the void beyond the world. Never before had he seen thus
the solemn and glowing beauty God spreads before his
people, if they will but go out on his heights to see it.

DANIEL McEWEN^S HOSPITALITY 73

*' Hallo, Bob!" cried Barney, rousing himself and rising,
"What do you think of that now? If I threw a stone
from here, do you think I could hit the court-house down
in Woodville? Glory ! What a view !"

Bob rose slowly and began to roll up his blanket. He
was like one brought suddenly out of a trance. The mists
were clearing away, and the world had assumed once
more the garb of yesterday and the day to be. "Now for
breakfast," continued Barney. "How about it? Shall
we try once more for the cabin?"

"Nothing else to do, since we have eaten all we had
last night."

They had returned to Daniel McEwen's place the even-
ing before, and finding it empty, yet having no surer way
of meeting the owner than to await his coming, they had
decided to sleep in the open rather than to retrace their
steps to the Settlement.

"Why, yes, we might hunt for another cabin somewhere,
or go back to the Settlement and set out again on a hunt
for the place as we did yesterday, and get our breakfast
there, you know."

"Well, just as you say." i

"Do both. Go to the cabin, and if we don't find him,
retrace our steps as far as the Settlement and from there
follow on up and see where we missed it before."

"What's the white thing lying on the ground up yon-
der?" Bob pointed to a spot some distance above them.
"We'd better go up there and see; we're off the trail,
anyway."

So they clambered up through the laurel shrubs and
found that indeed they were off the trail, for here was an

74 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

old road, no doubt the one for which they were searching,
and the white object was a sack of corn-meal.

*'This must be the old King's Highway Hadley was
telling me about, that used to be the route along the moun-
tain wall and through the gap a hundred years ago. The
old mail-coach route. Some poor man has lost his ' rations.'
What shall we do with it?"

*'Why, tote it. There must be a home near, by this
sign. Maybe it belongs to the man we are hunting for.''
Bob Hfted it to his shoulder, but first he tied it more tightly,
seeing it had been opened. ^'Now we have this as a pass
to his favor."

When they arrived at the cabin, they saw the mule feed-
ing along in the corners of the crooked rail fence that sur-
rounded the doorway, still saddled and bridled, although
this last was disarranged, and in the animal's eagerness to
browse, she had stepped upon and broken her bridle rein.

^' There has been an accident," said Bob.

'' Something else the trouble, I judge," said Barney.
"There he lies across his own doorstep. Is he dead?"

" Good Lord ! I hope not."

"Don't worry. He's dead drunk, that's all," said Bar-
ney, stooping over him. "Well, now what? This is the
man we want; I know by the description given me by
Hadley. Look at him. Most men are disgusting when
they are drunk, but he — "

"He certainly is different — a man of parts even when
drunk. Let's get him out of it, if we can. What's the
first thing to do?"

Barney 0 'Harrow entered the cabin and looked about
him. "Bring in that sack of meal, will you? Let's take

DANIEL McEWEN'S HOSPITALITY 75

possession. He may resent it when he comes to himself,
but it's the best we know."

''He has quite a Uttle outfit here," said Bob, stepping
across the prostrate form in the doorway. ''Let's make a
fire and brew a Httle coffee, if he has any. That's the best
thing to give him when he wakes. Let's treat ourselves
to his hospitaHty. He'll take it all right, or I miss my
guess."

"See if he has a gun on him," said Barney. "If he has,
take it. Then if he wakes in a belKgerent frame of mind,
he will have nothing to do any damage with."

Barney was searching about for means to prepare a
breakfast. "I hate to touch a man's pockets when he's
drunk," said Bob. "This is a fiendish situation. We'd
better pull off his shoes and get him up on his bed. This
is indecent. Poor cuss."

"Get his gun, if he has one, and his knife, too. Then
you may do as you Hke. I'm getting breakfast."

"But let's get him up on his bed. He's in the way here.
We have to step over him all the time."

"No, let him alone." Barney came and looked down
on McEwen. "You see his hip pocket's empty; he has
no pistol." A box of cartridges lay beside him where
they had sKd from his pocket.

"These are deadly ones, and if he had a gun for them,
it is well he is rid of it. And here's a knife, as wicked
looking as any I ever saw; we'll take these and return
them when he's sober. Now if he wakes ugly, we'll be
able to handle him. Just let him lie as he is. He might
resent it, if he awoke and found we had meddled with him.
They're queer folks."

76 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Then the two went on with their work in the cabin as
if the premises were their own. They even went out to
the lowing cow and fed her, and Barney milked her; for
Bob was ignorant of the process of ^'extracting the milk
from a cow", as he said. They brewed coffee and made
corn-cakes with passable skill, and set out the shelf table
with the Kttle store of dishes, like good housewives.

*' Wouldn't we make well- trained husbands, though?
Now we are fit to marry suffragettes," said Bob. '^ Sup-
pose for instance our wives should return from a political
rally in the condition of this individual spread over his
threshold, we would then have the privilege, seldom ac-
corded to men, of rising superior to the situation. We
can bake, we can brew, we can fry, we can stew, we can — "

"Oh, stop your nonsense and watch the coffee for me a
minute. Watch it, I say ; don't let it boil over."

Bob stooped and was reaching for the handle of the
coffee-pot with a stick, to draw it away from the heat, and
Barney was engrossed in laying slices of salt pork in the
hot frying-pan, when their attention was attracted to the
doorway by a gentle :

"Howdy, gen'l'men."

They both straightened up suddenly and turned away
from the fireplace, wiping the perspiration from their
faces, in some confusion. Also they both grinned, as who
should say: "We are caught in the act."

Daniel McEwen, raised on one elbow, lay quiescent in
the doorway, watching them with his derisive smile playing
about his Hps and a twinkle in his eyes. "Don't 'low me
to disturb ye. Go right on with yore work; hit's
interestin'."

If
(I

DANIEL McEWEN'S HOSPITALITY 77

*'It is/' said Barney, ^'but it's difficult. I can do it
better in the open, where I'm accustomed to do it."

''You are a-doin' fus' rate, but ye stan' too clost in to
the fieh. Haul the skillet out a leetle and drap in yore
po'k, an' then sorter shde hit back thar. So."
We must ask your pardon — "

Naw, ye don't. Ye axes my parding fer nothin'.
This 'er hull place be yourn." He waved his arm grandly,
including the cabin and the yard and the universe generally
in its sweep. *'I hev be'n lookin' fer ye to come 'long
abouts now." He sat up and leaned his back against the
door jamb and clasped his hands about one knee. His
head was light, and he would not trust himself to stand on
his feet, but his manner was that of a prince conferring
favors. ''You shore hain't come up f'om the Settlement
this mo'nin'?"

"No. We got up yesterday, about noon, but there
was a little girl here who told us you did not live here."
Bob drew the coffee from the fire as he explained. He
missed the flash that passed as quickly as it came in Daniel's
eyes. "She said you lived over 'yon' way', and so 'yon'
way ' we went, to find only the wilderness, and as we knew
nothing better to do, we returned here this morning."

"Now, thar's whar ye done jes' right. They is no
'countin' fer chillen 'er what they will say. I reckon hit's
natchel to 'em." He rose now and sauntered into the
cabin and stood before the neatly laid shelf. "You hev
a right smaht settin'-out here, an' now here's what. I'll
accept o' yore hospitality ef you'll accept o' mine. Shall
we set? I hev mo' cheers some'ers on the place; jes'
you wait a minit."

78 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

*'Let me fetch in the bench there by the door," said
Barney. "That will do for us."

So they brought in the bench, and all three sat down
amicably to break bread together, the courtesy of the
table being extended by Daniel. It was gracefully done,
and at the same time the two young men felt themselves
held aloof, set by themselves as it wxre, in a manner both
baffling and disconcerting. At last Barney O'Harrow
decided to face the situation by coming straight to the
mark and stating their business. Bob Kitchel, utterly ig-
norant of the mountains and the mountain people, wisely
kept silence.

"You said you were expecting us, so I judge Mr. Hadley
must have told you of our reasons for coming to you. I
believe you are one of the commissioners for this part of
the county, are you not? They are determined to have
a good automobile road built over the ridge, and I am
sent on to lay out the general course of it. I have my
maps, but the knowledge of a man who knows every
foot of the ground is much more valuable to me than all
the maps ever made. Hadley says you're the man, and
sent me to you."

"Wall, I reckon I do know putty much all they is to
know 'bouts these here mountains, but they is a heap to
talk oveh 'fore we-uns 'low any doin's hereabouts. I
hearn yestidy the rev'nue officers be'n searchin' these
parts again. They be them 'at reckons we hev all the
roads we keer fer. An' then again, they be them 'at wants
hit." He paused, and the two young men sat silent and
waited. As that course seemed to get them no further on,
Barney tried again.

DANIEL McEWEN'S HOSPITALITY 79

'^What would you advise?"

*'I don't reckon I hev advice to give ye, much, on'y
this : they is ways of gittin' what ye want 'at's healthy,
an' then again they is ways 'at's onhealthy."

"I see. Well, then all the more we need your help,
that's plain ; and Hadley said he thought we might count
on you."

"I reckon ye mount. Well, which-a-way you reckon
do they want the road to run, oveh top o' the ridge or
kinder th'ough the hollers? Ef hit be the ridge ye like
to foller, thar's the ol' King's Highway 'at be 'bouts the
best, I reckon, on'y some washed and chucked full o'
bresh whar the timber be'n growin' in right smaht."

"Isn't that road in use now?"

**They is places whar hit's still used, but ouah people
hev no use fer a wheel road much. They 'low to fetch
an' carry on boss back an' go putty much whar they likes
that-a-way."

"Well, now, Mr. McEwen, we're sent here to lay out
the general route, and if you can help me to find the health-
iest way, I venture to promise we won't trouble your people
at all. The revenue officers are nothing to me, and I don't
care what you people do, for it's not my business. Will
you set me on the Bang's Highway? I'm sure that's the
route for us. I imagine we were on it when we came up
here this morning. We found your sack of meal there a
little way back and brought it on with us."

Then Daniel grew affable and kindly and said he would
look after his stock a little and then go out with them.
It was his intention to do this from the first, but he wished
to have them ask his services, not to offer them. It was

So A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

his intention, moreover, to keep the route confined to
safe places, where the traveling pubHc, when they were
admitted to the mountain, should be able to skim by, as
ignorant of the real mountain secrets as if the road had
never been opened.

He had been appointed road commissioner for this
locaHty for that very reason, and he now proposed to be
the sole director of the route. It would be an easy matter
to conduct them over the mountain by ways that led to
none of the native haunts, even by ways that would leave
these haunts as isolated as if the road had never been built.
Whereas, if left to themselves, the young men would be
more than likely to stumble on places from which they
might never be allowed to return.

"He's a canny old coon," said Bob, when Daniel was
well out of hearing. "He's a foxy one."
!; "I think we'd better follow his advice to the letter,
though. I know enough of these people to understand
that there will be a fight on before ever this road is put
through, if we don't. You see, it isn't as if we were pro-
jecting a railroad. That goes on its way, just flying
through, but no one gets off and hangs around. They
go through and done with it. But now that automobiles
are going to enter their fastnesses, their privacy is gone,
— and a good thing, too."

"As soon as your work of deciding on the general route
is done, I suppose you will have a gang of men on, and
the natives will have something to worry over."

"No, the surveyors will go first, and then the gang will
follow. It will be let to contractors, and some of them
will be their own people, so that will take care of itself."

DANIEL McEWEN'S HOSPITALITY 8i

"And the price of corn whisky will mount?"

"It will if they are sharp, and they are. The price of
their land will go up, too. They're no fools when it comes
to getting the best of a bargain. I've tried them on that."

They worked as they talked, and when Daniel returned,
he found everything as neat as they had found it. They
had packed their own kits as well and prepared to shoulder
them as they set out.

"Ye mount leave them be. Ye'll want 'em when ye
git back," said Daniel. It was his way of inviting them
to stay on with him while in his vicinity. They quietly
unstrapped their kit and blankets and left them in the
cabin, with the door swinging wide open.

"We neveh locks ouah doahs," said McEwen with pride.

CHAPTER VII

THE DOG STANDS GUARD ALONE

While Daniel McEwen was conducting Barney O'Har-
row and Bob Kitchel over the old coach road, across the
ridge, and along the slope of the mountains on the farther
side, toward the gap which would at last lead them to the
long, level reaches of the low country extending to the sea,
David Turpin disconsolately climbed back to the Cove,
and there looked on the face of the dead woman who had
taken him in when he came to her, a lost, starving lad,
knowing but his name and that his mother was gone,
somewhere, and had left him alone in the wilderness.

Just so she had lain the whole of the day before and
throughout the long night past, and still the dog kept
watch at the door, whining beside the dead body of his
reckless reprobate of a master, sometimes creeping with
trembling limbs to the side of the great mahogany bed
and rising to rest his paws on its edge, then slinking back
to the dead man outside. Now he came in and stood close
to Dave, pressing his head against the young man's knee
and gazing up at him with tender, sorrowful, brown eyes.

The tears rolled down Dave's cheeks, grown ashy pale
as he stood there, his hand on the dog's head and his eyes
fixed on the waxen, sunken face of the woman and the
dead flower on her breast. The utter loneliness and silence
of the place filled him with a vague terror, and his face

THE DOG STANDS GUARD ALONE 83

was distorted with grief, his lips trembling, and his heart
throbbLQg painfully in his throat.

A wren piped a wild and cheery note outside the window,
startling him out of his trance-like sorrow. He turned
his head and then looked down on the dog.

*'Pore critter, I reckon you'd be cryin' too ef ye knowed
how. Whar's the folks gone? Fool folks they be to run
off an' leave the dade weth on'y a dawg to watch by her.
Whar's Lee Bab ? Reckon ye c'n find him f er me ? "

At the mention of that name, the dog walked stiffly out
the door, with drooping tail and head. The hog stood
not far off, sniffing and nosing around, and the dog dashed
at him furiously, as he had done again and again during
the past night in defense of his master's body. Then
Dave saw the body of the man, lying hidden in the long
weeds.

'^Pore houn' dawg, you be better'n humans, bidin* here
an' takin' keer o' th' dade. An' Lee Bab done to death
by them rev'nues, an' ev'ybody skulkin' an' hidin' —
Gawd! This here be Hell!" He paused but a moment,
stirred out of his lethargy by the double tragedy. The
feeliQg that by the death of Lee Bab he had something to
do was a relief to the horrified man. The thought put
energy and heart in him.

** You sure be a good dawg," he said, patting the animal's
head, as he returned to him. "You bide here an' keer
fer 'em, Hke you be, an' I'll come back d'reckly."

He ran down the slope toward the stream, and leaping
it, hurried on up the gorge. The Furman brothers must
still be in hiding, yet from what Lury had told him, he
was sure they knew the woman lay there dead with no one

84 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

to care for her, and he was angry. He was aware of their
hiding-places and knew he could find them.

''They be coward skunks/' he muttered. "They keer
fer ther own hides an' be willin' fer chillen an' babies to be
driv off, an' women done that mean 'at they'd ruther die
'n live."

He had no fear now of the sheriff or officers. He sup-
posed they had done their work and gone, and even if
they had not, he would have faced them alone. Horror
and sorrow drove him on. The gorge narrowed suddenly,
and a great rock jutted out in front of him, so that his
progress seemed to be completely blocked. Here the
path seemed to cross the stream, and he dashed knee-deep
into the water, but did not come out where the trail climbed
up the bank on the other side. Instead, he stooped and
crept under the overhanging boulder, and still wading in
the shallow water, he emerged on the farther side, then
stepping out on broad, slippery rocks, he disappeared be-
hind a mass of grape-vines.

These tangled vines, hanging from tall trees quite to
the ground and trailing and festooning the whole space
between the gorge from side to side, completely hid the
opening to a narrow cave. The rocks, washed clean by
every shower, obliterated any tracks of passing feet. Had
any one followed Dave Turpin to this spot, they would as
surely have lost him there as if the ground had swallowed
him up, as it literally had, for he was threading his way
through the windings of the cave with five hundred feet
of solid mountain above him.

Not far from the entrance, he came to a part where the
soft, disintegrating stone had been artificially hollowed out,

THE DOG STANDS GUARD ALONE 85

making still wider the space which nature had already
formed like an arched room. Here lay shining in the dark-
ness the great copper worm from the still. High above,
through a passage or crevice running slantwise toward the
gorge, a little light streamed into the room, but the open-
ing was so cunningly made by the wild forces of nature
that no human being could ever have entered by it or
known of its existence, for it opened toward the sky from
a wall of solid rock so perpendicular and sheer that only
lizards and creeping, clinging creatures could scale it, or
birds of the air fly into it.

In this room he stood a few minutes, blinking and peer-
ing among the shadows, then gave a low whistle. No
answer came to him.

''They hev be'n took,'' he said to himself in an awed
whisper.

Then he went farther, following a narrow passage that
led into another irregular room, almost a repetition of the
first, only that it was lighter and airier. Here were barrels
of corn whisky, hundreds of dollars' worth. Here also were
many mountain-made jugs of coarse brown ware, rudely
but strongly glazed, and carefully corked. These were
the sort of jugs he had carried in his canvas-covered wagon
into the low-country towns and sold secretly, many and
many a time. Still no one appeared, and once more he
gave the low whistle.

This time something stirred in the darkness of a sort of
alcove beyond him.

''That you, Jim? Joe, be ye thar? Hit's on'y me,
Dave. Come on out." He knew the Furman brothers
would be together, for neither one was brave enough to

ii

86 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

stir without the other. They were desperate in a fight,
but cowards when pursued by an unseen danger. "Aw,
don't ye be feared. Th' officers is gone, an' nobody but
me lef to keer fer the dade."

'*Who-all be dade?" It was Jim Furman, the husband
of Ellen, who spoke and came slowly out from the hole where
he had hid when he heard Dave enter. ''Come on, Joe."
Who-all be dade?" repeated Jim.
You knows Sally be dade. Lury say you put her on
the bade fore you run. An' now Lee Bab lies thai by the
door, shot plumb th'ough the heart."

*' Who-all of them damned officers done hit?"

" Gawd knows. I jes' come an' found him thar, lyin'
side th' do' cl'ar plumb dade, an' th' ol' dawg stan'in'
guard oveh him like a human, an' heap betteh 'n some
humans I knows on. Come." Dave turned on a run
toward the entrance, but the two men stood still. He
looked back. ''Wall, stay thar till ye die stan'in'. I
got no time fer sich. I got to keer fer the dade.""

He dashed away, pausing for no further words, splashed
through the stream and out from under the boulder, and
was well on his way back to the cabin before the two men
appeared. When they did so, each had taken a deep draft
of the virulent corn whisky, which had done so much to
make a brute of Lee Bab. They muttered and talked in
low tones, as they slouched down after Dave.

"I'll lie low fer thet sheriff. I'll git my gun set fer
eve'y one o' the low-down skunks as hev be'n houndin'
we-uns," said Joe, slipping in drunken haste over the
stones of the stream, and rolling over like a porpoise;
then, sitting up in the water without attempting to rise.

THE DOG STANDS GUARD ALONE 87

he continued to mouth out his curses, until his brother
had pulled him to his feet.

'' Git out o' thar an' quit yore cussin'. Likely th' officers
is skulkin' roun' heah, hearkin' to ye. Haish, will ye?"

When they reached the cabin, Dave had hurried to the
Settlement to get help. The two men were too stupefied
with their own liquor to know what to do, so they sat
helplessly on the door-step and cursed, now at the officers,
now at Ellen for having gone away without cooking some-
thing for them to eat, and now glowering at the dead in
awed silence, waiting — they knew not for what.

Ellen Furman sat equally helpless in the doorway of
"oF woman Basle's" cabin, holding her heavy, stolid child
in her arms. She was talking in a languid manner to some
one, and Dave heard her complaining voice from a distance
as he approached.

''Thar she be, settin' moanin' and fussin', hain't got
the sense of a hop- toad." He drew near and stood a
moment frowning down on her. "Whar's Miz Basle?"

''Thet you, Dave?" said the older woman, coming to
the door and removing the snuff stick from her mouth.

"Howdy." He pulled off his old felt hat and stood a
moment, swallowing back the lump in his throat.

''Howdy, Dave. Won't ye come in?"

"I cain't come in. Thar's death in the Cove. Ouah
folks is all skeered skunks, plumb full o' licker, hid'n' an'
leavin' ther dade fer a houn' dawg to keer fer, an^ drive
away th' hawgs. Lee Bab lies dade by the door, an'
Sally — " he swallowed again and turned his back to the
woman in the cabin, " she's lyin' dade, too, an' nobody to
watch by her, an' no box to put 'er in."

88 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

At the mention of Bab, Ellen Furman threw up her
arms with a shriek and sprang up, rolling her baby over
in the dirt at her feet.

Dave rescued the child and thrust it toward her. '' Quit
yore hollerin'. Go in thar an' hide yore face. Yas, Lee
Bab's dade, an' what be thet to you-uns? Likely Jim
knows what be thet, an' we'll learn hu-come he dade with
a bullet th'ough his heart." '

"Jim hain't be'n thar sense the raiders come, and Sally
drapped, an' Jim put 'er on the bade."

*'Naw, ner you hain't be'n thar neitheh, nor you don't
know what-all has be'n did." Ellen continued to shriek,
and then added curses and threats to her terrible cries,
fast growing hysterical. Dave seized her by the arm and
shook her. '' Haish yellin', I tell ye. Take yer kid an' keer
fer him. Gawd ! Miz Basle, cain't ye make 'er stop?"

''Ellen Furman, ef you don't haish, I'll take you in
thar an' give ye sich a dose as I gin ye las' evenin'. Hear?
Go in thar an' set," and Ellen obeyed. *'I gin her a dose
o' wormwood tea las' evenin' ontwel she rolled on the
floor spittin', she hated hit so. Now, jes' you run oveh
to Ross, an' he'll sen' down fer the coroneh an' a docteh,
an' he betteh bring preacheh Price weth him. We-uns'll
git together here at the Settlement and gin pore Sally a
right bury in'."

"Whar'sLury?"

" She done gone fer Bill Hutchins to make a box fer Sally.
I be'n keerin' fer the babe fer 'er."

"Thank ye." Dave turned away on a run, but a look
in his face, drawn and pale, touched the woman's heart.

" Dave," she called after him. " Come 'long back heah."

(I

THE DOG STANDS GUARD ALONE 89

He returned and stood hat in hand before her. "When
hev you eat las'?"

I plumb fergit. Yestiday noon, likely."
Go in thar an' set. Ellen she be thet no-count, she
cain't do no thin' but dip snuff an' cuss."

"Yas, she be right smart at thet, though,'* said Dave,
glowering at her as he took a seat in the doorway.

The widow Basle moved alertly about and soon had
coffee and corn-bread for him. "I see you was goin' to
drap in a minute more. Why didn't ye tell me ye were
perishin'?"

"I be thet worrited I cain' tell grievin' f'om hunger,
seem like." He entered the cabin to drink the coffee, and
took the corn-bread in his hand to eat as he walked.

"I reckon they be no time fer settin' now. You stop
by an' ask ol' woman Hicks and IMiz Hutchins to go up
to the Cove ; an' — well — I reckon you betteh ask Miz
Deal to come heah an' keer fer the chillen while I go with
'em myse'f to see afteh Sally's layin' out. Ellen, she's
thet no-count, she'd leave 'em perish, an' Lury nigh about
sick, pore chile."

A feeble little wail from the bed in the corner called the
good woman back, and Dave hurried on. He heard the
sound of hammer and saw as he approached the shed
where Bill Hutchins made rude furniture for the mountain
cabins and cofl^s for the dead. He put his head in at the
door and said: ''The'll be need fer another box, fer Lee
Bab's dade, an' I'm goin' now to sen' fer the coroneh."
He ran on, not waiting for further exchange of speech in
his haste.

The Settlement had taken the rumor of the raid and

go A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

the death of Sally in a vague, apathetic way, as something
that did not directly concern them, but now the news
David Turpin brought them was like a tonic administered
to the whole village. There was much stirring about and
interchange of gossip between the houses, and gathering
together of knots of men here and there. All was mystery
and wondering among them, for no one knew more than
another. Even Dave could give them no more than the
simple statement of what he had found, so that conjecture
and rumor had to take the place of facts in satisfying their
curiosity.

The women started up to perform their kindly offices
for the dead, and some of the men wandered up also,
for no reason but to see what they could. They dared
not do anything until the officer arrived, and the jury had
brought in their verdict; still there was much standing
around and talking and chewing and spitting to be done,
as they gazed on Bab's body lying pitifully there, '' Cl'ar,
plumb done fer."

After seeing a man started on muleback for Plainsville,
the county seat, for the coroner, and talking a while with
Ross at the store, Dave set out to find Lury. He returned
to the widow Basle's, but she was not there. Then he
set out again for the Cove, going by himself and avoiding
the groups of men who were all climbing along the trail in
that direction. By the merest accident, this desire to
avoid the gossiping groups on the usual trails brought him
suddenly upon her.

She was seated in the sun, with something in her lap,
so engrossed she did not hear him approach. High above
Cloud's Mill, off from any trail, in a nook well screened

THE DOG STANDS GUARD ALONE 91

by laurel, she sat, and Dave stood a moment and watched
her before he spoke. To his amazement she was counting
money, small silver pieces and nickels. He heard them
clink as she picked them up and dropped them back in her
lap. One or two larger pieces clinked with the rest, silver
dollars and fifty-cent pieces.

''Whar'dyegit'em?"

He spoke quietly, but she started as if he had fired a shot
and gathered her ragged skirt together, hugging it to her.

'' Git out o' heah, Dave. You no bus'ness follerin' me."
Poor, frightened child! Her pitiful face, wild-eyed and
haggard, upturned to his, touched him.

He sat down beside her and put his arm around her
trembling little body. He could feel her heart beat like
that of a frightened bird. '^I hain't goin' to tell on ye,
Lury. Le's see what-all you got heah."

Then she spread out her skirt, and gathering the money
up in her shaking hands, she thrust it toward him. " Take
hit," she cried, putting it in his hands as he held them out
to her. Then she turned to him with her face hid on his
breast and sobbed aloud.

''Thar, leetle Lury, don't ye do so. Don^t, leetle sis.
I cain't take this. Hit ain't mine. Hu-come you by hit ? "

'' I done fetched hit — hit — Oh, Dave, Dave, I be'n git-
tin' hi-hit fer a year — more'n a year back — an' now maw's
gone," she sobbed, with her face still hid on his breast.

He dropped the coins back in her lap, and naturally and
tenderly he drew her to him and comforted her.

''Now how about this, anyhow? How about hit,
Lury? Tell me 'bouts hit. Cain't ye tell Dave?"

I be'n that mad at paw, I done watched all around,

i(

92 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

whar the licker jugs be set 'mongst the bresh, an* when
they — they — was all gone to the still — an' nobody
roun' — I took the empty jug, and the money top o' hit,
an' I filled hit up weth licker, and toted hit back, and
kep' the money. Nobody didn't see me. I done drawed
the licker out'n the bar'l, an' filled the bar'l up weth wateh,
an' nobody neveh knowed the dif'unce."

"What ef somebody hed a-come on you whilst ye were
a-doin'hit?"

"I'd jest gin 'em the money, an' go on an' make out
like I was he'pin' 'em. I done that a heap o' times."

"Wail, I reckon this here money be youm now. They's
nobody got a betteh right to hit. Yore maw died, an'
now yore paw's dade, shot th'ough the heart, lyin' beside
his own door."

Lury drew her shuddering little body away from him
and placed her hand over her mouth. Her eloquent eyes
gazed horror-struck into his. "Dave — Dave — ye reckon
the revenues done hit — or — ye reckon hit were — Dave
— you neveh done hit?" she barely whispered the words.

"I neveh. I come back an' thar he lay dade, and the
dawg watchin' by 'im."

"Dave — ye reckon hit mount o' be'n Jim done hit?"

"Look a heah, Lury, they hain't nobody done hit but
the revenues, hear? They be nobody but the revenues
to do hit. Don't ye neveh open yore mouth to nothin'
else. Jes' aU 't is yore paw's dade, an' the rev'nues done
hit. Gawd! Ef you'd a-heared Ellen screach when she
haered me tell 'at he was dade !"

"Ellen's be'n fool drunk ev'y sence maw drapped.
Paw gin 'er licker, an' Jim cussed somethin' awful."

THE DOG STANDS GUARD ALONE 93

''They'll be a jury, an' likely they'll hev you fer one o'
the witnesses, but you let on like you neveh heam nothin'
an' knowed nothin'. Whar you be'n hidin' this money?
How much be they?"

"I cain'it count hit. I be'n countin' an* countin', an'
hit's always dif'unt. Sometimes hit's ten dollehs, an'
sometimes hit's twelve, an' sometimes hit's no mo'n six,
er maybe eight. I do' know how much they be. I hid
hit oveh yandah. Come."

She ran lightly to a hollow tree and thrust her hand into
a hole where squirrels had been wont to hide their treasure.
''Look. You drap 'em in heah, an' thar you c'n take 'em
out on totheh side, down undeh thet stone. I fetched the
stone an' hollered out the hole so."

He put the money all back without counting it and re-
placed the stone. "Leave hit be thar ontwel the buryin's
oveh, and all's done. Hit don't b'long to nobody but
you, nohow, an' nobody hev the right to say nothin'.
Go back to ol' woman Basle's now an' lie low. Maybe
they'll fergit all abouts you, an' so you'll git shet of ap-
pearin' as witness. I know how things goes. Run home
now an' take keer o' yore baby yore maw give ye."

So Lury went back as Dave bade her, and he continued
his way to the Cove, much reheved in his mind, yet with a
tender ache in his heart for the forlorn child. Down in
the low country, children went about wearing pretty
clothes, and yet they were not half so pretty in his eyes as
this ragged, uncombed Lury. In clean clothing, with
bright ribbons on her hair, what might she not be? "Pore
lee tie sis ! "

CHAPTER Vni

"dan'l m'cune has feelin's^*

In the dusk of that same evening, Daniel McEwen and
the two young men returned to the cabin. The mountain
man had led them a long tramp, and they had climbed
about after him, until they were so thoroughly wearied
that they were in no mood for the froHc they had indulged
in before, as they stood washing off the dust and perspira-
tion at the long trough by the well. As they leisurely
toweled themselves, they could hear Daniel talking to
Josephine in low, gentle tones, while he fed and milked her.

"I reckon you be'n lonesome heah by yo'se'f all day.
Lif you foot — so — so."

"Oddest old duffer I ever saw," said Barney. "I feel
as if I had tramped a hundred miles, and he's as fresh as
he was in the morning. If that's what ^mountain dew'
does for a fellow, I reckon I'll try it."

"I reckon you won't. How about Peg, when you take
to momitain dew? Take to hill cHmbing, fresh air, sleep-
ing in the open, and all that. I herewith forswear houses,
rooms, roofs — the wide canopy of heaven shall be my
rooftree, the hilltop my bed, and the mists that curtain
the mountain my — "

"Hush up."

"That's right, be discourteous and throw a wet towel
over me when I rise to inspirational heights. I never did
such a stunt in my Ufe as this day's climbing, and here I

'^DAN'L M'CUNE HAS FEELIN'S" 95

am still able to stand on my feet, — although somewhat
wobbly, — and woo the muse. It's great. What shall I
do with the towels? Hang them on the laurel?"

"I reckon so."

They dragged their weary feet to the cabin and took
their blankets from their packs and stretched themselves
on the ground where the sun had warmed it all day. When
Daniel came by with his pail of milk, his smile was almost
audible as he saw them both already sound asleep.

''Seem like they'd rutheh sleep 'n eat 'bouts now," h^
said.

Nevertheless he prepared a meal after his own manner,
carefully and deHberately moving about his cabin and
doing everything deftly and neatly. It was a good supper
he set out for them and for himself. His cooking outfit
was more ample than that in most of the mountain cabins,
which frequently consists of but three utensils, — a frying-
pan, a coffee-pot and a tin basin. Sometimes a big iron
pot is added to these, in which pork and greens are boiled
together.

When the young men awoke from their heavy sleep,
the stars were shining out above them and the whippoor-
wills were calling to each other across the clearing. For a
while they lay quiescent in the entrancing night, starlit,
and thrilling with low noises unheard in the day, — subtle,
hushed noises, sifting through the dusk. They both felt
the charm of it, and neither knew the other was awake,
until Bob drew in a long breath. Then Barney raised
himself on his elbow.

"I say, Bob, I'm hungry. How about it?"

"Why didn't you speak before? I thought you were

96 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

asleep. Yes, I'm hungry, but I could do without, if the
old duffer is asleep. Reckon he is?"

"We'U see."

Barney rose and drew a match across his trousers;
shading the tiny flame with his hand, he entered the cabin.
Coals glowed in the big fireplace, and he threw on a bit of
fat pine, and instantly a bright flame filled the spacious
room with light ! Bob followed him, and they both stood
gazing sleepily about them as if they might find Daniel
McEwen hidden in some corner, for he was not to be seen
otherwhere.

^'Gone," said Bob.

^' Bed's not been slept in," said Barney, and drew out
his watch. "It's not so late. He may be back. It's
only nine o'clock."

"Here, light this candle. Got another match?" Bob
made the circuit of the room with the candle and picked
up a scrap of paper l3dng on the table, on which something
was scrawled in pencil.

"Eat yore rations an' git in bade an' sleep like humans.
I'll be back in the mawnin'."

"Well, now!" said Barney. "That means he has only
one bed, and he has given it to us. He's gone so we will
take it."

"Then take it we must, even if we would rather sleep
in the open."

Barney went to the fireplace and lifted the cover from a
great iron pot standing in the hot ashes of the hearth.
A savory steam arose, fiUing his hungry being with joy.
"Well, I say! He certainly is a host without a peer.
Look here what he's done."

*^DAN'L M'CUNE HAS FEELINGS" 97

"Our rations!" exclaimed Bob with delight. "The
smell of whatever that is in the pot is too much for me.
Hustle. I'll pour the coffee, and you fill the plates."

They filled their plates with chicken and gravy, and
found hot corn-cakes baked in the ashes, brown and sweet
as only freshly ground corn-meal can make them. In a
basin on the window ledge they found milk with sweet
cream on the top for their coffee, — a rare treat for the
mountains. They ate delightedly and to repletion, and
they praised Daniel McEwen as one fit to be host to a
king and a good chum into the bargain.

Then they covered the fire with ashes, but with the
economy of labor usual among men, they did not wash the
dishes, saying they could use them just as they were in
the morning. They decided that there was enough to
serve for them all for breakfast, even if their host should
return to share it with them, so the rest of the chicken and
even the coffee was left in the pots undisturbed. Then
they each filled a cob pipe and sat late in the doorway
smoking, then got to bed as Daniel had advised and slept
until the sun v/as high.

They awoke to find him moving quietly about his cabin,
setting out their breakfast as neatly as he had laid the table
for their supper.

"See here! We can't have this, you know, — sleeping
in your bed and turning you out of your own house, and
making you cook for us ! I say ! Let us do for ourselves
and hustle for a bed when we need it. Get out o' here,
Bob Kitchel — you old — " But Bob was out and off
before his friend could finish, and swiftly they prepared
for another toilsome day.

98 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"I reckon you fellers hed 'bouts 'nough mountain,
time you got back las' night."

''We sure did ! " said Bob, catching the twinkle in Daniel's
eyes and laughing back an imderstanding glance. "How
about yourself? I might have taken a few steps further,
but not many."

"I hope you didn't have far to go for your night's rest,"
said Barney seriously. "You mustn't do that again, you
know."

"I were n't huntin' fer no night's rest. I had to carry
Josephine down to the Settlement, so she'd be right keered
fer whilst I'm road-huntin' weth you-uns. I kin make out
to leave feed here for the chickens, an' no harm come to
'em, — 'thout 't is a hawk gits one, — an' Bess, she goes
'long o' we-uns, but Josephine — she's dif'unt. Same's
women folks is dif'unt f'om men folks."

"You mean you'll keep right on with us while we are
laying out a course? Why, that's the greatest thing yet.
We'll make headway so, if we accomplish all we did to-day."

Bob watched the smile hovering about Daniel's lips.
"You think we'll hardly hold out to do that every day?"

"Sca'sely, but they be no need fer sich, to my thinkin'.
Hit's the way in them towns you come f'om, but heah in
the mountains we be feared to git too much done to wonst,
lest we be th'ough too quick an' quit livin'. Seem like you-
uns aim to put three days into one. Seem hke you-uns cain't
git th'ough soon 'nough, but we 'lows 'at that's doubhn'
up on Hfe, like. Ef ye puts three days into one, you-uns
be soon th'ough weth livin'."

"Well, you led yesterday. It wasn't our fault we nearly
dropped dead by the way," said Bob.

^^DAN'L M'CUNE HAS FEELINGS" 99

Now the grim little smile around Daniers lips became a
genuine laugh, and the laugh cleared the atmosphere for
all of them and brought with it a genuine kindly feeling.

^'Naw. I was gi\dn' ye a leetle o' your own medicine,
an' ye took liit like men. Hit's easy fer me, but you-uns
be raw f'om the low country. You be sof like. Colts
is that-a-way befo' they've be'n worked."

^*You lead again. I'm willing; I'll go where you go.
But see here. We're not imposing on any one — not if
we can help it. I know how you people feel — some of
you — about this road building, and as long as it involves
no more real expense to the county, I'm willing to lay it
out where you Kke, only I'm bound to get my grade right,
see, or the committee will not accept my route, and that
means loss to me — if they drop me and put another man
on the job."

"Yer grade'U be all right — 'thout hit may be some
windin', but ef them 'at 'lows to use hit is goin' fer to see
the scenery, they'll see a heap mo' than they would ef
you was to make the road straight up one side th' mountain
an' down totheh, an' hit'll be a heap mo' gentle grade too."

"As soon as the route is laid out, there'll be a gang of
men sent up here, and the work will be put through in a
hurry. Your people may not like that, but it's up to them.
They voted for it — the county did."

"Neveh you feah fer these heah mountains, ef ye folleh
the trail I set ye. You be in hit fer th' money ye gits, an'
I be in hit fer to see we-uns done fa'r by. That's dif'unt."

Barney's eyes flashed, and this time he touched the right
chord in the heart of the man of the mountains — the one
that vibrated.

loo A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

^*1 have to be in it for the nioney, man. IVe got a
sweetheart off there where I came from, and I want to
marry her."

''Wall, ef hit's money ye need fer sich — git hit. All
I say is, don't wait ontwel some otheh man steps in afore
ye. I have heard o' sich as that, an' hit's a heap o' trouble
to a man." He threw this last bit of advice at Barney
over his shoulder, as he walked out the door..

Then they saw hirn scattering corn for his fowls here
and there, where they must go and scratch for it. Josephine
was gone. He came back and helped to prepare the pro-
visions they were to take with them, for they were not to
return to the cabin until their work was done. Simple
enough was their bill of fare, and skilfully he packed it,
hanging the sacks in which he put it over the mule's back.
In the sacks were the freshly ground corn-meal, salt pork
strips, coffee, a little salt, and a little sugar. A small
jug of molasses also hung from the saddle, and the coffee-
pot, in which Daniel had carefully packed the fresh eggs
from the scattered nests. This coffee-pot and a frying-pan
were their only cooking outfit.

The men all walked, and Bess carried, along with the
rest, the young men's kits. They bore on their own
shoulders, as being too precious to trust with the rest of
the mule's load, their few instruments and levels. Daniel
had begun to like and respect his two young companions,
and his own natural geniality and courtesy had completely
won them. They had come upon him at the right moment,
when he had been touched with human sympathy, and his
emotions stirred by sorrow; and he had been awakened
from his long, sullen brooding by his hatred and sudden

"DAN'L M'CUNE HAS FEELIN'S" loi

act of vengeance. He was no longer slumbering and exist-
ing only in the past. Action had cleared his brain. He
had brought retribution on him who had wronged him,
and then deepened the wrong by cruelty to her of whom
he had robbed him.

In that act Daniel McEwen had Hberated his own soul.
He beheved it to be a righteous act and felt no compunc-
tion. He had no thought of hiding to escape the conse-
quences. It was, to him, simply an act of justice with
which the laws of the land had nothing whatever to do.
To be sure, there were those who might think they ought
to pry into the matter and bring him to trial, but they
were to be evaded. They were not to be blamed, since
that was their business, but they were to be quietly set
one side as superfluous. It was an affair between himself
and Lee Bab, and the world had nothing whatever to do
with it. It was justice.

His heart expanded, and he talked freely with the young
men, and did what he had never done before for any one.
He took them a short distance out of their course to show
them his gold mine. He had found this Httle, gold-bearing
pocket not far from the spot where he had come upon
Lury that morning. He had worked it with great pains
and labor alone, and none knew of it save Richard Hadley
at the bank in Woodville, with whom he had contracted a
sincere friendship. Richard Hadley and he, although in
such different spheres, were kindred spirits, and they each
recognized the fact.

With all his courtesy and apparent intimacy, however,
he disclosed to the young men nothing of the mystery that
hung about his life and almost nothing of his past, except

102 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

that he had lived on the mountain '^nigh on to seventeen
year." He also told them that his was the only well on
the mountain, and that his cabin was built before the War
of the Revolution, and that no doubt those who had come
here then had fled to the hills for safety, but why he never
knew. All had been dead and gone long ago. His father
had bought the place at a sale for taxes and had held it a
long time before his son had come to live there.

AH this was mightily interesting to his two companions.
They loved to engage him in talk. At evening, as they
lay stretched on the ground rolled in their blankets, —
for when the nights were clear, they avoided the mountain
cabins, crowded for the most part, and close, preferring to
sleep under the starlit sky in the sweet mountain air, —
they would often Hsten to him far into the night. He never
betrayed his neighbors, but his quaint humor and its ap-
plication to human foibles, which he so well understood,
was, to say the least, original. As a philosopher he was
unique.

Daniel McEwen had indeed taken his cow to the Settle-
ment as he had said, but it was not that alone which had
called him down the long distance after his already hard
day's tramp. He could have found a boy to take the
animal for him, had he so wished. No, it was a tenderness
in his heart which drew him, the desire to see little Lury,
and to know what had become of her. He was touched
that she had called herself ''Sally Cloud" to the two young
men when they found her in his cabin, and he knew well
that she had purposely throw^n them off the track, fearing
they meant harm to himself.

He supposed she would be found at the widow Basle's,

"DAN'L M'CUNE HAS FEELIN'S " 103

as David had said he would take the women there, so to
the widow Basle's he went. His long day in the hills
with the young men had taken him far out of the way of
the Cove, and he had heard nothing of happenings there,
since he had left Lee Bab lying dead in the weeds. He
did not care what was done, or what the gossip might be ;
but now his awakened heart clung to the child, who had
looked up in his face with her mother's eyes.

It was late when he at last stood wearily outside the
widow's cabin and gave a low call. She stepped quickly
out and closed the door behind her.

**I reckoned you mount be 'long 'bouts now," she said.

*'Who be in thar weth ye?"

''Ellen Furman an' Lury Bab. An' Lury hev the babe
pore Sally lef in the worl' behind 'er when she gin out an'
died. Hev ye heard the news?"

"I hain't be'n afteh hearin' no news. I be'n trompin'
the mountain, helpin' two young fellehs lay out a new
road 'at's goin' to be driv th'ough ouah country up yandah.
Likely hit'll go th'ough the Settlement, too, so ef ye be
thinkin' o' sellin' to Bill Hutchins, like you was tellin' me
a while ago, jes' you hoi' on a mite. Land'll come up in
price right quick, an' maybe ye mount be sorry you 'lowed
hit to go too soon. Thought I'd drap 'round an' tell ye,
hoi' on to yer land a bit longer. Good evenin' to ye."

He turned as if to walk away. She stepped quickly
nearer and laid her hand on his arm. ^'Hol' on. Don't
go yet. I reckoned you had heard the news, an' thet
were why you come down this-a-way. They is death
in the Cove. Sally Cloud died, drapped jes' whar she
stood — pore critter — tother day, an' she hain't buried

I04 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

yit, and now Lee Bab lies thar side he's own door, and
the coroner's jury's be'n settin' on him all evenin' an'
cain't bring in no evidence, on'y jes' 'died by a unknown
hand.'"

'' What's thet you say? Lee Bab hev be'n sont to
jedgment?"

^' He hev."

**Hu-come he dade? Cuttin' 'er shootin'?"

*'He come dade weth a bullet th'ough th' heart, an'
the gun lyin' 'longside what done hit. The coroner hev
th' gun now."

''Wall, so hit be. Live hard, die hard."

"We be gittin' ready for the buryin', me an' Miz
Hutchins, an' Miz Hicks. Be ye goin' ?"

"You knows I neveh hev no doin's weth th' Babs."

"Look a-heah, Dan'I M'Cune, hain't you no feelin's
fer Sally?"

"I sure hev had, but she no need fer 'em now."

"I knows a heap mo' 'n I lets on, Dan'I M'Cune."

"I reckon so."

"I were weth her all night when her baby come, an'
she tol' me a heap, an' she laid hit on my soul to tell no
one on earth but you, what-all she tol' me. Hit be on my
soul to tell ye."

"Wall, jes' you leave hit be thar fer a while, will ye?"

"Whar?"

"On your soul. I'll come to ye fer hit some day. On
my Hfe I will, I tell ye, but I'm cl'ar done fer now."

"Dan'I M'Cune, hev ye be'n drinkin'?"

"Not this day, Miz Basle, but ef I had a drap, I'd take
hit. I be ready to drink an' drown myse'f, I shore be."

"DAN'L M'CUNE HAS FEELINGS ^' 105

^'I'U-say nothin' now, but the day'll come when I will.
Whar be ye carryin' the cow at?''

For the first time he mentioned the real purpose of his
visit, and the widow showed no surprise.

''I done brung the cow down fer Lury, fer to feed the
babe. Will ye look afteh hit fer her? I'll gin ye money
fer yer trouble, hit shan't be no cost to ye. But you let
on Hke you done bought 'er, will ye ? I be no hand to tell
my doins' all oveh the mountain."

"I reckon I knows you, Dan'l M'Cune. I'll do all I
kin fer ye, fer I see you has feelin's. I done tole Sally
you hed, an' I'm glad I did. I did'n' believe ye hed, but
I tole her so jes' to comfort her, an' now I'm glad I did."

"Heah's three dollars fer the cow's keep. You let me
know when ye need more, an' I'll sen' hit to ye. Look
afteh Lury a bit, will ye? Whar's she goin' to stay at?"

"Ellen Furman say Lury's goin' back to the Cove weth
her. She's skeered to live thar by herse'f."

*'Them two be the chil'en o' Lee Bab, but they were
hern too. Hit be no 'count me goin' to the buryin', but
ef Sally'd lie easier in her grave on 'count o' me doin' this
fer her, I'll do hit. They's nobody else I'd go so fer as
to say this to, but you shore be a good woman, Miz Basle.
I neveh be'n one to talk my business to no one. Pore
leetle sis — run cl'ar to B'ar Waller, hid'n' f'om Bab, an'
thar I found 'er, she settin' hol'in' the babe, an' cryin' 'er
soul out. I took 'er home, fer I seed Sally Cloud in 'er
eyes. Since Lee Bab hev be'n sont to jedgment, like you
say, I'll make out to kiver my hurt an' do fer Sally's child.
Whar shall I carry the cow at?"

"Gin me the cord, an' I'll tie 'er yandah in the shed,

io6 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

an' gin 'er a leetle roughness to chaw on. I'd ax ye in,
on'y fer fear o' wakin' Ellen an' settin' 'er to screachin'
ag'in. She be'n takin' on that-a-way eveh since she
hearn o' Lee Bab bein' killed."

Daniel thrust the money in her hand, and she put it
in the bosom of her dress. ^' Thank ye, — I'll do fer 'er
good. Jes' you try to leave licker alone an' git a leetle
sleep. I see you be nigh about done fer. Good night."
Her voice was full of gentle sympathy, as she took the
leading rope from his hand.

"Good night, an' thank ye." She led the cow away,
and Daniel started back on his long climb up the mountain.

CHAPTER IX

lury's return

In the Cove at Dark Corner, life moved on in much the
old way, not quite so riotously and violently, maybe, as
in the days when Lee Bab held sway, but now in a dis-
orderly abandon, since the presence of Sally Cloud no
longer radiated an unconscious influence among them,
shrilled over by the high, complaining voice of Ellen Fur-
man, — ignorant, superstitious, and often drunken. She
managed to dominate the brothers by her very weakness
and folly, holding them through her own fears and mysteri-
ous terrors.

For a while Lury stubbornly resisted Ellen's demands
and hved on with the widow Basle, but at last she returned,
bringing the Httle brother with her and caring for him
tenderly, with a sort of childish motherliness. After all,
the Cove was hers; the cabin was hers and all that was
in it, and also the cave full of corn whisky. This she well
knew, as Dave had taught her, but at the same time she
knew no other way than to Hve on there and let the brothers
Furman ply their trade, giving her of her own only as she
made demands for it, and then after much lying and con-
tinued assertions that they had nothing, and that the
business was of no more worth since they were so oppressed
by the law and hounded by the officers.

In truth they were no more molested than they had ever
been. A whisky raid made the dramatic element of their

io8 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

lives and was a thing to be naturally expected and hoped
for from time to time, as it gave variety and the spice of
danger to their calHng.

During the months that Lury remained with the widow,
Dave Turpin left the Cove and loitered for a while around
the store of Compton Ross, helping in a desultory way.
He even went as far as Woodville trying to find employ-
ment there, but he could not content himself in the low
country. The ways of the young men he met there were
foreign to him. The things for which he had been ad-
mired on the mountain counted for nothing there. None
of them had fractious mules for him to break or train for
the saddle. None of them cared for his singing or his
leaping and climbing. How could they know that he
could climb higher and tramp farther in a day than any
man on the mountain?

At last, homesick and discouraged, he returned to the
Cove in Dark Corner and took up his old, leisurely work
of helping at the still and making intermittent trips down
the mountain to sell their liquor. It was dangerous busi-
ness, but that only gave it the greater interest and pro-
vided the dramatic element craved by humanity, and the
need for daring dear to youth.

In Dave's mind there was nothing nefarious in the calling.
It was the legitimate business of the Cove, and the govern-
ment had no right to interfere with them; therefore it
was only right that they should outwit the government.
Why not? Dave Turpin, with his innocent face and
clear eyes and captivating smile, was always successful.
No one below dreamed that when his spirit was aroused
he could become in one moment a daredevil reckless as

LURY'S RETURN 109

the wind. His voice was gentle, his manner kind, his
body slender and muscular, and his movements as lithe
as a leopard's. When he stood at the tail-board of his
wagon, figuring his accounts in a way he had of long and
short marks, — for he was ignorant of all the lore of schools,
— when he stood thus, his whole body drooped with the
graceful lassitude of a young Greek resting after a race.

When he came slowly toiling up the mountain with his
return load, he walked easUy beside his mules and guided
them with low, sibilant sounds, half a sigh and half a
whistle. They understood him. When he paused at his
camping-places, he fed and watered them first and after-
ward cooked for himself. Usually he avoided the old
highway, now the new automobile road, because he loved
his own hill ways best, and because he did not care to have
his mules troubled and frightened by the passing machines.
Yet, by gentle persuasiveness and his own easy indifference
to the panting vehicles, he soon had his animals so used to
them that they allowed them to pass with the same non-
chalant imperturbability as that assumed by their master.

Although he lingered on, Dave was not happy at the
Cove. The woman who had taken him in and comforted
him, when he came drifting past her cabin door one wet
November day, a motherless, starving lad, who had fed
him and nursed him and kept him as if he were her own
brother in spite of blows and curses therefor, — she whom
he had loved mth all the fervor of his soul, was gone. The
once cleanly kept cabin was now a disorderly, whisky-
reeking hole, and he revolted at Ellen Furman's weak
whining and insistent tyranny, her play upon the fears
and superstitions of the men around her. Yet it was all

no A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

the home Dave Turpin had, and he stood by it for the sake
of Lury and the babe.

Lury came walking up the mountain one day, leading
Josephine at her heels and carrying the Httle brother in
her arms. The poor cow pulled and lowed, trying to go
to her old home, but Lury led her on, petting her and
promising her she should go back some day. There, in
the little lot, she tethered her among the old apple-trees
and walked on to the cabin. She shrewdly guessed how
she came by the cow, and she loved Daniel McEwen for
what he had done, but she never opened her wise little
mouth about it, and the village supposed the widow Basle
had helped her.

As she entered the cabin, its wretchedness filled her
with dismay. Ah, it was worse, far worse than she had
ever seen it. After the cleanly home of the widow Basle
and her neat habits, in spite of the inevitable snuUstick,
Lury revolted at the appearance of the slatternly woman
who now presided over the home that should be her own.
From that moment began a quiet and secret warfare be-
tween the two, which burst forth in words only at rare
intervals on Lury's part, and never on the part of Ellen,
whose opposition took the form of sullen silence, or subtle
innuendoes muttered sotto voce to the men of the house-
hold, and which grew at last into a covert and soul-destroy-
ing hatred.

Yet it was her own desire that Lury should return.
Afraid to live there alone during the long absences of the
men, afraid almost of her own shadow, she had haunted
the Settlement and hung around the widow's home until
she finally forced from Lury the promise to return the next

LURY'S RETURN iii

day. Now she was expecting her, yet she had taken no
pains to set the cabin in order, seeking thus to impress
Lury with the idea that she had been unable to work, and
that therefore nothing had been done. As Lury ap-
proached, holding the babe close to her heart, walking past
the hog wallow and along the beaten path to the door,
Ellen sat in the doorway, chewing a snuffstick and eying
her narrowly.

''I see you puttin' on a heap o' style these days, sence
your maw be'n dade. I'd like to put on mo'nin' fer Sally
myse'f an' w'ar black clo's, but I hain't no money fer sich.
I'd like to w'ar shoes an' stockin's fer ev'y day, too, but
I has to leave my feet go b'ar Hke po' folkses has to." She
sat with her bare feet on the earth before the door and
made no move for Lury to pass her. "You look nigh
abouts beat out. You betteh set heah longside o' me an'
rest a leetle fer the' 's a heap to do in thar. I be'n so weak
seemlike I cain' do a lick."

Lury looked five years older as she entered her own door
again. Dave had bought for her with the money she had
hidden in the hollow tree a complete outfit of black clothing,
including a black hat trimmed with a stiff black ribbon and
a black rose. He had found these marvelous things in
Woodville and had sent them to her because she had de-
manded that she should have new clothes and that every-
thing should be black. It was imperative, if she wore
clothing at all, that it should be mourning, so black it was.

"Lawsey me ! You shore be a young lady now !'* Ellen
said enviously, as Lury crowded past her and entered the
cabin in silence.

There she stood for a moment looking about her at

112 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

the disorder and dirt, holding the baby closer against her
angrily beating heart. *' Hain't ye no clean place whar
I c'n lay him down whilst I fix up heah Hke hit'd ought
to be ? " she said.

Upon her mother's great mahogany bed in the corner
the soiled bed clothing lay heaped just as some one had
crawled out of it in the morning. There lay Ellen's child,
sleeping heavily, his flushed face unwashed and his hair
matted. Lury stooped and put her face close to the child's.

"Ellen Furman, you be'n givin' Buddy licker. Miz
Basle say you'll kill a child the like o' that givin' 'im licker
— 'er make 'im a eejit one. You hain't got the sense of a
half dade chick'n. Come in here an' take the clo's off'n
that cheer. They hain't a place in this cabin whar I'd lay
a child o' mine."

Ellen rose slowly and stumbled in, complaining as she
moved. "Hit's this 'er ol' hurtin' in my side. Seemlike
I cain' do a Hck. Buddy, he's be'n po'ly an' don't do
nothin' but screach an' holleh 'thout I gin 'im somethin'
to make 'im sleep. Thar's the cheer fer ye. I don't guess
you think a place what's good 'nough fer my baby'd do fer
yourn." She sat herself heavily down and spat in the fire-
place. "An' he hain't yore baby, neitheh. Hit's jes's
good's lyin' to say he be."

"He be mine, I tell ye. Maw done give 'im to me, an'
I'm goin' to bring 'im up right, like he'd ought to be.
I'll lay 'im on clean places, an' when he grows big 'nough,
I'll I'arn 'im how to wash hisse'f."

"Yas. You go down to Woodville an' tell what-all
you tellin' heah, 'at that child's yourn, an' they'll spit on
ye. I knows."

LURY'S RETURN 113

Lury stared at her in amazement for an instant, then
turned without a word and began to gather up the cooking
utensils from the fireplace, where they had been left un-
washed from one meal to another. Ellen watched her
leeringly.

*'Ye betteh leave 'em Hke they is," she said. ^'They be
'nough to do 'thout washin' them things."

But the girl worked away, scraping off the encrusted
leavings of many meals. Then she scrubbed them clean
with sand, as she had seen Bob Kitchel do. It was a new
way, and it interested her. All the rest of the day, when
the baby would let her, she worked thus, trying to make
the cabin look a Httle more as it had when her mother was
living, as Daniel McEwen's had looked when she was there,
and as she had seen the cabin of the neat widow Basle.

As time passed, many causes came up to arouse the envy
of Ellen, and none more potent than the fact that the vil-
lage people had told Lury that the place and everything
in it were hers. Dave Turpin had told her that Ellen and
her husband were only allowed to Kve there because they
were kin to Lee Bab. Lury carried things with a high
hand and never seemed to think a reply necessary when
Ellen complained that they were being turned out of their
rights. Lury appropriated the great mahogany bed to her
own use, making it up as she had seen her mother make it in
the days when Sally Cloud moved quietly about the cabin,
taking gentle care of the home.

That first evening of her return she told Ellen to prepare
the supper for the men.

''I cain't do a Hck," said Ellen weakly. "What you
layin' out to do, anyway ? "

114 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

" You kin do a lick. I'll tell Jim on ye. Ye be'n drinkin'
all day an' lyin' 'roun' givin' Buddy licker. You git
supper whilst I wash Buddy. I don't care ef he do screach."

So Buddy was washed, and the supper was cooked, and
for the first time in many months the men came home to
find food laid on the table for them, and sat down to eat
it, instead of carrying what they could pick up out of the
cabin and taking it away to eat as they sat around the still
in silent discomfort. Now they were comforted by the
change and sat around the cabin door afterward, and
smoked and talked awhile and admired the baby, now grown
plump and fair and ready to smile at any smiling face.

Lury talked about him and showed him with pride, and
all the time Ellen's envy grew and ate into her heart.

CHAPTER X

THE king's highway

Time passed swiftly and brought changes to the Settle-
ment and on the mountain along the line of the new auto-
mobile road. The work was pushed rapidly, and gangs
of men forged ahead, clearing the old King's Highway,
cutting down trees and saplings that had filled the old
roadbed with obstacles, hauling gravel and sand, and
building concrete culverts where once fords were considered
good enough for crossing the streams. It was a period of
active work for Barney O 'Harrow.

At last the broad highway swept smoothly along, curving
among the hills and climbing — climbing — twisting and
turning, until it rose to the top of the ridge where the old
mail coach used to labor heavily, and where passengers
used to watch warily for the bad places in the road, and
get out to help extricate a wheel from the mud, now and
again, or walk up a steep ascent to ease the team.

Times were changed since that old highway was first
made over the mountain by hardy pioneers, who often
faced dangers from lurking Indians, or stealthy panther,
or prowling bear, — dangers long since forgotten. Then
they carried their corn on their backs and foraged for meat
with their long-barreled rifles, with flint and steel and
powder flask, bringing down sometimes a wild turkey or
an antlered deer.

ii6 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Times were changed since famiKes, taking refuge from
religious persecution, had fled warily along in companies,
seeking a place where they might establish themselves
and worship according to their own understanding of God
and right, unhurt therefor and unhindered.

Times were changed since desperate, lawless men of
crime had fled from their fellows and justice, to hide them-
selves in holes and caves, to Hve by depredations on those
who dared live honorably, even though themselves fugitives
from persecution. Indeed times had changed since noble-
men and ^'gentry" had fled from jealousies and their
enemies in kings' courts, from political animosities, or
from those who hated them for loving humanity enough
to uplift the afilicted and downtrodden.

And times had changed since the descendants of all
these had become a people set apart but still keeping
among themselves their original caste hnes, — some travel-
ing in luxurious coaches over the old King's Highway to
visit the cities and taste the gaiety of the towns, to learn
the styles in dress, or mayhap to place their children in
schools; while their neighbors slowly drifted into deeper
and deeper ignorance, Kving in their old traditions and
gradually losing all interest in the world below them,
becoming at last content to merely exist, in unschooled
isolation.

And again times had changed with the War of the Revolu-
tion, which called back from their places of refuge many
now glad to fight for the new land and their ov/n freedom,
leaving those who had no reason for such a struggle to live
on untouched by the surging forces that were making for
progress below their heights.

THE KING'S HIGHWAY 117

And still other changes had come when another war
called many down from their isolation to suffer in the cause
of progress w^hich was being wrought by the Almighty
without their understanding the significance thereof, —
when soldiers invaded their seclusion and marched in
weary companies over the old highway, climbing on foot
and struggling to get their artillery and baggage over the
mountain passes, now nearly impassable through neglect
and indifference.

And now at last, what a change indeed had come upon
the old King's Highway! Now, with no straining horses
or struggling oxen to pull them, without smoke or steam,
strange vehicles gHded swiftly over the transformed high-
way. Beautiful coaches, some closed and curtained, like
pretty Kttle parlors on w^heels, and filled with dainty
people, some wide and open, filled with laughing, happy
folk, had replaced the coaches of the olden days, which
used to lumber heavily over a rough, uneven way.

And the people who filled them, how gay they seemed,
and how carefree ! Some, with ruddy cheeks, rode bare-
headed, with hair flying in the wind ; and some wore float-
ing veils in lovely hues, and closely tied bonnets, out of
which their faces shone Kke flowers set about with a silken
calyx. Beautiful coaches of many sorts, — they glided
swiftly around curves and over ridges, up the hill and
down the hollows, cKmbing, ever cKmbing, and then
descending, twisting and turning, now up, now down, but
ever descending, to the plains below.

Where were they all going, these people, every day — ■
passing and repassing, seemingly never stopping, just
going, going, going. Where? And why?

ii8 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

So questioned Lury Bab in her wondering mind — the
same Lury Bab who had fled to B'ar Waller in terror and
anguish that dark, stormy night when Daniel McEwen
had found her and taken her to his cabin, and fed and
comforted her. Outwardly all seemed changed on the
mountain, at least along the line of the highway, but in
reality the changes had hardly been appreciated in the old
haunts, so well had Daniel kept guard over the real secrets
of the hills.

The little gold mine was unknown, and the hidden still
where Bab had made his deadly moonshine was hidden as
before. The Kfe of the people of the hills drifted on in
the old way. Bab's death had never yet been avenged —
although slumbering elements were unforgetting that it
had not been and it was generally accepted that an enemy
had found him out and had killed him for som-e perfectly
good and quite private reason, and that his death was but
merited.

Daniel McEwen Hved serenely his even life, and the
eagles still had their nest in the lap of the overhanging
crag. He sat in the evenings and watched their circling
flight. Whether he brooded as of old over the thought of
his lost love, who might know? He never mentioned her
name. She had gone out of his Hfe, and her death had
been avenged, and he sat alone with his memories.

Yet Daniel McEwen was not an old man. He, indeed,
had interests in hfe now he had not had before he took
Barney O'Harrow that long day's tramp over the old
King's Highway. He had become a man of greater im-
portance on the mountain. His word was law in his
community. He had saved his neighbors from intrusion.

THE KING'S HIGHWAY 119

and he only could guard them from mischievous civil
authorities who had, in their eyes, no natural right among
them or over them.

Down in the low country, Daniel McEwen^s judgment
was respected, and he was looked upon as one who might
be depended on to keep the wilder element around him
under control. For these reasons, in the field of poHtics
he was considered to be one who could carry his ticket to
success, and his name had been proposed for the State
Legislature, but toward this end he would take no step.
He still sat in his doorway and smoked his pipe and smiled,
and watched the circHng eagles.

Still time passed, and the Settlement began to be known
in the low-country towns along the automobile route as
an interesting place to stop and view the mountain people
in their native conditions; even as humanity in general
Hkes to hunt out curious vagaries of their own species,
merely for the sake of entertainment. ^'You know,"
they would inform each other, *'if you are going to motor
across the mountains, you must be sure to stop at the
Settlement. It's so t^'pical, half-way up, and where you
see the oddest specimens of humanity — "

Consequently the Settlement soon ceased to be really
typical, although their neighbors below them still thought
it so. For the lowest of their class, the most degenerate
and forlorn, began to hang about the formerly self-respect-
ing community for what they might pick up and gain by
the very spectacle of their forlornness, from the more
tenderhearted of their inquisitive visitors, thus adding
to their own degeneracy and taking one step lower on the
descending scale of humanity.

I20 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

In the same way those who held their independence
dear resented, in a quiet way, the intrusion of the world
below and the fact that they were regarded as human
curiosities by those who should be simply their fellow
beings. Therefore they ceased to frequent the village
as they had formerly done, visiting it only when they
needed supplies, passively ignoring their inquisitive invaders,
and soon taking themselves off to some favorite haunt or
camping-place where the curious-minded would not intrude.
By degrees they ceased to feel at home in the village which
had once seemed peculiarly their own. Why this should
be they themselves could hardly explain.

Compton Ross still kept the village store, and their
corn was still ground at Cloud's Mill as regularly as of
old. Those who formerly Kved in the place lived there
still, but the land had increased in value, as Daniel McEwen
had warned the widow Basle it would, and a few here and
there had sold off their little patches. Strangers of a
humble sort had come to build small homes, and the atmos-
phere was slowly changing.

The real people of the mountains, however, remained
distinct, aloof, following their own pursuits according to
their own notions, as if obHvious of the strangers, yet
quietly, tolerantly, and even at times amusedly observant
of them. So also the secrets of the hills remained secret,
locked in their sequestered hollows by nature^s barriers
and set apart by their inaccessibility from all but hardy
climbers on mule back or on foot. The happy travelers
of the old highway flew along the now widened and smoothly
graded road, winding and doubling, cHmbing and descend-
ing, regarding the beauties of the hills now from this point

THE KING'S HIGHWAY 121

of vantage and now from that, looking down on tumbling
streams which had once been fords and out along the way
that stretched before them hke a broad ribbon of rich red
Pompeian velvet twisting among the green pines and past
giant chestnuts, on over the crest and down again to the
plains below. Then they would say: "We have seen the
mountains."

They had indeed seen the mountains, the surface of
them, and for these it had been enough — quite enough.
To see understandingly is given to but few and only to
those who search lovingly, whether it be in the heart of
the hills or in the hearts of humanity.

CHAPTER XI

THE SISTERS

Sattirday, from early morning until late into the night,
was the one great day when the country people from all
over the hills came to the Settlement to barter and to
meet kinsfolk, to gossip and hear the news. Hence Satur-
day was the great and busy day for Compton Ross at the
store. It was the busy day at the mill, also, for there they
brought their weekly supply of corn to be ground for them-
selves and for their neighbors, and if they could not be
persuaded to leave it from one Saturday until the next, the
old mill must grind at a lively pace all day long and some-
times far into the night. There all the evening long a
crowd would collect, waiting for their Httle bags of freshly
ground meal to be loaded on to their mules behind them
or placed in their wagons.

To the more law-abiding and timid of the community,
Saturday was also a time of terror, and the women kept
to their houses and admonished their children to stay at
home in the evening ; for the mountain men brought their
Hquor with them, and what they did not bring, they could
easily find. When it was time for the sun to set, and they
should have been well on their way home, many of them
were recklessly tearing about the village, seeking for trouble
and usually finding it.

Many an old grievance was summarily and primitively

THE SISTERS 123

settled in front of Ross' store or on the roads from there to
Cloud's Mill. It had always been thus, and the opening
of the new automobile route through the \dllage made little
change in this respect. On Saturday, as of old, the big
white-oak tree in front of the store always sheltered the
usual number of tethered mules and canvas-covered wagons
and drowsing oxen under its wide-spreading branches.

One of these Saturday afternoons, late in October, a
shabby livery carriage driven by a loquacious old negro
arrived at the Settlement from Woodville and halted under
the wide-spreading oak, along with the other antiquated
vehicles. Two pleasant-faced ladies, surrounded by neat
hand-bags and valises, occupied the carriage, and they
leaned out and peered around in an interested way at the
store, the country people, and the little cabins and frame
houses clustered near by and scattered about among the
hills.

''Well, Caroline, how does it seem to you? What's
the name of this place, driver?"

"Place name Settlement, ma'am."

*' Settlement ? Has it no other name than ' Settlement ' ? "

''Not as eveh I beared on, ma'am."

"WeU, Caroline, does it seem to you that we are called
to stop here?"

"I don't know as I should say 'called', Elizabeth — but
— is there a school here, do you know, driver, or a church ? "

"Naw'm, I don't reckon they is any sich as that heah.
Hit's on'y jes' sorter a settlement, ma'am — not regular,
so to speak, a town, ma'am."

"I see. Well, where there are people, there should be
a church, and where there are children, there should be a

124 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

school, no matter what the place is; and I see plenty
of people and children, too. Yes, Elizabeth, I should say
'called' — anyway, to stop and look into it."

''It does seem so. Where do people generally stay,
when they come up here, driver?"

"They doesn't mos' gen'ly stay, ma'am. Dey gen'ly
comes heah an' goes on th'ough, ma'am."

"I see. This is one of the places that are passed over.
Then, Elizabeth, we must be 'called.' "

"Likely so. Go on a few steps farther, driver, and we'll
make inquiries at the store."

So the two decorous, sweet-faced ladies stopped at the
store and gave their names, Elizabeth Graves and Caroline
Tabor, to Compton Ross, and made careful inquiries as
to some place in the village where they might reasonably
expect to find board and lodging. Compton Ross lifted his
bushy red eyebrows and drew his heavy shock of dull red
hair vigorously forward to meet them, as if thereby to in-
crease his cerebral activity, and produced a pencil with
which he scratched his ear to further help his cogitations
in a difficult matter.

Two or three men lounging against the building joined
in the consultation, and together they verbally canvassed
the whole village, arriving at last at the obvious conclusion,
known to them all from the beginning, that the right and
sole place to go to was the home of Mrs. Deal. She had had
her brother. Bill Hutchins, the carpenter of the village,
build a room on the side of her little frame dwelling for the
express purpose of taking boarders, should any individuals
be minded to brave a short stay at the Settlement. This
she had done with admirable foresight, in spite of her

THE SISTERS 125

neighbor's derision, as soon as she learned that the new road
was to pass through the place.

^'Miz Deal's takin' bo'dehs" had been for some time a
standing joke in the Settlement, and as no one had yet
qualified for such a position in her home, and as any one in
the village showing such thrift and foresight was instantly
stigmatized as '^uppish an' big feelin'", her room was the
last to be mentioned as a possible and very doubtful stop-
ping-place for the kindly sisters.

This settled, the ladies were driven down a red, muddy bit
of street across a rapid, stony, little stream, up the bank
on the farther side, and a short distance along a laurel and
weed-bordered road brilliant with autumn leaves and
goldenrod, that seemed to saunter irregularly about through
the village, to one of the few neatly painted houses. The
new room was conspicuous by its aspect of newness, being
still unpainted and glowing with the warm sunlight color
of new pine boards. When they entered the room, they
found it sealed throughout with the same yellow new pine
and exclaimed at the pleasant odor of pine resin.

"Now I should call this a plain leading — to find such a
room as this, all new and waiting," said Caroline happily,
setting down her hand-bag with a certain air of proprietor-
ship, while her sister interviewed Mrs. Deal about board
and lodging.

Mrs. Deal was loquacious and pleased. She was a deli-
cate looking woman, who had once been pretty but was now
pinched and careworn. Her hands were hard v/ith labor
and her manner eager, but her demands were not great, and
the sisters were glad to accept her terms without demur.

"We'll take the room and board for a week, anyway,"

126 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

said Elizabeth, not wishing to commit herself to a longer
stay imtil, with New England caution, they had tested
the quality of the place in general. After a week, they
would know whether they were really called to bide here,
or to move on.

WJien the week was past, they had made their decision,
and there they established themselves. Before a year was
gone, Behold! not only were they still renting the room
of Mrs. Deal, but out of their limited means they had pur-
chased a patch of ground near by, and Bill Hutchins was
building them a small, four-room house, very cheaply.
Opening off from it was to be a large room, well lighted
and generously designed, with fireplace and broad hearth-
stone, and furnished with pine tables and mountain-made,
splint-bottom chairs, among which were two big rockers
and two settles, one on either side of the fireplace.

Then there came a day when their hmited store of house-
hold goods was hauled up by mule teams from the nearest
station. Two wagons carried all their possessions, which
included a good cook range and a sweet- toned cabinet organ.
Few and very simple were their household goods, but simple
also were their tastes, and their demands upon the world
were few indeed. Very small were their resources, and
their income was slender.

In their younger days these two sisters had kept a private
school in a Httle New England village ; then Elizabeth had
married a young minister and had accompanied her husband
to India, where they spent a few years in privation, teaching
and giving their lives for the love of God and humanity. At
last, after ten years, Elizabeth returned. She had left in India
all she loved, — her husband and her little son in one grave.

THE SISTERS 127

Bowed and broken, she came to live with Caroline, and
the neighbors said of her : ''EHzabeth will never be herself
again." They were right, for Ehzabeth Graves had become
through her experiences such a woman as they had never
known before in that narrow, little. New England village.
Bowed indeed for a time, she arose from her weeping and
began her life anew. She taught in her sister's school
and carried the burdens of life for her. Continually she
gave out power and love, and her spirit became like a deep
and wonderful pool, reflecting in its calm, clear depths the
heavens in their beauty of the daytime glory and the stars
of night. So Elizabeth ceased to be herself and became
the stronger of the two, and her sister came to lean upon
her.

Together they labored and taught and helped in all the
village needs, yet saving a little here and there by excessive
thrift. Then CaroKne developed a cough, and the village
doctor stepped in, and the neighbors also, and said Caroline
must not stay any longer in the New England cKmate. No,
she must go to Colorado — to Arizona — to California —
New Mexico — anywhere, but go she must and at once.
But to go so far cost money, and they had very little.

''We will go south," said Elizabeth. "We may find
some place where we can be just as useful as we are here.
This may not be a trouble ; it may be a leading."

''If we can find a place where a school is needed," said
Caroline. "We might write a few letters here and there;
we must have a friend or two somewhere in the southern
mountains. The doctor says it is essential that we go to
mountains."

"Yes, but I can't seem to think of any one. I don't

128 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

really know where my old friends are. I don't know
where they all went — the ones who no longer live here — "
"Of course, Elizabeth. Remember Dick Hadley?"
A faint red overspread Elizabeth's face and mounted
to the roots of her hair. Just a soft, rosy glow it was.
CaroKne did not see it and continued without waiting for
a reply: "He went South and to the mountains. He had
a cough. Now, let me see. I did know where he went —
it was near the mountains, if it wasn't right in them. He
got well too. I'll write to his sister Hattie — she married
a Briggs — you remember them all, I'm sure. He used to
be at our house so much, but it must be twenty years now.
No wonder you forget ! It was just after you and Howard
left for India that he was taken with that cough — and, well
— Hattie said he was very bad with it — but I saw her a
few years ago, and she said he had quite recovered and had
married a lovely woman and settled down and had three
children and was making money. .Well, how time does fly.
rilwrite to Hattie— ''

"So do. Richard Hadley must be an old man by now.''
"How you talk! He can't be any older than you are,
or only a year or so, anyway. I'm only forty-nine, and
you are five years younger than I, and I don't call myself so
old. He can't be more than forty-six or seven at the most.
We both dress old and act old, but it's only a way w^e've
got into. I'll write to Hattie to-day."

"So do," said EKzabeth again. And the letter was
written. Other correspondence followed, which resulted
in the arrival of the two sisters in Woodville and a little
later their establishment in the Settlement.

CHAPTER XII

SCHOOL OPENS

"Lizzie!" As the days passed in their new home,
warm, sunny, invigorating days, the unconscious little
formalities of old New England, which had kept them call-
ing each other always by their full, dignified names ever
since the return of the younger sister from India, began to
drop away, and without giving the matter a thought or
reasoning about it in the least, the sisters began to call
each other by the names they had used in childhood. Once
again they had become Lizzie and Carrie — homely old
nicknames, but lovingly intimate as in the former days.

"Lizzie ! We've made a mistake to bring all these books
down here." Carohne was seated on the floor, sorting
books from the boxes in which they had been packed and
laying them out for her sister to place on the new pine
shelves prepared for them. "Now, weren't we foolish?
Look at this! 'Beginner's French.' 'Beginner's Latin.*
' First Lessons in Geometry. ' And here's a Latin lexicon ! ' '

"Why, that's all right, dear. It's not likely they will
have such books down here, and we will have to loan them
ours."

"Elizabeth S to well Graves! What are you talking
about? Do you suppose there's a child living within
twenty miles of us who will want to borrow one of these
books? More Hkely we'll have to use the little money we

I30 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

have left in hiring the children right here in the village to
come in and learn their letters. We should have brought
primers."

Elizabeth laughed merrily. ''Of course! And we
haven't a book with us younger than the Third Reader.
Well, we'll have to fill up our fine new bookshelves with
these; they'll do for that, anyway."

While the sisters talked and worked, there came a rap
at the house door, and Elizabeth stepped through the little
passage between the large room and the house. She went
with hope in her heart, for she had told Compton Ross the
day before to send her any children or their mothers who
would like to go to their school, and how Httle the lessons
would cost, and what an advantage the school was to be
in the village, and he had gravely promised that he would
send them all the children he could. Maybe he had sent
some one.

But the smile on Elizabeth's face died away as she looked
on her morning's guest, for Ellen Furman stood before her,
making her usual appeal of forlorn helplessness, and for
the time being the appeal was successful. The good sisters
would learn in the course of their labors who were worthy
and who were not, but as yet merely the sight of wretched-
ness stirred their warm hearts to sympathy and loving effort.

*' Why — how do you do ? Won't you walk in ? "

Ellen looked down at her shoes loaded with the red mud
of the hills, for it had rained during the night, and the paths
were wet, and the wet brambles had caught and torn the
black skirt Ellen wore, which dragged on the ground in
the back and swung several inches high in front.

**I reckon I cain't come in, I be that kivered weth mud.

SCHOOL OPENS 131

The roads is mighty sHck an' hard trompin' oveh the
mountains, long daoun six or eight mile I be'n trompin'.
Seem like I neveh would git heah, an' I has a hurtin' in my
side seem like hit neveh will git well. I thought maybe
you-uns mount know somethin' what mount he'p me a
lee tie, sence Miz Basle say you-uns is knowin' eve'y thing
she eveh hearn on, an' I hev done took a heap o' med'cin,
but they hain't nothin' seem like eveh hev done me no good.
An' doctehs hain't no good, neitheh, seem like — "

"Well, now, you walk right in and never mind the mud.
That's a thing we can always get rid of, mud is. Where
do you live?"

The visitor had a way of beginning each long-winded
speech with energy and then subsiding to a dismal, weak,
monotonous whine as she droned on.

*'I live yon' way up th' mountain; hit mus' be eight
mile f'om heah, an' I hev be'n walkin' eveh sence early
mawnin' ontwel I be like to drap. I be that po'ly I cain't
eat nothin' much, on'y jes' lee tie tast' o' apple, what I eat
whilst I were trompin'. I got to sell somethin' to git
money fer them as I lives weth, they be that pore an' good
fer nothin', cain't earn nothin', ha'dly, on'y to raise a leetle
corn or sich, an' co'n-meal is too heavy fer my stomick
seem like —

*' Well, come in. Never mind the mud. You can scrape
most of it off on the scraper there. You say corn-bread is
bad for your stomach ? Well, we have a very good baking
of white bread, and when you go, I'll give you a loaf for
yourself. Who do you live with, did you say?"

''Wall'm, I Uves yon' way up the mountain, an' my oF
man, he's a-drinkin' man, yas'm, and my baby, he's sick

132 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

mos' o' the time, an' ef we could git to live by ouah-se'fs,
we mount make out to git on right well ; but thar's kin-
folks of my oV man's what Kves weth us, an' hit be like to
kill me to git on weth 'em, they is that low-down good fer
no thin', neveh do no thin' fer nobody, jes' lay roun' an' git
me to work fer 'em Kke to kill myse'f an' slave fer 'em, no'
count girl an' that boy what her maw took up ; an' now she
be dade, an' he hangin' roun' yit. Seem like I cain't bide
jes' to look at 'im, an' she got that baby, an' hain't mo'n a
baby herse'f , but she make out to boss the hull on us, puttin'
on airs like her maw done give the baby to her, but hit be fer
me to keer fer, an' her too — "

"I don't seem to understand."

"Naw'm, they don't nobody un'stan', seem like. Her
maw died, and she took the baby, an' she do say hit be
hern. Hit be jes' hke I tell you-uns. So I come down
to see did you-uns wan' to buy a few fraish aigs, 'case I be
'bleeged to sell some fer to he'p out a leetle, an' git med'cin'
fer my baby, he be thet po'ly, an' her paw, he were shot
dade right by he's own doeh, and found lyin' thar v/eth th'
bullet th'ough he's heaht, and the gun tho'd down at he's
feet like somebody had shot him so an' then spurned him
fer a dawg. Yas'm, hit were awful, an' I know who done
hit, fer I done hearn him say a heap o' times he were goin'
to do hit, but I hain't sayin' nothin' on 'count I be that
kind-heahted. I don' 'low to 'cuse nobody but jes' leave
the Lord chastize 'em fer what they done ef so be they done
hit — "

"Why — that's an awful thing you are saying against
some one — unless you are sure — a dreadful accusation,
you know."

SCHOOL OPENS 133

"Naw'm, I don' 'cuse no one, fer I hain't sayin' nothin'
only jes' I be sure like I done seed 'im do hit, yas'm, but
I don' say nothin', fer I hearn the preacher say a heap o'
times 'at the Lord he Hkes fer to take vengeance hisse'f
an' don' wan' nobody do hit fer 'im. Ef the Lord gits mad
at ye fer sin, ye mount as well lay down an' die, fer the'
hain't no gittin' shet o' the anger o' the Lord, Kke preacher
Price say at the fun'l, so him what done hit, the anger o'
the Lord'll strike 'im, an' he'll be come up weth, so I
hain't sayin' nothin', jes' lyin' low waitin' fer the Lord to
strike.'*

Now EKzabeth Graves suspected that the poor creature
had been drinking from the stale odor that pervaded the
place after she had closed the door and her guest was seated,
so she busied herself with making a cup of coffee for her.
^'I'll give her one wholesome meal, anyway," she said to
herself and asked her no more questions.

"I have right fine fraish aigs, ef ye like to git some."
I'll buy them, certainly ; how much are they ?"
I reckon I has twelve heah ; maybe they is fo'teen,
but you-uns kin have 'em fer fifteen cents, like I says, hit's
jes' fer to git a leetle med'cin' fer my baby. I has twenty-five
cents, an' fifteen ; thet's what hit costs, maybe ye mount
like me to fetch ye down a chicken some day, 'er a leetle
pig ; hit's right fine to have one 'roun' ef ye likes hawg meat
in winter. We has ten leetle pigs, an' hit costs a heap to
feed ten, mo'n we git f'om co'n bilein' — " She stopped
abruptly, as she did not mean to explain just how their own
hogs were fed with the leavings of their sour mash, then
continued the steady, monotonous strain of her peevish
whine: **We cain't raise 'nough on ouah leetle patch o'

134 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

co'n fer feedin' ten hawgs no way, so I thought Td make
out to sell one, ef so be you-uns'd like to buy one — "

But the sisters did not care to buy the pig ; they arranged
to have a few chickens brought down to them, however,
and sent the woman away with a loaf of sweet, white bread
after giving her a good dinner with coffee. After she left,
the good women aired the room well, and then sat down to
their own meal and talked the circumstance over.

*' What awful thoughts such women must have 1 Did you
hear what she said about the Lord's taking vengeance?
Carrie, just think of imagining that God takes pleasure in
revenge!"

^*But she may not have been in her right mind, Lizzie.
Let's hope so, anyway."

Then EHzabeth laughed. ^^Well," she said, taking off
her glasses and wiping away the tears of laughter, '^t's a
rehef to be able to laugh after such a visit as that. To
think of you sitting there and calmly hoping a woman may
not be in her right mind."

''Well, I don't know but what it's the most charitable
way to look at it, when a woman calmly sits there and says
she is waiting for the Lord to strike. I should think she
would be afraid the Lord might strike her. I'm beginning
to see one thing, Lizzie. We must do something more
radical than what we're doing. We can't sit here and wait
for scholars to come to us ; and if they should come, they
wouldn't have a cent to pay toward their tuition, no matter
if we asked them only a penny a day. I see that we'll
have to go out into the * highways and hedges ' and gather
them in."

'''The laborer is worthy of his hire.' We must not take

SCHOOL OPENS 135

another cent out of the bank, or we'll have nothing left
before the year's gone. Do you know how much we have
left?"

^*I don't care how much we have left. 'The Lord will
provide.' If it's His work, He'll take care of it and us,
too."

*' But Carrie, we can't go on pauperizing this community."

Now it was Carrie's turn to laugh. "Who pauperized
it before we came here? I think if we go on in the same
line, we'll have to invest in a whisky still. That's what's
done it in the past. Laziness and drunkenness, that's
what ails this community, and it's so beautiful here that it
wrings my heart to look out on these hills, 'Where every
prospect pleases, and only man is vile.'"

''If 'The Lord will provide', we'll have to ask help. We
must find out who the preacher is she spoke of and get him
to cooperate with us. Or we might connect ourselves with
some missionary board, and — "

"Lizzie! I don't want any board back of me! I may
be fooHsh, but I feel that I don't want any board, who
know nothing about conditions here, dictating to me."

"Well, then, I don't see that there's anything left for
us to do but to trust in the Lord," said EHzabeth, with a
sigh.

"Like the old woman who broke her hip jumping from
the sleigh, when the mare was running away down-hill.
'Why did you jump?' said her neighbor. 'Why didn't
you trust in the Lord ? ' 'I did till the breeching broke, and
then I jumped,' she said. I don't know but what I feel Kke
that old woman, — that H's time we jumped, even if we
break — the bank."

136 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Then they both laughed, for they were a merry pair, for
all their difficulties.

^'I don't know but what you're right. Maybe the Lord
means us to jump, but I do hope He'll see to our landing —
somewhere. I don't mean any harm, Carrie, but I do feel
that we ought to see our way a little clearer before we touch
that money, or — "

^'Not touch that money at all, dear — only jump. I
mean to write to Peg Kitchel. You know, even if we used
every cent we ha /e in the world, twenty-five hundred dollars
would not go far for what we need here. Now would it? "

"Of course ! Peg ! But I should want to be very sure
there was no self leading there, Carrie. She may be abroad.
They're always going abroad. That's how I met them
first — coming home from India — and she was only ten
years old then. What a wonderful thing to have so much
money you don't know what to do with it 1"

"I'll write to Hattie Briggs to-day — Hattie Hadley that
was, you know. Her sister-in-law is Peg's stepmother.
Peg's a dear. She always was, and she'll be glad to do a
little good. She must be twenty-one by now, so her money
is in her own hands. Why, Dick Hadley may know where
she is."

"Yes, dear. So do. I'm going over to the store soon,
and I'll post the letter."

It was Monday and a dull day at the store. Elizabeth
found no customers there but one httle boy, buying snuff
for his mother. She stopped him and asked a few questions,
merely to get acquainted with him.

"Why ! Have you hurt your foot?" The little fellow
was limping, and one big toe was tied up in a rag.

SCHOOL OPENS 137

^'Yas'm.'^

"How did you do it ?'^

*^Do' know. Hit jes' come so."

" It did ! Well, see here, do you like candy ? ''

"Yas'm."

"Why, that's good ; so do I. What kind do you like?"

"That thar kin'." He pointed shyly to some huge
sticks lying in the little glass case on one end of the counter ;
eight inches long and at least an inch in diameter they were,
of red and white peppermint. She paused, undecided
whether she ought to present the child with so large an
amount, no doubt to be devoured inunediately ; then she
compromised.

"When I was a child, I used to like this kind of candy."
She pointed to the smaller sticks in a glass jar. "Now,
which would you rather have, six sticks of this, or one like
this big one?"

"I reckon I'd ruther hev this 'n."

"You would! Well, you shall have it. I'll get two of
them, and you shall have one, and I'll take the other, and
when I go home, my sister and I will divide it. Have you
any sisters and brothers?"

"Yas'm."

"Somebody sent me a big box of oranges last week. If
you'll wait a minute while I do my bu)dng, I'll take you up
to my house and give you one. Will you ? "

"Yas'm."

As she walked to the farther end of the store, she spied
a brown paper parcel, partly opened, and knew it for the
loaf of bread she had given to Ellen Furman. Why was it
there ?

138 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

*^Have you any white bread?" she asked innocently.

"Here's a loaf of right good bread, jes' come in," said
Comp Ross. "We don't keep white bread as a gen'l thing,
hit's slow sellin'. Jes' happen's so we hev this 'n."

" Oh ! Well, how much is this ? I'll take it."

"I cain't rightly say how much I'd ought to ask fer hit,
fer hit were lef in trade. She lacked ten cents o' gettin
med'cine fer her baby, and she asked would I take the
bread in change, and I t'uk hit. Seem like hit'd ought to
be ten cents."

"Very well. I'll take the bread. What kind of medicine
does she get for her baby?"

"She git this here sleepin' med'cine. They do say hit's
right good fer makin' chil'en sleep whilst they're worry-
some gittin' their teeth. I gin hit to my baby oncet, an'
she slep' the hull night th'ough, but they do say hit be bes'
not to gin hit to 'em too often, jes' foUer this 'ere readin'
on the bottle; an' hit's all right, an' good med'cine, too.
Anythin' else, ma'am?"

"If any of your customers do weaving, will you send
them to me? I want to get some good homespun for
curtains. I'll take a bottle of that medicine, too."

Then Elizabeth hurried away, with the little boy hopping
along at her side. She had learned something. She had
bought back her own loaf of bread and had purchased a
bottle of soothing syrup, neither of which she wanted;
and she had learned the name of the woman who had visited
her that morning and where she lived, and had made the
acquaintance of the boy at her side. Already she had
begun to go out into the "highways and hedges."

"Carrie, this is Billy Finch. He's going to have one of

SCHOOL OPENS 139

those oranges that came yesterday. Have you any brothers
and sisters, Billy?"

^'Yas'm."

''How many have you ? "

''Nine." The sisters looked at each other in dismay.
There were only a few oranges left.

"Nine? Are they all at home?"

"Naw'm. They hain't nobody thar on'y me an' Sis."

"Oh !" said Caroline. "Then you must take one to Sis.
Now, some day you must bring your little sister to see us,
will you?"

"Yas'm."

Then Billy Finch took his departure, limping away well
content. Truly the rest of the children were gone out of
the Finch home, for all were married and living in Plainsville
or up the mountain, as their mother later told Elizabeth.
Only the two Kttle ones were left, and soon they were en-
rolled as pupils and the school opened.

CHAPTER XIII

DAPHNE

Late that afternoon Ellen came slowly dragging up the
mountain and found Lury seated on a rock beside the trail,
her little brother playing about her feet.

*'What you doin' down this-a-way fer? Whyn't you
stay home an' git supper ? Here I be mos' dade fer somep'n'
to eat, hain't had no thin' sence mawnin' — what you done
weth Buddy?"

"Ellen Furman, you no business w'arin^ my clo's down
to th' Settlement. I know'd you'd got 'em, an' I done come
down here to tear 'em off 'n you. I 'a' mind to do hit now.
Look at you draggin' my dress in mud an' briehs. I 'a*
mind to pull 'em off'n you an' leave you go home b'ar, an'
I will, too."

*^You tech me, an' I'll whack thet baby. I'll whack 'im
good. I'll — " She lifted her hand and stooped tov/ard
the child as if to strike, and he ran toward his sister, crying
in terror.

"You tech 'im, an' I'll kill ye. See how he's cryin' jes'
to look at ye. He be Hke th' res' on us, — cain't bide
the sight on ye. Thar, Honey-Son, sisteh won' 'low 'er
tech ye nor look at 3^e. Haish, haish. You 'low to make
yorese'f look decent w'arin' my dress an' hat an' shoes,
does ye? You come draggin' up th' mountain slow as a

DAPHNE 141

lame hop- toad. Ye looks like a sick yaller cat. You take
off my things, an' neveh you tech my baby long as you be
livin'."

^'Did'n' I tell ye haish up 'bouts tellin' 'at thet chile be
yourn? Ef ye tells down to Woodville 'at thet chile be
yore baby, they'll spit on ye. What-all you doin' half-way
down mountain? Hangin' 'roun' the new road watchin'
fer to see them city folks rid'n' up an' down. I knows
what you up to, — luggin' thet chil' weth ye, like ye had
no shame. Whar be th' men folks? " Lury did not reply,
and Ellen walked on, muttering.

For a moment Lury stood watching the clothing David
had purchased for her being dragged in the dirt and care-
lessly trailed over brambles and wild briars. Poor girl !
She had done all she knew how to do in her ignorance, and
the problem of her life was becoming too hard for her. She
did not know how to cope with her wily and sullen persecu-
tor. She was now a tall girl, and the clothing she had kept
carefully and worn only over to the little church where
Preacher Price held forth every other Sunday, three miles
away from the Cove, had lately been appropriated by Ellen
and hung on the woman's lank fig-ure in weird disarray.

''She think she hev a right to ev'ything I got. I'll git
me a box an' lock my clo's whar she cain' git 'em. I'll
make Jim gin me some o' my money, an' Dave'U git me
some new ones. She'll hev to w'ar these 'at she hev tore
all up. I'll neveh tech 'em ag'in, sence she hev wore 'em.
They be no good now."

The wearing of her clothes was not all that Ellen did to
trouble Lury. Of late she had begun making vague re-
marks about knowing something which she could use to

142 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

get David on the chain gang, if she were not so kind-
hearted. Sometimes she would leer at the girl and say :

"You put's on a heap o' airs, but ef ye went down to
Woodville, ye would'n' know what struck ye. Nobody'd
speak to ye nor look at ye. They is some at th' Settle-
ment knows what you be, too."

These vague insinuations Lury felt to be sinister, but did
not comprehend their import. Now if it were not for the
little brother toddling at her side, clinging to her finger,
she would wander away somewhere, — she did not know
where, — anywhere to get away from those who mo-
nopolized her home and were beginning to ignore her and
treat her as if she had no real rights there but were only
allowed to remain on sufferance. She did not know her own
power, and they were trying to keep her from discovering
it by a sort of intimidation. Ellen's method being a skilful
use of fear, she caused Lury to dread some evil that was
likely to fall on Dave, unless she were very discreet, or on
herself if she tried to go where she would be out from under
Ellen's domination.

In spite of David's attempts to enlighten Lury by telling
her the Furmans had no right in the place, she did not know
how to rid herself of them, for they were there long before
Lee Bab was killed, and it seemed as if it were the natural
order of things and must go on indefinitely. She was like
a bird in a snare, and whichever way she turned, she seemed ♦
to beat her poor wings in vain.

The air was soft, and the autumn leaves were dropping
quietly around her. She settled the baby on a mossy
mound, where he would be away from the prickly chestnut
burrs, and gave him acorn cups to play with, while she

DAPHNE 143

searched for the scattered nuts, dropping them in the bag
over her arm. She was not far from the new road. Ellen
was right in saying that she liked to linger near it and watch
the wonderful machines go gliding by. She loved to make
stories about them and tell the stories to Honey-Son.
She would hear them humming afar off hke a low purring of
the wind among the pines, and the fascinating sound would
come nearer and grow stronger, and she would snatch up
the little brother and run with him to her point of vantage
where the road showed clear before them in two directions.
There she would watch them pass and glide swiftly on
into the unknown.

Now as she disconsolately searched for the thinly
scattered nuts which had been loosened by an early frost,
she lifted her head and Hstened. Far away up the mountain
she heard the low humming without the throb of the engine,
for from that direction the machines only coasted. Hur-
riedly she snatched the child in her arms and ran to her
point of outlook.

"Thar, Honey-Son ! Thar, hit be a-comin', the gre't big
hummin' bee. Heah hit hummin'? Hark now. Watch
how hit come a-flyin' ! Some day a gre't big bee shore will
come 'long here, a-buzzin' an' a-shootin' down like a chick'n
hawk a'ter a chick'n, an' hit'll jes' grab we-uns an' — "

Before she could get any further in the story a loud report
caused her to leap with fright and clasp the child closer,
to run with him out of danger — somewhere — anywhere.
As she stood thus poised for flight among the goldenrod
and crimson autumn leaves, a girlish laugh made her
pause. The machine stopped, and two men got out and
walked around it. Then the girl who had laughed alighted.

144 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"It serves you right, Bob. Now you'll have to stop a
while and let me get some leaves. That's what comes of
being cross. Help me up the bank, will you? I'll get
them while you and Barney jack up. Have you a pocket-
knife? Have you, Barney?" She turned from one to
the other.

Lury watched them, fascinated. She knew those men.
She had seen them a long time ago on the mountain. Yes.
They were the same men. She had lied to them. They
must know it now. What would they say to her? In-
stantly she panoplied herself in her armor of inscrutability.

Then the girl spied her standing there, the slant rays of
the declining sun glorifying her mass of dusky yellow hair,
her glowing skin, and warm brown eyes, surrounded by
autumn foliage of russet green and gold and red, against a
background of somber, deep brown, shadowy woods. She
still stood poised for flight, with the beautiful child in her
arms.

The young woman caught her breath. "Look,'^ was all
she said, with a swift wave of her arm toward Lury. The
two men paused and looked, then all three climbed the bank
and walked toward her. It was as if they were inevitably
drawn to approach a picture so wildly beautiful.

*'Why, you are Sally Cloud, aren't you?" said Bob
Kitchel, with a smile.

The smile reassured her, but she said nothing, only nodded
her head. Then the three stood before her dumb. Each
searched in his mind for some reason why they should have
climbed up there to thus gaze at her, and each knew it
was because of the singular beauty of both herself and the
child. But to put such a reason in words would have been

DAPHNE 145

impossible and foolish; moreover, she would not have
understood.

•' It was Lury herself who broke the spell. She arrived
all in a moment at the very sane conclusion that she would
tell the truth and brave the worst. It was the kindly,
sympathetic look in the eyes of Bob Kitchel which worked
this marvel in her mind. It was to him she had lied first
that day. To him she would make reparation.

"I done lied to ye, that time," she said, fixing her eyes
on his and ignoring the rest. They were all silent, and she
caught her nether lip between her teeth to keep it from
trembling and then went bravely on. ''I were skeered on
ye. I were skeered ef I tol' ye my right name, ye'd know
who I were, an' ye'd make me show ye whar my paw's still
were at, an' my paw'd kill me fer hit. An' — an' — I were
skeered ye mount want Dan'l M'Cune fer some devilment,
an' — an' — you'd git 'im an' put 'im on th' chain gang.
Thet's hu-come I tol' ye what I done."

She took a step back and lifted her head proudly. She
did not take her eyes from Bob's face.

"And is this your little brother, — the bundle we saw
rolled up on the bed ? " he asked, coming forward and taking
the little one's hand ; but the baby pulled it away and hid
his face in his sister's neck.

"Hain't nobody goin' to hurt you, Honey-Son," she said
and held him closer.

"How perfectly darling!" cried Peg. "You boys go on
and fix the machine. I'm going to sit here while you do it."
She dropped among the goldenrod and looked up at Lury
with an irresistible smile. "Let's sit here and watch them.
Shall we?"

146 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Slowly Lury settled herself on the rock near by, and Peg
loosened her bracelet and dangled the pretty jewel before
the baby's eyes. *' Babies always like this. Look at these
dents. My baby cousin made them with his little teeth."

The child took it gingerly in his hand, but kept his eyes
fixed on Peg instead of looking at the bracelet. Lury's
face Hghted with a smile as she settled him on her knee
and watched him admiringly.

"He's a perfectly beautiful baby. What's his name?"

"I jes' calls 'im Honey-Son."

"But he has a name beside that, hasn't he?"

"Naw'm. He hain't nobody, on'y me. Maw done give

"Oh," said Peg, unenlightened.

"What were you-uns shoot'n' at when ye stopped
thar?"

Peg turned a mystified glance on the girl. "Shooting?
We were not shooting."

Oh ! I thought I hearn a gun."

Oh, that noise? It was a tire bursting. That's why
we had to stop. See? They are lifting the automobile so
they can put on another."

Lury gazed eagerly down on the two men at their work.
She was forgetting her shyness. "When that thar thing
done bust, do hit jes' go ofif that-a-way, 'thout hurtin'
nobody?"

"Yes. It makes us stop until we can put on another,
that's all. How old is your little brother ? "

"He be nigh about two y'ar ol' now."

"Do you do everything for him yourself? Make his
clothes and all?"

DAPHNE 147

"Yas'm.'^

"And you haven't any one to help you? Well, I think
you are clever. I couldn't make a baby's dress. Do you
buy them, too — earn the money for them — his clothes,
I mean ?'^

"Yas'm. Ev'y thing yon' way to our place be mine.
Ef they make out they hain't goin' to gin me the money
what I has to hev, I jes' gin 'em word I'll skin 'em alive."

"Oh," said Peg again, still unenUghtened and more
curious.

"Yas'm. They-all puts on a mighty pore mouth. I
reckon ef they could git shet o' me, they'd do hit quick.
Leastways she would. I'd 'a' be'n pizened plumb th'ough
ef lookin' could 'a' done hit, an' Honey-Son, too."

"Oh, my!" cried Peg, astounded. Her friendhness, so
unfeigned and girlish, loosened Lury's tongue, and she
opened her hurt and lonely heart to this beautiful one who
had come to her out of the wonderful far-away, like a
spirit which had swept into her wild life on a swift breeze
from heaven. "How dreadful to have to live with people
like that ! Who are they ? "

"They be kin to my paw, but they be no kin to me."

"But can't you get away and Hve with some kinder,
nicer people?"

"I don't guess I could. Hit be my place — an' I reckon
I ruther live thar. I cain't turn 'em out 'thout I'd hev
nobody to bide 'long o' me, an' they'd hev nowhar to go.
I reckon th' hain't nothin' fer me to do, on'y jes' worry
along like I be'n doin'."

"But haven't you any friends — any kind friends?"

"Why — yas'm, I has Dave. He be right good."

148 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"And is he kin to you?"

"Naw'm. He hain't no kin. He were a love chile.
I wisht I were sich, fer my kin shore be mean to me."

For a while Peg sat looking off into the distance. A
bright red spot burned on one cheek, and her eyes had a
luminous mist in their dusky depths. The men were en-
grossed in their work, and Lury watched them with eager
interest.

"Look, Honey-Son, what them men a-doin' a-poundin'
on the gre't big hummin'-bee." The little fellow stood on
the rock on which they sat, his head, haloed with sunny
curls, close to his sister's, peering shyly over her gorgeous
oriole of sunbright hair. So delicately alike they were,
and Lury's face was so transformed with the smile which
lightened it when she turned her attention to the child,
that Peg found it hard to connect her manner of speech
with the personality which her face and carriage indicated.

"A strange little waif," thought Peg, and her heart
became quickly tender and sympathetic, more than merely
curious. "Tell me a little more about Dave," she said.
" Does he live with you ? What does he do ? "

"Yas'm, he live weth we-uns, when he livin' anywhar.
Mostly he go down country sellin\"

"Oh, do you have things to sell? What do you sell?"

Instantly a change spread over Lury's face. She had
forgotten herself and been incautious. What did he sell,
indeed ! All they made at the Cove was corn liquor, and
Dave's only business was taking it into the low country
and selling it. Neither of the brothers Furman would
have dared drive down into Woodville or Plainsville, or
anywhere else where Dave was in the habit of venturing,

DAPHNE 149

to sell Dave's load, and they were absolutely dependent
on him for the disposal of their product. Hence, while
they jealously watched him and in a way feared him, they
felt themselves helpless without him. Surprised at her
silence, Peg turned and looked full in Lury's eyes, and saw
there that strange barrier of inscrutability, only now it was
coupled with an open look of defiance.

For an instant Peggy was baffled, but she met the look
with a smile, and the smile won. Gradually Lury's ex-
pression changed, and she smiled back at her, a hesitant
smile that only quivered about her lips and then faded.

^' We-uns has a heap to sell, — hawg meat an' sich like.
I be'n gitt'n' chestnuts fer 'im to leave yandah to the store
at th' Settlement, fer them as comes by like you-uns buys
'em. I reckon they likes 'em."

*^0f course we do. We stuff turkeys with them at
Thanksgiving."

Lury's eyes opened wide with surprise. "Does turkeys
eat sich es thet? I neveh seed turkeys eat them nuts."

Peg laughed. "No, I mean we boil the nuts and stuff
the turkeys with them when we roast them. It's good, I
can tell you."

"I neveh heered sich es thet. Hawgs eats 'em an' gits
right fat on em, too."

"Dave isn't the only friend you have, is he? It's so
good to have friends. A girl like you ought to have some
friends who are different from those people who live with
you."

"Dave live weth me when he live anywhar. He be
right good to me an' Honey-Son. I reckon Dan'l M'Cune,
ef he know'd I needed 'im, he'd be right friendly, too.

I50 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

But I hain't need 'n ' him nor nobody, — f er I neveh
baigs fer no thin'."

Lury stood up, her chin lifted in an ungirlish pose, her
back straight as an arrow, more like a wild yoimg princess
of the hills than the sorrowful, harassed Lury of an hour
before.

Barney came springing up the bank. "All ready," he
shouted, and held out his hand to help Peg down, but she
knelt beside the baby boy, putting her arms around him.

Lury stooped to him and took the bracelet from his
tightly clenched fingers. "Give the lady the pretty,
Honey-Son. Hit hain't yourn. Give back the pretty."

"Now, isn't he good to hand it right back so?" cried
Peg, clasping the bracelet around her wrist. "Isn't he a
love? Barney, couldn't they ride a little way? Is there
a place we can turn to bring them back again?"

"Of course there is," said Barney, radiant to please.
"Come on, boy! That's it!" he lifted the little fellow to
his shoulder, but the child stretched his arms out to his
sister, and his lips quivered pitifully. He was too frightened
to cry aloud.

"He sich a baby! He won't 'low nobody tech 'im but
me an' Dave." Lury snatched him to her breast. "He
hain't goin' to hurt you, Honey-Son. What you skeered
fer? Sisteh won' 'low nobody tech you."

"But wouldn't you like to ride a Httle way — just to see
how it goes? They'd like to ride. Don't take the baby,
Barney; he wants his sister."

"Naw'm. I reckon we'd betteh be git'n' home. Hit's
nigh sundown. I has a right smaht piece to go, an' he
walks so slow I has to carry 'im. Good evenin'.

.' '»

DAPHNE 151

They stood and watched her slender figure slowly climb-
ing the hill slope with easy swing, the fair baby face looking
back at them over her shoulder.

''That girl is the most fascinating imp I ever looked on/'
said Bob. He had been watching the scene from where he
stood beside the car.

Barney smiled as he offered his hand to Peg. ''I believe
I recall some such remark. Who was the lady you com-
pared her to then? Daphne? She was the most forlorn
looking Httle reprobate you ever set eyes on. He thought
of making a poem to her and immortalizing her as Daphne,
while she stood there in rags and lied to us in the most
imperturbable way you ever saw."

"Couldn't you make her come along?" said Bob.

''She isn't the kind you could make do anything," said
Barney. "I imagine she is the one who does the making
where she goes. I don't know what her name is yet."

"Well, call her Daphne, then."

They returned to their car, and looking back from her
height above them, Lury saw it glide away down into the
creeping dusk and sighed wistfully.

"I wisht I had of dar'd," she said.

CHAPTER XIV

PROVIDENCE INTERVENES

That evening the sisters sat by their open fire in the
large schoolroom, which was so cosy, in spite of its generous
proportions, that it had become their Hving-room. Here,
each on a settle on either side of the great stone fireplace,
with a table between them, Elizabeth always served their
eveniQg meal, with pretty china and a tea-set of soHd sil-
ver. This tea-set was a relic of Elizabeth's wedding. It
was always kept shining, and it was always used.

Carefully Caroline affixed a slice of bread to the large
meat fork, which she had wired to a slender hickory wand,
making thus a handle so long that she could reach the
coals in the fireplace without burning her hands.

**I don't know but that I'm glad the evenings are grow-
ing cooler, so we can feel justified in having a fire like this."
She held the bread cautiously toward the heat and turned
it now and again, to have the delicate brown of the toast
just to her taste. ''It is funny to think of your buying
back your own bread for ten cents."

"It's worth that not to have to bake again to-morrow."

"And yet you were so disappointed to find it left there
after you had given it to her. There's nothing so funny as
folks."

"I know, but to have it thrown back in your teeth, so
to speak, — "

PROVIDENCE INTERVENES 153

*' Where would you have it thrown if not in your teeth,
being bread? Now you butter this while it's hot, and I'll
take my tea now, if you'll pour it."

Thus they chatted and supped, their quaint pleasantry
and quiet laughter seasoning with kindly piquancy their
simple meal of tea and buttered toast, dates, and an orange.

"I'm so glad we got that letter off to Peg. If she wants
to do good, here's her chance — with all the ignorance —
Oh, dear ! But there ; it isn't for us to dictate to Provi-
dence. We're here, and we'll do our part according to our
light, and that is what some of our neighbors are doing,
even if they are ignorant, like Mrs. Basle. You know I
take real pleasure just visiting with her. I did yesterday."

"Yes, and tired Uttle Mrs. Hutchins, that all the neigh-
bors are so willing to criticize because she wants to live
decently."

"Yes, and why shouldn't she? And Mrs. Deal, too. I
like to see a bit of thrift somewhere, even if she does ask a
cent a dozen more for her eggs than they do at the store.
If we only had a little more ourselves, I'd never grudge
her the cent."

"No, Lizzie, we aren't so poor — as long as we can afford
to give our bread away and then buy it back."

"Never you mind! If Providence intervenes, we'U be
able to do more than give a loaf of bread away now and
then, even if mistakenly. Sometime we'll know who is
worthy and who not. I hear an automobile, — or is it
the wind rising?"

"I don't think it's the wind; it's too steady. It's
stopping. Why, it must be right at the door."

"Now, Carrie, come back. I'll go. The idea of your

154 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

running out in the night air, after sitting close to the fire,
making toast."

Elizabeth threw a gray, knitted shawl around her head
and went to peer out. Perhaps it was only a belated party
seeking a chance to stop over night at the Deals. It was
still softly dusk and light enough for a machine to skim
along without illumination.

''They're coming in here, Carrie. Why, Peg ELitchel,
you dear ! Why, Bob ! Why ! "

''Barney O'Harrow, my friend, Mrs. Graves."

"Your friend, Bob. Why, Mr. O'Harrow. Why —
come right in." The sisters spoke together, incoherent
with eager welcome. "How did you know we were here,
Margaret ? Why — this is the most wonderful thing —
I can't tell you — we were just speaking of you."

They all entered the big schoolroom with a breezy rush,
and the two sisters were promptly hugged by Peg, and
kissed, and looked over, and then Barney was presented
more decorously.

"What a wonderful room — and the fireplace all of
stone, and so big and old-timey, and having tea by it — I
want some. I'm hungry. It makes me hungry just to
look at it. We've had a fine lunch, so I ought not to be,
you know, but I am — Barney — There'll be time for us
to make Woodville to-night, if we stay a little bit, won't
there?"

"Of course there will be!" exclaimed Elizabeth.

"Lizzie, you don't know anything about it; but what's
the use of making Woodville to-night? All stay here."

"Oh, we can't pile in on you Hke that. We were just
going through, and Peg wanted to stop. So we did. You

PROVIDENCE INTERVENES 155

know Peg — she always runs me, and she would run my
friends if she could."

^' Bob ! I don't, do I, Barney ? Isn't this just the cosiest
thing — this settle close to the fire ? Listen, Bob. Now
you are going to do just as I tell you, aren't you? You
know you are our host on this ride, and Barney and I are
your guests. Mr. O'Harrow, these are the very dear
friends I've told you about all my life."

''All your hfe! Two years. You've only known Barney
two years."

"All my life — I've talked about Mrs. Graves, and ever
since I was nine years old she has been my Aunt Elizabeth."

''You said you had told Barney about her all your life,
and I said it's only two years."

"Aunt Elizabeth, Bob hasn't improved at all. He
quarrels just the same."

"Well, now, that's good. I'm glad he hasn't changed.
You'll all stay, won't you?" Elizabeth turned to the
stranger. "It would be so hard to let you go to-night,
and this is such a pleasant surprise. Carrie, you take
their things, and I'll draw some more tea. This is cold."

Barney settled himself on the seat opposite Peg. "I
would be delighted to stay. I would jump at the chance
to stay here awhile. It all rests with Bob." But Barney
looked at Peg. "And with you ladies, of course. I am
at your service."

"Which means they are at ours," said Peg, "but I'll
help. I can."

"Yes, Margaret. You always helped. How did you
know we were away down here?"

"Uncle Dick."

156 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"Yes, of course. I might have known. I sent a letter
to you only this noon by him, in his care, I mean."

"Bob's going to bring him up sometime, in the machine.
Has he ever been here?"

It was a happy time for the sisters. They stepped
lightly about, and preserves were brought in from the house
part of the building, and cheese, which Barney toasted
with the bread, and more china cups were set out, and a
long, long talk followed to which Barney listened quietly,
glad to be included in the circle so loved by Peg.

He learned much as he listened. How Elizabeth had
first come into Peg's life. How, — a motherless little
girl, traveling home with her bereaved father and her
brother, only a Httle older than herself, she and Bob had
wandered hand in hand about the ship, — a quaint, dark-
eyed little wisp, lonely and mischievous, because there
was nothing to occupy her active body and brain and no
one to direct her except the sorely tried little brother, or to
care what she did so long as she kept out of the way.

Childless and lonely herself, EHzabeth had noticed the
children, and all the mother in her supremely motherly
soul went out to them. She hunted up the father, a sick
man wrapped in his own ailments and griefs and worried
about his Kttle ones, but wholly unable to cope with the
problem they presented. Soon the problem was solved
for him, just as the problems of most of the incompetent
ones are solved, by the strong, helping hands of the capa-
ble and wise ones, who go about the world soothing their
own griefs by carr3dng the burdens of the weak.

As Elizabeth said many times to her sister after her
return : "Why, what would I have done if it had not been

PROVIDENCE INTERVENES 157

for those forlorn little things, and there never was a sweeter
girl than Peggy, and Bob stepped right into my heart, —
not in Ned's place, of course, but just as near to it as an-
other child could get."

The father, willing to shift responsibility, naturally
turned the training and education of his daughter over to
Elizabeth, and for a long time the sisters' school was her
home, until at last, in the competent and businesslike sister
of Richard Hadley's wife, he found another wife to carry
his responsibilities for him.

Thus it came about that the children were brought home,
and the kindly sisters lost track of them. When their father
finally laid down his last burden, the care of his immense in-
heritance, and left it and the two children to his wife, she,
like the thorough-going business woman she was, secured the
services of her brother-in-law, and under his guardianship,
made over to each child his own share. Then, accepting
her own part, she said: ''I've done my duty by them,
and they are of age and able to look after themselves, —
they should know what's proper brought up as they've
been, — I'll make my own life now and live it as I like."

So again they were set adrift, but this time with a fortune,
and Richard Hadley became to them "Uncle Dick."
Thus it may be seen that it is not only the "lame and the
lazy" that are provided for. No, it is sometimes the case
that the well-doing of previous generations makes a smooth
and safe path for those who follow. Such an ancestor was
their maternal grandfather, — a careful money-getter,
but Godfearing and just ; and it seemed that their fortune
would remain and increase until some spendthrift descend-
ants should arise and scatter it to the winds.

158 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Barney O 'Harrow knew all this, but the sisters who had
played so large and beneficent a part in their lives he had
never met. Now he watched and listened with amused
interest. Of course he loved Peg; who wouldn't? But
proud and poor, he would like to ehminate the fortune
and take her on equal terms with himself, or less than equal

— for in his eyes he should be the greater in fortune and
all else. His wife should be the one to look to him for
favors, not he to her.

Whether he would ever be able to humble himself enough
to accept conditions as they were, he had not yet decided.
He could adore, but he could not bow down. He had the
ideals of manhood imposed on the youth of this nation.
His Irish parentage had in no wise destroyed them, for his
father had fought and made his own way and expected his
son to do the same. He knew nothing of European ethics,

— and would have despised them if he had, — of the man's
right to his wife's bod}^, soul, and fortune.

No, Margaret Kitchel seemed as high above him as the
moon, and she sailed through a clear ether far beyond his
reach, where he could give her nothing, make no place for
her, smooth no way for her, — where he could only come into
her life as an intrusion walking humbly in her wake, with
nothing to bring her but himself — a mere nothing, weighed
in the world's balance with her millions. But, being a live,
vital spark — head up, clear-eyed, proud-hearted, sweet-
souled, — a bundle of energy and nerve, — how could he
slink at her heels and bask in the luxury of her wealth !

Dear old Bob, somewhat tainted with philosophy, to
whom because of his easy circumstances idealism was easy,
had different estimates of the values of life and knew only

PROVIDENCE INTERVENES 159

too well what the world in general had to offer to his sister.
He had managed to steer her quite successfully over the
dangers and pitfalls of hfe abroad, where her gaiety and
grace and winsomeness and wealth had attracted many
admirers, and had brought her back to America in safety,
as he thought ; but what to do with her now he did not
know. It did not occur to either of the young men that
she might possibly have the power to do with herself —
what neither of them directed.

So, after the two young men had retired to the new pine
room in Mrs. Deal's cottage for the night, they talked it
all over.

''I'm mighty glad we stopped here," said Barney; ''I've
always wanted to know those two women, they've meant
so much to you two ; and now I can see why. I wish I
had had such friends when I was in the making. It would
have meant the world and all to me."

"While you were in the making! What are you now?
According to my philosophy, we are always in the making."

A fire had been built in the small, sheet-iron stove in
the room and was giving out a terrific heat. Mrs. Deal
had done her best to be hospitable, "according to her lights,"
as Caroline would have said. Bob was lying on his bed,
in his pajamas, smoking.

"I can't stand this heat," cried Barney irritably, "and
the smudge you are making, combined. Can't you sleep
at night without smoking and talking philosophy?" He
rose and opened the window with a bang.

"Thank you. I've been wanting that opened for some
time."

"Then why didn't you open it?"

i6o A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"I thought you would, if I lay still a few minuteSj and
I was right. Have a cigarette. You'll like the smudge
better if you make a little yourself." Barney hurled a
pillow at him and knocked the cigarette to the floor. ''Very
well, if you like to take it that way, I'll Kght another.
Now listen here — you surly old curmudgeon. Lie there in
your comer and smell the pine, — oozing from the new
pine boards, — and drink in the health-giving odor of the
hills, and hear me talk.'^

"If my shoes were not loaded with red mud, where we
stood around fixing up that old machine of yours, I'd
throw them at you. Go to sleep."

"Sleep is a fickle, mythical creature who has to be wooed,
as one would woo the muse or the maid you love."

"Shut up."

"I say sleep has to be wooed, and I'm wooing. Shut
up yourself. I'm thinking of my sister, — and so are you,
— or you wouldn't be so unmitigatedly nasty. Some men
are always so when they think of the one they love and
would fain entice into their homes. I often wonder what
sort of companions such men would make and how they
would serve as a daily diet."

"Bob Kitchel — I — I value your friendship — or — I
— I'd kill you. If you are thinking of your sister, let me
tell you I've no thought of enticing her anywhere. She'll
never have a daily diet of me. Shut up, and let me sleep."
I'm afraid you're an awful fool, Barney."
I tell you I'm not fool enough to think of your sister.
Good night. I'm going out to sleep on the hillside — if I
can." He gathered up his blanket from the bed and started
for the door.

PROVIDENCE INTERVENES i6i

Instantly Bob was all contrition. ^'Aw! Come back,
old man. I say ! I'll shut up — anything you say —
only — just you try to understand — I find it hard to
talk to you, you are so darn proud — but you know —
I tell you, man, I'm troubled about Peg. There's always
some one dangling after her — and — damn it — I can't
always stand between her and trouble. I need your
help."

Slowly Barney lay down again. Of all things he wanted
to hear Bob talk about his sister. Even the mention of
her gave him poignant pleasure, mingled with pain.

*'0f course there's always some one dangling after
her — damn them, but I'll have you to understand I'm
not one of them. I dangle after no one.''

"I wish you were."

"Oh, hang it. Bob, you know better. If you saw me
angling there, you'd be the first one to despise me. When
I've made my million, I'll think it over."

"By that time one of the danglers will have got her, and
you'll have to talk in the retrospect."

"I had five thousand laid by, after paying father for my
education, and now he's gone, that is for my mother, in
case anything should happen to me. It's laid by, but it's
not mine, you see. There I am. I begin at the beginning,
and Peg's at the top. I look up, and she looks down.
Hang it — she looks down — and so would you, if I were
to follow your advice."

"Oh, man alive, you're all off. You're just as much at
the top as she is. She has money, as you say ; but you're
at the top of your profession, and you're at the top in
another way — let me tell you. She likes you. She

i62 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

treats you better than she does any one else. Besides, you
are my friend; do you think that counts for nothing?"

^'It counts for your bad taste. She treats me differently
— naturally — for she feels safe with me. She would if I
were her chauffeur. She knows I'm not in the race."

*'Well, all I say is — get in the race. Get in the race.
Don't stand by like a boob and see worse men run ahead
of you. She's got to marry somebody, and first thing you
know she'll be out of your reach."

*'She is now. I'm not the man to truckle to any one,
even the girl I — love — no not even to her."

^'It's not truckling. Money isn't everything."

^'If you were suddenly left without a cent, you'd sing a
different tune. Inexperience is not a good teacher. Ideal-
ism wouldn't feed you, and you'd find philosophy poor diet."

"I tell you what I'd do. I'd go to my friend Barney
O'Harrow and ask for a job. There's nothing truckling
in asking for a job, is there?"

*^And he'd say: ^As you are my friend, I'll give you a
job. What can you do ? ' What would you reply ? "

Bob puffed away in silence for a while, then he answered :
*'I'd say: * That's up to you. All you have to do is to
marry my sister, and I'll do anything you wish. I'll
make your fortune for you. I'll — ' "

"Hush up. You can always turn the most serious thing
into a joke. I'm going to sleep. Good night." Barney
turned his face to the wall and shut his eyes tightly.

Then Bob turned his face to the wall in his corner.
Gradually the cool, outdoor air drifted in, and although
both these friends thought long and earnestly, they at last
forgot their dilemmas in sleep.

PROVIDENCE INTERVENES 163

Barney lay awake the longer. ^'I love Peg — I love her.
Who wouldn't? But I'll never lay myself open to the
accusation of wooing her for her fortune. I'd die for her
— but there it is. — "

And so the question lay in the hearts of both these two
fine fellows. Peg hadn't much to do with it — hadn't
anything to do with it. She was the passive one — perhaps.

CHAPTER XV

I barney's suggestion

Elizabeth Graves had learned to drive a mule. She
was proud of the fact and considered it her greatest accom-
plishment. The mule she drove was a steady, gray beast,
with a black stripe extending from between his floppy ears
to the end of his tail. His fringe of a mane was black also,
and so was the tassel on his tail. Contrary to the generally
accepted idea of mules, he was a kindly, gentle animal,
good-looking and old enough to have certain ways of his
own, and a little hard-bitted, withal. Yet Elizabeth under-
stood him; and what is more, he understood Elizabeth
and took very good care of her.

When she drove the mule, she sat in a high-topped buggy
something like a doctor's gig. It took some effort for the
little woman to get into the buggy, for the step was high,
and the wheels were large, and the bed was hung on ellip-
tical end springs set well under, Hfting the step higher
still. Unless the wheel was turned far out when she
attempted to mount or aHght, she was in danger of wiping
it with her neat, black skirt, to the detriment of both the
skirt and her temper.

This whole equipment of buggy, harness, and mule
belonged to the Deals, who were glad to rent it to the sisters
for a fee. The fee was paid in lessons on the cabinet organ
and in reading and writing, given to Jenny Deal, a young

BARNEY'S SUGGESTION 165

woman of eighteen, who helped her mother and did all
the outdoor work on their small place, as there was no son
to do it.

In order to make the trip to Woodville and back in one
day, it was necessary to leave the Settlement at an early
hour, so early, now that the days had begun to shorten,
that the start must be made before *' sun-up."

"Lizzie, have you got the list?" Caroline stood in the
doorway, wdth the gray worsted shawl around her head.

"It^s in my bag. You're sure you have everything
down?"

"Everything but the automobile and the mowing-
machine. All we can't get here."

"Oh, you get along!" retorted Elizabeth, but whether
to the mule or her sister, none might know, for though she
looked at Caroline, she took up the reins at the same
moment. The mule seemed to think she addressed him
and started on.

"Get along yourself, and do be careful. The angle you
have your bonnet set makes you look like a grenadier.'^

"I'll be careful, all right. You get in out of the damp
air. Good-by."

In went CaroHne and off went Elizabeth. One thought
was in the mind of each, and over it they both smiled.
A letter had come from Peg Elitchel, sa>'ing she was in
Woodville and was minded to visit them, if Elizabeth
could drive in for her. The letter hinted at something
other than the visit, which aroused their curiosity and
stimulated EHzabeth to touch the mule a little with the
whip, and hasten his pace.

"Now, I wonder, — " said Caroline to herself, as she

1 66 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

laid sticks for a fire in the large room preparatory to the
morning's school.

The school consisted of four children, one of whom was
the red-headed, freckled-faced son of Compton Ross, whose
tuition was paid for with a twenty-five-pound sack of flour
now and again. Then there was Billy Finch and his Kttle
sister, and a pale, slim, Httle girl who had no mother and
who lived about, now with one neighbor and now with
another. Just now she lived with the Hutchins. The
mountain people had a kindly way of looking after their
orphaned Uttle ones, by boarding them around among
themselves. The sisters did their part by teaching the child.

"Now, I wonder, — " said Caroline again, stooping
before the great fireplace and carefully laying the sticks of
fat pine across each other, for she took pride in her abihty
to make a fire. It was an art, she said, and it was one of
the simple household arts she loved. "I wonder, — " but
she got no further, for the children came in, and she touched
a match to the fat pine, and the flames leaped up the
chimney, and school opened.

Four meager Httle children gazed solemnly up in her

face while she read a few verses from the Bible ; then they

closed their eyes very tightly and repeated the Lord's

prayer in concert, as she had taught them. Then she made

a Kttle prayer of her own, very short and simple and quaint.

Then she called them to stand beside the cabinet organ

while she played and sang, patiently teaching them the words

Kne by line. ,, ^ .,..-,

Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, •

Look upon a little child.

Pity my simplicity,

Suffer me to come to Thee.'*

BARNEY'S SUGGESTION 167

Over and over they repeated the words with her in con-
cert, and then they sang, but no one had any idea of tune.
They only repeated the words a Httle louder each time.
However they would begin to get it after a while, Caroline
comforted herself. Gathering courage at last, the piping
voice of Letty Finch came out with the first line as she
understood it: ''Gentle Jesus, weak an' wil'," and so for
a long time the little ones sang uncorrected, while CaroHne
was intent on getting the tune into their heads.

Carohne took the same interest in the development of
these four children that she would have taken had she had
four hundred from the first families in the land. When
the morning's session was ended, and she stood alone in
the great room, a delicate pink was in her cheek, as if she
had passed a really exciting morning ; but she could not
allow herself to be weary, for there was still much to do.
There was no servant in the house, not even a little girl
to help wash dishes and sweep up.

The sisters were economical to the last degree. They
must be, if they would not beg or starve. But they were
hopeful. Of course, help would be sent them — and then
— there was Peg.

The afternoon was half spent when Barney O'Harrow
rode up to the door. Caroline opened it and stood before
him with flour on her hands and a large gingham apron
covering her gray cloth skirt.

''Why, come right in. I'm glad to see you."

*'Are you really? I thought I'd ride over — was in this
vicinity — a little job needed looking after — "

"Just leave your horse at the Deals. Wait, I'll call
Jennie. Their stable's empty, for Elizabeth has the mule.

1 68 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

rm so sorry; she drove down to Woodville to — ** Caro-
line started to cross over to her neighbor's, but Barney
stopped her.

"No, no. I'll find her. Here she comes."

Ever on the lookout, Jennie appeared in the Deals*
doorway and directed Barney to the shed where he might
stable his horse, — for a fee. The instinct of the Deals
for turning an honest penny was the talk of the Settle-
ment ; but after all it was a help to the sisters, who needed
their assistance and would never have asked for it without
paying the price.

Barney spent a happy afternoon in that kitchen with
Caroline. He seemed in no haste to depart. Was he
waiting for some one? He did not say. She finished her
batch of cookies, and he kept the stove filled with wood
for their baking. She said Peg was expected to arrive with
Elizabeth, but he made no comment thereon. At five
o'clock CaroHne laid a cloth on the end of the kitchen
table, and they had tea together. It was pleasant and
cosy, and he liked it. While he chatted, he was somewhat
distraught, trying to frame up a reason for lingering a day
or two at the Settlement. He really had no reason, but
one might be managed. Caroline gave him one, and he
blessed her, but she did not know it.

"I've been wanting to ask some one," she said; "what
is a *Singin'?"'

"Oh, an 'all day singin'?' Yes, I've been to them.
Is there to be one? Not this time of the year, I should
think."

"I don't know. I only wanted to learn if there is any-
thing interesting to take Peg to while she is with us.

BARNEY'S SUGGESTION 169

Jennie is always talking about a ' Singing.' She's wild to
learn to play the cabinet organ, so she can play for one.
She brought over one of those old-time books in which the
notes are all shaped to indicate the different sol, Ja tones.
Here it is. My grandfather used to have one. He used
to say people would never sing independently of an instru-
ment until they went back to the old way of note reading.
It seems they do that here."

Barney took the book and looked it over with interest,
but his real interest was in helping Caroline think out a
scheme for keeping Peg with them awhile.

*'I don't think they have these Singings at this time of
the year. They usually come in May, or at a 4aying-by'
time."

'*A 'laying-by' time?"

*' That's what they call it. The mountain people, with
all their isolation, have their regular times and seasons for
doing things. I don't know how it is. Nature sets them
the example, I suppose. There is a time to plow their
pockets of land, and a time to plant and then to cultivate,
and then comes a 'laying-by' time. That is when they
take a day for a Singin'. Now here, now there, they go,
wherever there is a little church that has invited them. I
don't know their rule for setting the day or the week, but
every one seems to get word of it, and the wagons and
buggies and riders from all over the hills will be seen making
toward the spot."

''I suppose they make a sort of festival of it and picnic?"

''Oh, yes. Every young man who has a girl gets hold
of a top buggy somewhere, if he does not own one, and a
mule or a horse, and takes his young woman to the singing.

I70 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Every one goes, for miles on every side. You see families
with their buggies and wagons piled full of children, and old
folks who talk of singings past, and lovers galore, 'Sweet-
heartin'/ and wholly intent on each other; oh, it's fun to
watch them."

"And will they let any one come?"

"Indeed, yes. All are made welcome with the kindest
courtesy, and are in\dted to sing and sit up in front, but the
sweethearts are likely to sit back by the door and quietly
sUp outside and wander about, or cHmb back in their
buggies and sit side by side, solemnly decorous or slyly
joking. They seem to have no objection to being known
as sweethearts, but after they are known as such, woe be to
any man who steps between them. Such a breach is rarely,
if ever, healed. Often it leads to a lifelong enmity or
even a shooting."

"Well, we must take Peg to a Singin'."

"We can't." Barney took covert pleasure in repeating
the pronoun "we." "They are all over for this year.
Spring is the Singing time."

"What a pity; but that's natural, too. Is it reHgious?
Of course! I might know from their books."

"Always." Then Barney laughed. "It's their drama,
religion is. Praying, preaching, singing, resisting the law,
stilKng, fighting, swearing, marrying, love-making, — most
of all love-making, — and djdng, are their ecstatic times."

Caroline smiled. "Well, it's so the world over. We
are all kinsfolk. I guess it has been so through the ages,
and we don't get away from those things by coming to the
hills. But what can we do to entertain Peg?"

"Try some other form of drama."

BARNEY'S SUGGESTION 171

"How?"

''Try a preaching. You'll find a little of every sort
there."

''I wish we could. I haven't been to church since we
came, and I feel like a heathen."

"You'll feel more like one, after you've been." Barney's
eyes danced. "I'll see what I can do. Possibly I can
help out. Are they coming back to-night?"

"Oh, yes.. I'm expecting them every minute. I declare!
It's six o'clock. What can be keeping them?"

"I'll step out and see if they're in sight. Anything I
can do for you first ? "

"Why, if you would just — mend the fire a bit — "
Caroline began to prepare the supper. That was better
than worrying. Her remedy for all anxieties was "do
something." It was a good remedy.

Barney O'Harrow brought in wood and then took him-
self off to a point where he could look down the long ribbon
of red velvet toward the low country. He returned and
put his head in at the door.

"I see nothing of them. They must have been late in
starting. Don't you worry. I'll ride down toward Wood-
ville and meet them."

She stood in the doorway with an anxious face as he
rode past and waved his hand to her. "I'll bring them, all
right. Never you fear," he called, as he loped away.

CHAPTER XVI

PEG DECIDES FOR HERSELF

For an hour or more Caroline waited. The kitchen was
savory with the odor of chicken stew, and the dough for the
dumplings lay on the bread board ready to be dropped into
the kettle the moment the belated ones arrived. The fire
in the big room had long since gone out, but sticks were
laid for rekindling in CaroHne's most careful manner, and
all the school litter was tucked under the kindling, ready
for the lighted match.

She sat by the kitchen range, tense and listening, and
blamed herself for not having given Barney a lantern when
he left. What could they do in the dark? Dear, dear!
She put the gray shawl around her head and went to the
door again and again. It was a fair night, starlit and clear
and cool, too cool for comfort unless one were moving, but
the air was sweet and fresh and what the sisters would call
"crisp."

"Now, CaroUne Tabor," she said to herself, "there's
nothing to be gained by growing anxious. Just you be
ready for emergencies and trust in the Lord." So she put
more wood in the kitchen range, moved back the stew, so
it should not be "all cooked to death," and filled the tea-
kettle with fresh water, devoutly thanking the Lord, as
she poured out the contents and filled it again, that water
was a free gift and cost nothing, so they could afford to
throw it away thus.

PEG DECIDES FOR HERSELF 173

While in the midst of these activities she heard a far-
off humming and hastened to the door to Hsten. Away
in the distance she saw the sweeping rays of a search-light
swinging along in the darkness, causing wayside objects
to leap into sight and as quickly disappear, — now a group
of pines, and then a bank of red clay, and again a glow of
flaming sumac or black gum against a background of
densest blackness.

She lingered in the doorway and watched those weird,
live Hghts steadily — Hke some fataUstic, fascinating spark
from another world, cHmbing, searching, revealing, and
passing by, until suddenly they were turned full upon her in
a bhnding radiance, and Peg's laugh rang out, clear as the
note of a Carolina wren on a dark day — a sound piercing
through her forebodings as the search-Hght pierces the dark.

"You don't know what a picture you made, standing
there in the door. It was Hke a magic-lantern sHde.
Whew ! But it has been fine — like — a — a poet's
dream. Come on, Bob — chicken stew and dumplings.
I smell them."

''She smells dumphngs!" criticized Bob.

All talked at once. "She sees them," said Elizabeth.
"Were you worried, Carrie?"

"I might have been, if you'd delayed much longer."

"There ! I said she'd have sense."

"Where's Mr. O'Harrow?"

"He's on the road, leading the mule; the buggy's half-
way down."

"Will he be here soon, think? Had I better drop in the
dumplings now? What was the matter, anyway?"

They grouped themselves around the range, all talking

174 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

at once, and Elizabeth removed her bonnet and took a hand
at the cooking, dropping the dumplings herself, while Peg
and Bob replied to Caroline's questions, and gave further
enlightenment in a duet. While they talked, Barney en-
tered and joined in the chorus, helping the sisters by light-
ing the fire in the big room, and bringing in the supper to
the school table between the settles.

There, still in duet and chorus, everything was explained
and commented on. "You see, the harness began dropping
to pieces and kept on dropping to pieces all the way up.
We were crawling along as happy as you please, when the
tug broke, and Jim just stood still and wagged one ear back
at Aunt Elizabeth; and she sat there and laughed and
said: 'Look at his ears! Now, isn't he intelligent?' and
I jumped out, and we were on a slanting part of the
road—"

"As if every part of the road weren't slanting !"
"Keep still. Bob. And then I held the wheel from drag-
ing back so, for Jim kept stepping back all the time, and
Aunt Elizabeth climbed out as unconcerned as you please ;
and there we were, working to get the other tug unhitched,
when along came a team of mules, and the young man locked
his wheel and came over to us, just sauntering along, and
said: 'Kin I he'p ye?' He just went behind that buggy
and gave it a push that almost sent it over on to old Jim's
back, and blocked the wheel with a stone ; then he cut a
new buttonhole in the tug, and of course he had to do the
same with the other tug to make them the same length.
I wish you could have seen him. I had a good chance to
watch him. He was handsome, — my goodness, — wasn't
he, Aunt Ehzabeth? And he was just as quiet and shy

PEG DECIDES FOR HERSELF 175

all the time he was fixing things ; he only looked right at
me once, and that was when I was going to give him some-
thing for it, and my hand was in my bag ; but I stopped
right there, and we only said thank you. I would as soon
have thought of paying a prince for picking up my hand-
kerchief, and the prince would have been much more likely
to have accepted it."

^' She's on to the princes, all right," said Bob.

Barney laughed eloquently.

^'Go on, dear. Now don't interrupt any more," said
CaroKne.

*'It was just one adventure, like an old romance all the
way, until Bob came along with the machine. If that
young man could be dressed hke an esquire he would have
looked the part, wouldn't he. Aunt Elizabeth? He kept
his hat off all the time, — threw it on the ground behind
him, — and his hair was long and fell over his face as he
bent forward, and his hands were so supple, and his whole
body so slender. And his profile was like that old Raphael
head of a young man — you know which one. Bob."

''No, I don't. How could I ? I'm not a girl, and I never
saw the boy."

"Well, never mind, anyway. It was. And his voice
was as soft and gentle as if — as if — he had always used it
to sing babies to sleep. Really, the only thing he said was :
*Thar, I reckon hit'll hoi' now, ef ye're right keerfull,'
as he climbed under the hood of his wagon and let up the
brake, and then just sighed half aloud to his mules and
started on."

"She's making a romance out of Dave Turpin," cried
Barney. "What did he have in his wagon?'*

176 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

^'I don't know. Some bags and cornstalks and a pump-
kin, and a lot of things. There was a splint-bottom chair —
a new one. I'd like to have bought it, only I didn't know
what to do with it."

"And if you could have felt about under those cornstalks,
you would have found some jugs of mountain moonshine.
You remember that time you were with me, Bob, when w^e
were putting the road through, how he came along and
camped one night near by, and before morning the men
were all roaring drunk, and he was gone, and there wouldn't
one of them admit that he brought it to them?"

"Do I? You'd have thought that young scoundrel was
as innocent as a babe."

"Well, he was, according to his lights," said Caroline.
" I have learned how it is with them. They think they have
a right to make it and sell it. They can't see it any other
way. Even the women think the same. What they need is
education."

"And then, after the esquire came the knight. He was
not ^panoplied in armor bright', but he might have been.
He was a lot more fascinating than the other. He had a
lot of savoir Jaire, as if he had been brought up at court.
We were driving along, and old Jim was pulling steady and
good, when things gave way again, and this time in a worse
place. The other tug broke right at the buckle near his
shoulder, and he began to back again, slowly, a step at a
time, so Aunt Elizabeth said we might just as well unhitch
and sit in the buggy and eat our lunch. I tell you she is a
woman of expedients."

"And wasn't it just as well? We fed the mule."

"Yes, and the knight came. He smiled and removed

PEG DECIDES FOR HERSELF 177

his hat and gently inquired after our health and set to work
at the harness, and said wise things all the time. He rode
a nice, sleek, black mule, who kept calling to him, and he
would reply. He knew who the rig belonged to, and how
long they had had it, and who Aunt Elizabeth was, and
asked about the school, and smiled as he did so, as if the
school were amusing him, in a quiet way that no one could
resent, for his voice was so kind and his smile so to himself.
I've been thinking about him ever since. He must have
had an interesting life, and he didn't look very old, just old
enough to be perfectly delightful."

'^ About how old might that be, do you think ? " asked
Barney, turning to Caroline.

'^ Older than you are," said Peg. *^ Some arrive sooner
than others. This man had evidently arrived early."

" I think almost any age brings it," said Caroline, with
a quiet smile. ''I've seen it come very suddenly — to

some men."

Barney looked down at his plate, and Bob kicked at him
under the table.

"This man has a very nice way of keeping in practice.
He has been doing quiet little favors since we first knew
him," said CaroHne. "The first time he came ostensibly
to sell us some harvest apples, and inquired very closely
into our affairs in such a casual way we did not realize we
were being interviewed until he was gone, when we found he
had inadvertently given us double measure for our money."

"He brought peaches next time," chimed in Elizabeth.
"We reminded him we had only paid for half those apples,
and he laughed his little inward laugh, as if the joke were on
us, but what he said was that 'ef a man hedn't sense 'nufT

178 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

to look afteh what wiiz comin' to him, he reckoned he'd
haf to go without.' He said the peaches were the ^01'
Indian peach, as uset to grow wil' on these 'er mountains,
an' they wa'n't no mo' these days, cept'n' his.' He said the
peck he brought 'mount make a right smart o' sass, er peach
butter,' and while I stepped back to get my purse, he calmly
rode away without the money. I asked the widow Basle
about him, and all I could get from her was that 'Dan'l
M'Cune was right quare.' "

"He cut up his halter strap to bind the tug," said Peg,
"and when I said I was sorry, he laughed and said he didn't
mind 'he'pin' the Deals a leetle, they were thet pore' at they
hed to wrastle fer ev'y cent comin' to 'em. He reckoned
ef they hedn't 'a' be'n so dum pore, mebby they mount
'a' gin us a harness as 'ud hoi' together ontwel we c'd git
home 'thout layin' us liable to git kilt fust.' He said : ^He
reckoned the mule must take a'ter ol' man Deal, er he'd 'a'
hed thet 'er ol' harness tore up ten y'ar ago, 'thout wait'n'
fer hit to jes' natchly drap off'n him. ' "

"I venture to say he was on his way to see Uncle Dick,"
said Bob. "He owns a little gold mine, and he must have
quite a bit of money laid by."

"Never mention that fact here. His neighbors know
nothing of that mine. It is as hidden from them as their
stills are hid from us," said Barney. "They're running him
for the Legislature. The mountain people want him,
because they think he's on their side — as he virtually is,
and will help them escape the law ; and the low-country
folks want him, because they think he can carry the ticket,
by having the vote of the hills."

"He's a wise old fox and a philosopher," said Bob.

PEG DECIDES FOR HERSELF 179

"I think he's a dear."

"No doubt he thinks you are, if you talked with him
much," said Barney.

"Well, I did. I talked with him all I could."

"What's that noise?" asked Caroline, rising suddenly.
"I heard something a moment ago, but thought it was a dog
howling."

Bob opened the school-room door and looked out into
the night, seeing nothing, when the cold nose of a dog
was thrust into his palm with a low, pitiful whine.

"Why, what is it, doggie? Poor fellow," said Peg,
following her brother. "He wants something, Bob. Go
out and see what it is,"

The animal leaped up and caught at Bob's sleeve, then
ran away and returned, whining and begging. Bob fol-
lowed, and Peg ran to the kitchen for a lantern. Only a few
steps from the door the dog stopped, and standing beside
a dark heap, dimly to be descried in the darkness, lifted
his head and howled dismally. Peg, bringing the light,
saw her brother kneeling beside him, examining the bundle
and trying to lift a girl's head.

"It's the girl we saw on the mountain that day," cried
Peg.

"You take her bundle, Barney, I'll carry her in. I have
her now." Bob lifted her in his arms and bore her carefully.
"She's fainted dead away," he said, as he looked in her face,
while Peg held the light for him. "Why, good heavens ! It
is Sally Cloud."

"She has brought her little brother along. He seems to
be asleep. Can you hold him. Peg, while I help Bob?"
said Barney.

i8o A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"I don't need any help. You keep the boy/' said Bob,
and walked on into the schoolroom. *' She's nothing to
hold." He stood looking at the girl's strangely classic face,
as she lay, her head thrown back, over his arm. For a
moment he thought her dead and trembled as he held her,
but then he felt her breath faintly on his cheek.

"She's living ! Poor little heart ! She's living."

"Bring her into my room — here," said Elizabeth.
" Caroline has the boy. He's been drugged, or something."

They followed Elizabeth back into the house, and Bob
gently laid the girl on her white bed, and Peg began to un-
lace her sodden shoes.

"She's been tramping right through water and every-
thing," said Peg. " Something awful must have happened."

Carohne brought the bottle of salts and hurried back to
the baby. "I don't know which needs attention most,"
she said.

"You look after the boy, and we'll see to her. Get some
hot water to her feet. Peg, quick." Bob stood chafing her
hands. "Get a glass of water. Peg. Hurry." He knelt
beside the bed and bathed the girl's forehead, dipping a
corner of his handkerchief into the glass.

Barney bent over her. "A little brandy would help,"
he said.

"I haven't any. For heaven's sake, get some ! Hasn't
any one a little brandy?" The girl's eyelids quivered.

"Yes, she needs stimulant," said Caroline, bringing a
glass and dropping a little between her lips, while Bob stood
back and watched her.

"She'll come around all right now," said Barney, and
went away to help Peg heat the water.

PEG DECIDES FOR HERSELF i8i

Slowly the girl's eyeKds lifted, and she stared wonderingly
around. The red came back into her quivering hps, a
scarlet streak across her pallid face.

"Whar be he? Whar be Honey-Son. Oh, Gawd, ef
he be dade, I'U kill 'er. Whar — whar — "

"He's right here, dear. We're taking care of him," said
Caroline. *'What was the trouble; what happened to
him?"

" She gin hit to 'im. I tol' 'er she'd pizen 'im, but she gin
hit to 'im, jes' the same. He be'n sleepin', — all day he
be'n sleepin', — an' I couldn' wake 'im up, an' I was skeered
he were dyin', an' I be'n runnin' down the mountain fer to
git ol' Miz Basle to he'p me, but I fell 'er somep'n. Gawd,
ef he die, I'll kill 'er."

She tried to rise, and discovered how her feet had been
wrapped in hot cloths. "Whar be my shoes? They
hain't nothin' th' matteh weth me. Gin me my shoes. I
got to git to 'im."

"He'll be all right, Sally," said Bob, bending over her.

Finding herself too weak to rise, she relaxed on the pillow
and looked pitifully up, her glowing eyes fixed on Bob's
with pathetic appeal. The words which passed her trem-
bling lips seemed more like a prayer than profanity. "Gawd
Amighty, I cain' git up, an' him a-dyin'. Cain't ye gin me
somethin' to he'p me up, so I kin go to 'im? Be you a doc-
tor? She'll burn in hell to the end o' all time fer this she
hev did to 'im, ef he die. Oh, Gawd, he'p me up.'*

Peg thrilled with horror as she listened to her, but Bob put
his arm gently under her head and raised her to a sitting
posture, and held the stimulant to her lips. She turned her
head av/ay, but he insisted.

i82 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"Take it, Sally. Swallow a little. I'll take you in where
your little brother is, if you will."

She took the glass from him with shaking hand and drank
it all, then turned and clasped her arms tightly about his
neck. So he lifted her and carried her into the other room,
where they were working over the child. Caroline held
the little fellow in her arms, and Barney stood over the
stove, pouring strong coffee into a cup.

"If we can only get a few drops of this down his throat,"
he was saying.

Bob placed his burden in the large rocker and stood by her,
talking gently to her, comforting words. "Let them man-
age, Sally. They know what to do. Lean back and wait.
You can help more when he wakes. He'll need you then."

"Will — will — he be a eejit? Miz Basle say ef ye gin
chilen sich es that, hit'll make 'em a eejit."

"Don't you worry about that. One dose won't do it.
You're a brave girl. You did all you could. You did just
the right thing. They'll have him awake in a minute."

"He sleepin' yit. He be."

"WeU, wait a little."

"Take him out of doors," said Barney, snatching the
child in his arms and carrying him out in the cool night
air. The others followed him, leaving Lury and Bob in the
kitchen.

' ' Oh, Gawd Amighty ! I cain't wait ! He may bea-dyin'
now. He lay that still, an' I couldn't heah 'im breathe,
an' I thought he were plumb dyin' when I started down the
mountain ; an' I hed to run like mad dawgs were a'ter me.
I didn' know nothin' else to do 'cept'n' jes' to run like hell.
Hu-come I heah, any-how?"

PEG DECIDES FOR HERSELF 183

''Your dog told us. He came whining at the door, and
we followed him to you."

As he spoke, the mongrel stalked stiffly to her from the
open door and laid his head on her knee. She stroked him
with trembling hand. "He shore be a good dawg. He
knows a heap more'n some humans does, don't ye, Clip?"

"He's waking up a Httle, Sally Cloud, take heart. He'll
be all right soon," cried Peggy from the doorway, and
Lury bowed her head over the dog and clasped her arms
about him, weeping for joy.

" Pore dumb critter, he be'n tryin' to tell me. He know'd,
Chp know'd."

Bob still stood, stroking her hair. He could not bear her
tears, and he stooped and gathered her again in his arms and
carried her back to the bed, the dog following at his heels.
Caroline came and bent over her, as she lay there passive
and exhausted.

"She needs attention more than the child now," said
Caroline. "I'd give her a glass of hot milk, Lizzie, and
then if she could only get to sleep."

"Whar's Honey-Son?"

"Margaret has him. He's out in the air, and she's keep-
ing him awake."

"Won't ye gin 'im to me?"

"It's better to keep him out there. If he comes to you,
he'll only snuggle down and go to sleep again, and he must
not be allowed to do that yet."

She Hfted her eyes to Bob's face, those wonderful, lus-
trous eyes, and gazed at him steadily, as if he might help
her. Then she reached out to him, and taking one of his
hands in both her own, she clung to it, while her breath came

1 84 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

tremblingly through her parted lips. He slipped his arm be-
neath her head and Kfted her to take the warm milk Eliza-
beth brought her. Peg came and leaned over the foot of
the bed.

*' Your little brother is sitting up on Mr. O'Harrow's knee,
and he is going to be all right. He smiled at me. You go
to sleep now, and we'll take care of him for you."

Then Lury smiled and lay quiet a moment, still clinging
to Bob's hand, then, gazing from one to another of the
kindly faces gathered about her, "I reckon you-uns all be
heaven angels," she said, and quickly dropped off, into
exhausted sleep.

Peg turned away and walked resolutely through the
house and into the now deserted schoolroom. In front
of the fireplace, where a few coals still smoldered, she sat
down with her elbows on her knees and her chin in her
hands. There, after a time, Barney found her.

^'How many pennies must I give for your thoughts?"
he said.

^'You may have them all for nothing. I've come to a
decision. Now I know what to do with my life and my
money. Nobody need ever try to persuade me out of it,
either." She rose and stood before him with a determined
lift of her chin.

"No one would be foolhardy enough to try to do that.
Peg." He held the heavy-eyed child in his arms, trying to
keep the Httle fellow from sinking into the dull stupor again.
"Look at the pretty lady, son. Look!" he said. Barney
showed to advantage in Peg's eyes just then. "I wouldn't
even dare to ask you what you have determined, let alone
trying to dissuade you."

PEG DECEDES FOR HERSELF 185

*'Well, I may tell you some time, but I'm going to do it,
anyway."

It was long past two in the morning before they dared
allow the child to sleep, and were themselves settled for the
night. Then all slept but Barney O'Harrow, who lay until
dawn pondering fruitlessly over Peg KitcheFs words.
What had she decided to do with her life and her money?
She might give away her money for all of him — but what,
ah, what would she do with her life ?

CHAPTER XVII

A DECISIVE BLOW

The next morning the sisters and their guests, gathered
at the breakfast table, were deep in consultation over the
events of the night before. Lury still slept in Eiizabeth^s
bedroom, and Honey-Son who knew only an open fire
in a fireplace trotted contentedly about the kitchen, hover-
ing around the range, curiously feeling the heat from it,
and silently investigating the strange things he found in
his new environment.

Breakfast was set out in the large room, and Jennie Deal
had come over to help with the morning's work. She sat
in the kitchen, watching over the little one and drawing her
own conclusions about everything.

Barney O'Harrow held in his hand the bottle of "Sleepin'
Medicine" Elizabeth had bought out of curiosity so long
ago. He shook it, pulled out the cork and touched it to
his tongue, and smelled of the contents, then read the label :
''* Goodman's Cordial. A Purely Vegetable Compound,
Containing no Deleterious Mineral Substance, Soothing to
the Nerves, and quieting to Delicate and Irritable Children,
PecuHarly B eneficial in Cases of Teething Infants. D elight-
ful to the Taste and perfectly Harmless. Good for Youth
and Old Age. Three to ten drops, according to age of pa-
tient. ' There's enough opiate in this to kill half a dozen
men.'*

A DECISIVE BLOW 187

*'They all use it here. I saw a bottle of it half empty
standing on the shelf beside the clock in the Hutchins' home,
and I don't suppose we can do a thing about it."

'' Lizzie is falling mto the way of the people here. She
seems to think she must submit to the inevitable without a
murmur. I say why submit before we know if a thing is
inevitable. Sometimes it isn't. Compton Ross has no
more idea what is in all those bottles of patent medicines he
sells than that poor dog does lying there beside Sally Cloud's
bed."

^^No, the blame lies back of Ross."

"Well!" cried Peg. ''Don't the people who make it
know what's in it? What's the use of all the laws about
such things if nobody follows them up and finds out about
such drugs?"

"Laws without public sentiment back of them are worth-
less, and worse than worthless," said Bob sagely.

"But you have to have laws, Bob. How can you get
public sentiment back of anything that doesn't exist?"

"Get your public sentiment right, and evils will go out
of themselves without any laws."

Peg looked down in her cup with a puzzled expression
and stirred her coffee, a little frown between her brows.
Then she looked up, and her eyes met Barney's squarely
and caught the twinkle in them.

"Well, something ought to be done, anyway. Talking
and speculating about things never accomplishes anything
unless some one cares enough to act. Give it to me,
Barney."

"But what will you do about it, child?" said Caroline.

"You blamed Aunt Elizabeth for submitting to the inevi-

1 88 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

table. Fm just not going to submit. " Barney passed the
bottle over to her and she took it gingerly, as if the mere
touch of it was deadly.

''The outside of it is harmless, Peg," Bob laughed.

"Hush, Bob. You always say wise things and then turn
them all off with a joke. It's just as worthless to know what
ought to be and then only joke about it and do nothing, as
it is to make laws and never obey them. Isn't it, Barney?
Isn't it, Aunt Elizabeth?'' She placed the bottle beside
her plate and removed her buttered toast from its proxim-
ity. Bob laughed outright.

"I wouldn't eat that toast, if I were you. You should
have washed your hands after touching the bottle, before
you took up your toast. Here, have another piece."

"How ought one to go about this, Barney? " Peg ignored
her brother entirely.

"Give the bottle back to me, and I'll take charge of it,"
said Barney, and Peg felt herself set one side. She handed
it back with a slight grimace.

"Maybe sometime you'll think it worth while to answer
my question," she said quietly.

Barney sprang to his feet, and the rest rose from the
table with him. Peg had scored one against him, and he
must retrieve himself. He followed her with a look of con-
trition as she passed out, but she was oblivious.

"Aunt Elizabeth, I made a decision last night, if — if —
you'll let me."

" I let you, child ! Why, I have no way of hindering you
in anything, and no desire to, dear." The way Aunt Eliza-
beth said " dear " to Peg was delightful. Barney echoed the
word in his heart, and in the look he cast after the two as

A DECISIVE BLOW 189

they walked away together. Then he took himself o2 on
the hillside and sat with his head in his hands and the bottle
of Goodman's Cordial buttoned in his pocket.

It was Saturday, and there was no school, so Peg and
Elizabeth walked over to the large table and sat down side
by side in the school chairs, and talked, earnestly and quietly.
For a long hour and then another they talked. Peg eagerly
and rapidly at last, and Elizabeth with shining eyes and
flushed cheeks.

Jennie Deal finished the morning's work with Caroline,
and then took little Honey-Son home to entertain him where
he would not waken his sister, who was still taking the sweet
restorative of nature and sleeping off her exhaustion with
the ease of youth and perfect health. Bob strolled aim-
lessly about for a while, wondering what had become of his
friend, and what Peg was up to now, and when SaUy Cloud
would appear, and finally took himself off to his car and
sat there in the soft autumn air, reading a volume of Les
Miserahles in the French, which he had found among the
books on the sisters' new pine book-shelves.

Early that Saturday morning, Dave Turpin came saun-
tering into the house at the Cove, wishing to have his
breakfast. ''Whar's Lury?" he asked. "Hain't ye got
nothin' fer me to eat? I got to start weth a load, an' I'd
ought to be half-way to Plains ville by now. Here I be'n
workin' sence 'fore sun-up, an' here you be jest crawlin' out
o' bed."

Ellen slowly moved about the disordered room and paid
no heed to Dave's questions. She took a great knife and
began to cut thick slices from a side of white, salt pork,
layiQg them in an unwashed skillet, which she thrust in the

I90 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

fireplace among the coals. She handed Dave a huge iron
teakettle which stood on the hearth.

^'Whyn't you he'p a leetle, when you see I be mos' dade
weth Buddy keepin' me awake half th' night? Fill this
weth wateh fer th' coffee. I neveh see nothin' like the
way them chil'en be'n actin'. I hain't slep' a wink ontwel I
hearn the rooster crowin', Lury so crazy 'bouts her baby ;
'neveh see how she spoilin' 'im, wakin' 'im up an' runnin'
off in th' night when he'd oughteh be sleepin'."

Dave took the kettle obediently and ran down to the
spring, without waiting to hear what she was saying, and
returned before she was through. He hung the kettle on
the crane over the fire, and seizing a long fork, began turning
the pork in the skillet, while Ellen talked on as she beat up
a batter of corn-meal and buttermilk and poured it in
another unwashed pan, greasy from former bakings and a
residue of pork gravy.

"Runnin' out in th' night weth her leetle brotheh Kke she
do, I done tol' 'er she'd see her maw's ghos' walkin' afteh
her, an' I see somep'n white an' long a-trailin' ater 'er as
she run, an' I shet the door and kivered my hade weth th'
bade clo's, fer I didn' want no sperit walkin' here, weth Jim
drunk thar to th' hawg pen, in the shuck shed, — sleepin'
thar like he were a hawg hisse'f , an' nobody to he'p me nor
Stan' by me ef so be hit were a ghos', fer I know Sally Cloud
do come heah sperit walkin' an' ha'ntin' 'round like she up
to somep'n. I see a white streak come in th' winder one
night, right acrost Lury's bade, an' she were in hit ; I seed
'er face an' 'er shape in hit like she were thar fer sueh — "

"Aw, you haish. You ain't fit'n to take the name o'
Sally Cloud on yore lips. Git thet corn-brade in thar

A DECISIVE BLOW 191

bakin', cain't ye. Wharfs Lury ? Ef she were here, I'd 'a'
be'n started a' hour ago. Make the coffee an' set out th'
'lasses. I cain't set roun' here hearkin' to ye all day."

Dave shoved back the litter of things on the end of the
table where Ellen was standing, set a plate for himself, and
took the salt pork out of the skillet. Then he poured mo-
lasses into a broken saucer and finding a piece of cold corn-
bread left from the day before, he began a comfortless meal,
sopping the bread in the molasses and tasting the meat.
*' Whar's Lury ? " he asked again, shoving back his chair and
resigning himself to wait for his coffee and hot bread.

''Ef you be so sot on Lury, whyn't ye take keer on 'er
yerse'f? I cain't watch out fer ev'ybody an' ev'ythin'
weth all to do. Thar's Buddy wakin' up. Now he'll holler
an' cry fer a' hour."

But the child did not cry, he only turned heavy-lidded
eyes on Dave and half smiled. The young man took the
cold corn-bread and molasses over and began feeding it to
the child, who ate it languidly. ''What ails the leetle un?
He don't seem to have no stumick fer victuals. Don't
like cold corn-bread no betteh'n the res' on us, do ye, kid?"

Ellen slipped out the door and ran down the path toward
the hog pen, where she had seen her husband lying drunk
the night before on the corn shucks. She had poured water
on the coffee and set the pan of corn-meal batter among the
coals to bake, and now, under pretense of bringing in more
fuel, she left the place to Dave and the child. She was
filled with fear, and her heart pounded in her breast, for she
well knew what she had done to Lury's little brother, and
when Lury took him and ran out in the night, she did not
think she would ever see the child alive again.

192 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

She could hear Lury's voice ringing still in her ears as
she called back to her: "Ellen Furman, I tol' ye not to gin'
'im thet stuff. Ef he die, I'll tell Dave to git Dan'l M'Cune
to hev ye indited fer hit. I will, an' ye'll sure be hung.
I'll hev ye tho'd in jail, an' from jail ye'll walk straight into
hell fieh. Dave'll know what-all to do to ye."

Yes, Dave. Dave Turpin was the one she knew would
leave no stone unturned to have her brought to justice.
He alone knew the venom Ellen Furman carried in her heart
toward Lury. She had seen his eyes fixed on her face many
a time with an understanding smile, when she sat watching
Lury and the child together. Her covert remarks to the
brothers Furman had not been lost on Dave, and he had
told her once that she had better keep her claws in, or he
would cut them so close she would have to turn out on the
hillside and root with the ground hogs for the rest of her
life.

''Dave'll know what-all to do to ye. Dave'll know what-
all to do to ye." Lury's last words rung in her ears as she
ran. Ellen glanced back toward the house to see if Dave
were watching, and stooped as she did so, gathering a few
chips and sticks in her dress skirt to cover her reason for being
there should she see him looking. No, for once Dave was
off his guard. He lay stretched on Ellen's bed, his hands
clasped beneath his head, gazing at the smoke-blackened
ceiling, and thinking of Lury, and wondering why she had
deserted him when she knew he was to start on a trip that
morning. She had said she wanted to see him before he
left ; why had she gone ?

Presently Ellen came creeping back into the room, flung
her skirt full of fuel on the hearth, and began to lift the

A DECISIVE BLOW 193

food from the fire. She glanced covertly at Dave and was
content to let him lie a minute longer until her stupid,
growling husband should come in and find him there.
Buddy sat beside Dave, contentedly crumbling up the corn-
bread Dave had given him soaked in molasses. His hands
were covered with the sticky mess, and his pinched Httle
face smeared with it.

Dave rolled over toward the child and held the Httle
fellow's hands off from his face, laughing. The youth was
fond of the children and often played with them. ^'Look
out, kid," he shouted, ^' don't you gorm me up weth them
'lasses."

As he lay thus, Jim Furman came lumbering up the path
among the weeds and stood a moment, looking in. ''Git
up, Dave, ef ye don't want to be gormed up," said Ellen.
''Hit be yer own fault. I done tol' ye a heap o' times not
to lay on my bade. Git up an' eat. I be'n wait'n' on ye."
Ellen glanced at her husband, and fear filled her heart as
she realized the fooKshness of her act in waking him at that
moment. His face empurpled with rage and drink, a dan-
gerous glitter in his bloodshot eyes, he leaned against the
open door, regarding Dave, who was for the moment ob-
Hvious of all but himself and the boy.

Too late Ellen tried to assuage him with food. "Set an'
eat, Jim. Eat whilst yer corn-brade's hot enough to melt
butter." Strangely enough, he turned on his wife first.

" Yas, melt butteh ! Butteh wouldn't melt in yore mouth,
ef ye hed a piece thar big's my fist." He walked toward
her and made a pass at her wdth his enormous clinched fist,
but missed her. Dave rose and caught his arm, and pushed
him into a chair at the end of the table.

194 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

" Set thar an' take yer coffee. I reckon yer needin* coffee
'bouts now. Here, take mine. Hit's col' 'nough to drink
by now, settin' here waitin'. Gin me anotheh cup, EUen ;
I won't 'low 'im tech ye. He'll be all right in a bit." Dave
sat down opposite him, and Jim sullenly ate, and drank
the half-cold coffee, and glowered at the young man.

Ellen moved about, waiting on the two men obse-
quiously and impartially, furtively eyeing her husband
and keeping out of the reach of his arm. She kept up a
continuous stream of quavering complaint, however, as if
thus to divert him from the consequences of her own act in
waking him before he had had time to sleep off his debauch.

''Hit's been awful this night. They shore be ha'nts
'bout, fer I neveh hearn nothin' like them dawgs howlin'
an' Lury's baby screach'n' like he hev'n' fits, an' Lury
act'n' like mad, runnin' out weth 'im down th' mountain — "
As a fact, Lury's little brother had not cried since the
morning before, but had slept heavily ever since Ellen had
dosed him.

*'You haish!" bellowed her husband, making a pass
at her with his knife, as she stood pouring Dave's coffee.
She screamed and cowered back, and Dave caught his
hand.

"What you pesterin' round fer, Ellen. Go yandeh an'
set weth yer kid. I'll keep 'im back. Quit, Jim. Yore
drunk, an' don't know what ye doin'."

Then Jim Furman sat back as he was commanded, but
seemed to be wrestling with some thought to which he was
unused. He usually treated his wife well and obeyed her,
rather than to have any annoyance from her. He knew it
was not her this time he wanted to punish ; but how to get

A DECISIVE BLOW 195

at the matter he had in mind without picking a quarrel with
Dave he did not know.

''You'U keep me back f'om 'er, will ye? You won't
'low me tech 'er, won't ye?" The coffee was beginning to
clear his brain, and he knew what he would do. His mood
changed from a befuddled sense of personal injury to one of
hot and wild anger. He rose and stood in the middle of the
room, and looked from one to another, at Dave, quietly
going on with his disturbed breakfast, and at his wife, cower-
ing with guilty looks on the edge of her bed beside the child,
who still sat playing with his sticky hands, opening them and
shutting them and licking off the molasses contentedly.
The only thought now in Ellen's mind was that of self-pro-
tection. She glanced at her husband's face, and then turned
her somber, dark eyes on Dave.

It was enough. With a low growl, like that of an enraged
beast, Jim turned on the young man ; but for all Dave's
outward tranquillity, he was alive and watchful. He knew
the quality of the man, and with lithe ease he bounded back
and lifted the chair in which he sat, holding it between him-
self and his opponent. He made no attack, but merely
held Jim at bay until he could reach the door, when he
slipped out and would have gone off to his team, had not
a word from Ellen sent her husband bounding after him,
with words in his mouth too foul for human ears.

In one instant Dave knew that the time had come when
he must settle all accounts and leave that home that was no
home, going henceforth his own way. It was one hundred
and forty pounds of sinew, muscle, and bone against two
hundred of drink-sodden fat, and Dave knew the battle
was an uneven one; but blinded with anger, he struck

196 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

fiercely, and the big man went down an inert heap before
his wife, who came creeping to the door.

Dave looked down upon her, his lips quivering with rage.
''Ellen Furman, what were thet word yer done spoke to
Jim make him say sich a talk to me, callin' me that as make
the air ye breathe stink fitten' to pizen ye? Ye be at th'
bottom o' this. Ye be thet pizen clar th'ough a rattler
wouldn' dar' bite ye, fer feah o' pizenin' hisse'f."

The hate in Ellen's eyes looked back at him, but she only
said: "I cain' guess hu-come he actin' this-a-way. I — "

*'Git some wateh an' wash th' blood off'n his face; he'll
come to d'rectly." She went and returned with a rag,
which she sopped in a tin cup of water, and squatting be-
side her husband began to mop his bleeding face. She did
not look squarely at Dave, and her whole manner was
furtive and conciliatory.

*'You hadn't ought a' hit 'im like that-a-way when he
were drunk, pore feller," she whined.

^'Yas, pore feller! You be'n stirrin' up a skunk's nest;
I c'n see by th' look o' ye. Stan' up an look me square in
th' eye, ef so be ye kin. Stan' up, I say ! Now you tell
me what-all meanness ye be'n doin' to Lury an' th' kid."

"I tell ye I neveh done a thing. He be'n screachin' an'
yellin' fit to drive ye crazy, an' she gin 'im medicine to make
'im sleep, an' when he done got to sleep, she go hollerin' 'at
he a-dyin', an' snatch 'im up an run down mountain weth
'im, like I tell ye. She be a rale wil' cat oveh thet chile.
I—"

''You be'n dosin' her baby. Ef any harm come to him
or her, I'll have th' law on ye, an' ye'll hang fer hit. I'll
neveh let up on ye, hear?" With sudden lighting of the

A DECISIVE BLOW 197

eyes, he rushed into the house, and poking among the ashes
in the far comer of the fireplace, drew out a bottle he had
spied there when he was turning the pork in the skillet.
It was not quite empty. He dusted it off and placed it in
his pocket. "I'll ask Lury 'bouts this, see?" he flung
back, as he passed without glancing at her again.

Anger now began to get the better of Ellen's fear. Lury's
words came back to her from the lips of Dave, and she
shrieked after him as he hurried along the path leading to
the mule-shed, near which the loaded wagon was standing.

" Yas, git th' law on me, will ye ? I'll hev' th' law on you,
fer what I knows an' can prove. What'd I tell Jim ? Wall,
I tol' Jim come 'long in an' see whar you a-l}dn' whilst he
a-sleepin' in th' hawg shed, an' he come an' see what he see.
Hear?"

"She too low-down fer a man what has respec' fer hisse'f
to speak back at," he muttered, as he led out his mules and
began to "tie up." "I'll go down an' sell this load an'
fetch th' money to Lury, an' git her to bide 'long o' widow
Basle, an' then I'll quit."

As he drove off down the mountain, he looked back once
and saw Jim sitting up, and Ellen standing arms akimbo,
with her back toward her husband and her eyes following
the wagon. Buddy, a small, blinking mortal, stood in the
doorway, scream.ing, his mouth stretched wide, and his
face and hands smeared with molasses. He turned back to
his team and whistled softly.

"She shore be a hell cat," he said.

CHAPTER XVIII

IDEALISM

When Lury opened her eyes at last, it was nearly noon,
and Peg and Elizabeth had just finished their long talk.
They stood beside the bed looking down on her, and Lury
looked up first into the warm brown eyes of Peg. She
gazed long and steadily ; then a faint smile played wanly
across her face, answering the twinkle dancing in Peg's eyes.

"He's all right, Sally Cloud; your baby is all right.
He's been playing around, and now Jenny Deal has him
while you rest."

"I reckon you-uns all be heaven angels. I'll git up now
an' git Honey-Son an' go home.''

She sat up and looked about her. The night before she
had seen nothing of her surroundings. All she remembered
was that she had been taken in, and that loving words had
been said, and her little brother had been cared for and
saved. She awoke keen and alert, and curiously interested
in all she heard and saw.

A window was open, and a white muslin curtain was blow-
ing gently back and forth. A black gum tree shook bril-
liantly red leaves before the window, and a belated cicada
shrilled its high, vibrant note. These things Lury heard
and saw, and she also heard herself called Sally Cloud again.
What should she do? Should she tell the truth? With
the same quick decision she had used the day she gave her-
self that name, she now took it back.

IDEALISM 199

*'My name be Lury Bab. You-uns callin' me by my
maw^s name. I wish to Gawd hit were mine."

^'Oh, I thought Bob called you that, — my brother, you
know."

"Yas'm. I done tole him I Ked to 'im that time. I toF
'im what fer. I'll git up now an' go to Honey-Son."

*'You lie still and we'll have the baby brought to you,"
said Elizabeth. And then Lury lay back and looked at her
hands, and noted that they were clean, and saw that a soft
white gown had been put on her, and that her clothing was
laid neatly across a chair at the foot of her bed.

She stared at Elizabeth, and her lips trembled, but all
she said was : '* You-uns shore be right good."

It was all strange and a revelation, like a glimpse into
heaven itself, and the words heaven angels, which she had
applied to the sisters and Peg, lingered in Lury's mind. At
preachings she had heard a little about heaven and the
angels, and how they ministered and stood before the
throne. What was a throne and what miinistering was
she did not know, but in a vague way she arrived at the
thought of ministering as doing kind deeds, such as were
being done to her.

At preachings also she had heard about hell and devils
and fire and brimstone, and all the concomitants of punish-
ments and torture — and when she mentioned these things
they seemicd more real to her than heaven and the angels.
The way she consigned Ellen Furman to ''hell fieh", in Peg's
hearing, caused that young woman's blood to run cold.
When Honey-Son was brought to her, she clasped him in
her arms and looked him all over, to see if any remains of
the deadly sleep still lingered in some mysterious way. It

200 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

was then she consigned Ellen to those dire deeps, remarking
that she must go home now and ''Gin Ellen hell."

Lury had had her breakfast in bed, and Honey-Son sat
contented with her arm around him, sweet and clean and
beautiful as a little cherub. Peg sat on the edge of the bed
and smilingly watched them. It was then Lury spoke of
her own hands.

''Somebody done washed my ban's, and put this 'er ' clean
thing on me."

The contrast, of which Peg could have no conception,
between this state of things and what Ellen would have
done, was vivid in Lury's mind, and drew forth the horrible
anathema against Ellen from Lury's beautiful lips, — such
words as Peg never believed could come from the lips of
any one in earnest, let alone the lips of an innocent-faced
girl.

Peg leaned over and took Lury's hand in hers. "Yes,
I washed your hands last night, and put my nightgown on
you, and you were so tired and sleepy you did not know
what I was doing. So now, you won't say those terrible
things about — that woman — any more, will you?"

"I don't keer anythin' 'bouts her now, long's Honey-
Son be safe, but she hev to hev what's comin' to 'er. I
cain't go thar an' 'low her do like she done, and I has to
gm er —

"Don't, Sally Cloud. I don't care what your name is;
I'm going to call you that, because I like it. But, don't
say those terrible swear words any more. Never mind
what she does."

"I has to min'. When she do like she do, I has to cuss.
They is nothin' else I kin do. Ef I does hit hard 'nough,

IDEALISM 20I

she'll quit, fer she be feared o' th' devil, an' 'at's all she do
be feared on."

''You shan't ever go back there any more, Sally Cloud.
You shall live here and be my Kttle sister. I'll take care of
you."

"I has to go back. All is, I got to go back, fer — thar's
Dave. He cain' live thar 'thout I be thar. Hit's my place.
He has no place to live, an' I has no place to live, 'thout
jes' thar."

She sat up now, with a determined set of her red lips,
saying : ''I has to git up, please, ma'am," and Peg saw that
she was courteously dismissed.

''All right, Sally Cloud. We'll talk about that other
matter afterward. Shall we?"

'"Bouts what matter, ma'am?"

"About where you will live, you know."

"Yas'm, but I has to live thar." She said this wearily
and conclusively, and Peg discreetly departed and talked
the question over with the sisters.

Now, Lury, as far as she could understand her duty in
life, was right. She would not beg nor live on anybody's
bounty, and her only support came from the work of the
brothers in the still, — only a small share of which was by
any means considered hers, — and from Dave's peddling of
the deadly stuff.

Dave had been good to her, and he had loved her mother,
and had come back to stand between herself and those who
would willingly rob her of all. If she left, Dave would find
the place intolerable, and that thought more than any other
held her firm. So she went her way, and reluctantly Peg
and the sisters saw her depart, leading the little brother by

202 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

the hand along the trails and short cuts, climbing toward
her wretched home.

**She seems so pitifully grateful, although she hardly
said a word of thanks. One just feels it," said Peg.

^* There is something I don't know about in all this,"
said Elizabeth. "I'm going over to talk to the widow Basle.
She knows all about every one on these moimtains, I do
believe. There must be something we could do, if we only
knew the way to go about it."

Peg took a solitary walk along a stony path beside a
little stream, leading up from the house toward a tempting
bit of wooded glade. She did not know where the path led,
but it looked interesting, and she found it so indeed. She
traced the stream upward to where a clear spring had been
hollov/ed out and arched over with cement, and stooping
down, she filled her two hands with the cool water and drank.
Then, lifting her head, the clear drops trickling from her
chin and the tip of her nose, she looked straight into the
dancing eyes of Barney O'Harrow.

"Ah-hal I've caught you sulking up here," she cried,
drying her hands and face on an inadequate handkerchief
and climbing up to where he sat. *' Isn't this a darling little
nook ? How did you find it ? "

"How did you?" he countered, spreading his coat on
the flat rock at his side to make a seat for her.

"I came for a walk, not to sit and — " Nevertheless,
she took the seat.

"Sit and — what?"

"Oh, mope, sulk, anything you like that you were doing."

"Why should you think that I was either moping or sulk-
ing?"

IDEALISM 203

''How do you come to be here just now ? I thought you
were going to take that long six months or more of engi-
neering work in Tennessee."

"Sometime you may think it worth while to answer my
question," quoted Barney.

'' Very well, sir. I saw mope and sulk in your every move-
ment as you left the house after breakfast ; and I saw it in
your look as I hf ted my head from the spring ; and I saw it
in your walk when you started up this path two hours ago
or more, — "

''Did you see me start up this way?" Barney's face lit
up with a joyous light, and as he turned to look at her, she
thought him positively handsome.

"How could I help seeing you, when this path leads right
past the schoolroom window, and Aimt Elizabeth and I
sat there, looking straight up at it?"

"WeU, you have replied to my question and told me
more — enough to shame me out of the sulks, so I'll reply
to yours. Why I did not at first I don't know, unless it
may be a habit we men have of always thinking we must
take the disagreeable things on our own shoulders and not
let women be bothered with them. For instance, think
what a disagreeable thing it would be for you to get in a
row, prosecuting some maker of patent medicine, going to
law and aU that."

" But why should you always decide for us what we should
do, even to save us, — if that is the reason, — from some
annoyance ? Even granted the best of motives, how would
you like us to decide for you men all such questions as you
feel yourselves competent to decide for us?"

"I'm not going to get into an argument with you, Miss

204 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Kitchel, on such a ticklish subject. You and your wishes
are above all dictation from any one. Here is yoiu: bottle."

He reluctantly handed over the object of their dispute,
but she did not touch it, only looked laughingly up in his
eyes. ''You haven't answered my question yet."

''I've forgotten what you asked."

"I said: ' How should one go about this ? ' And I wanted
to know."

"And you thought I would know? Bless your heart!
I didn't know, that is, not the best way. I was only
fencing for time. I — we — men like to have you think
we know it all."

"But let's really talk about it and think what is best to
do. I want to fight them — the ones who are to blame for
this."

Now Barney was sorely beset. He did not want to talk
about the deleterious drugs and how to fight their manu-
facture. He wanted to talk about personal, intimate
things with her, — to touch her, draw her to him, — tell
her how he had stolen the time for this one day of idleness
just to see her and be flouted and made fun of by her. He
did not care to have her practical and philanthropic and so
terribly independent.

He was very stupid, poor man. If he had only known,
she did not care to be so very independent. But she could
not turn about and tell him so. So he sat staring gravely
at the bottle, pretending that his only thought was of that.

"Shall I put this back in my pocket until I can find out
the best way?" he asked humbly.

"Yes, if you would. It really is good of you to do it for
me — Why, what's Bob doing?"

IDEALISM 205

''Starting up the machine, evidently."

"He can't be going ! Let's go back."

They returned, but Bob and the machine were already
far on up the road, and they went for a mountain climb by
themselves, quite content to do so.

As for Bob, while he sat watching Lury and the little
brother slowly threading their way along the trail, the
thought seized him that he would drive up to the spot where
he was sure her path led across the automobile route, and
give her a lift to some point nearer her home, so, speeding
swiftly along, he arrived at the crossing long before her.

There he sat, reading his book when she appeared, and
would have passed him with merely a half smile and a
"How^dy", but that he called to her.

"Come," he said, leaping up. ''Let me take you and
your little brother up a part of the distance."

She looked longingly at the panting machine, and her
eyes were eloquent with delight, but she demurred. "I
don't reckon I betteh. Honey-Son, he mount be right
skeered."

"Oh, no. He won't be afraid, will you, boy. You can
sit up in front with me and hold him on your lap. You
get in first, and he'll want to go with you, see if he
won't."

Bob lifted the child in his arms, and she clambered in,
and naturally the little fellow struggled to go to her.

"There, see how he wants to go, now that he sees you are
in ? Why, he'll think this is the greatest thing in the world,
won't you, boy ? "

Lury sat beside Bob, elated, palpitating, glad to her
heart's core, but so demure that he wondered if she cared

2o6 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

after all for the lift he was giving her. She clung to her
little brother, hardly daring to breathe in her excitement.

Bob glanced now and again at the girl, noting the dehcate
Greek outline of her profile and neck, the forward tip of
her head, and the wild knot of curling gold at the top. He
decided she must have descended from an ancestry of
quality, but after all, the ancestry were past and buried,
and Bob murmured, philosophically :

''She's only what she is and what she may be."

She turned as if she thought herself addressed, and the
look in her eyes was that of a question.

''What is it, Sally Cloud?" he asked kindly, bending
toward her.

She laughed softly and turned her face away. "My name
be Lury Bab," she said.

"Oh, yes. I forgot you said Sally Cloud was not your
name, but you did not tell me what it really was, so I had
to call you that. What were you going to say?"

"I don't reckon."

"Oh, but I am sure you were going to say something.
What were you thinking?" She was silent, and he tried
again. "Do you like to ride like this?"

"I were think'n wisht I were dade, — on'y fer Honey-
Son."

"Why — Sally — Lury Bab ! That's no right thing to
wish for, — a live girl like you ! "

"I reckon you'd a heap rutheh be dade 'n flyin' cVar up
yon'way th'ough th' blue, 'an you'd be livin' like I be, weth
them as I lives weth."

He watched her eyes lift along the climbing road ahead of
them to the mountain top and then to the puff of white

IDEALISM 207

cloud sailing through the blue above, and saw where she got
her idea.

*'Do you think you would be like that cloud up there?'*

*' Sometimes, in th' night, when I have been dreaming
I have see'd maw that-a-way."

*'But you need not live with those people who have been
so unkind. You know my sister told you you could live
down there and be her little sister — didn't you under-
stand?" He spoke very gently and tenderly. The dear
little struggling creature 1 He even felt guilty at the thought
of taking her any nearer to the home from which she had
fled. She was silent, and a stubborn setting of her lips
caused him to try his powers of persuasion. "You think
a great deal of this little brother, don't you?"

"I think's a heap o' him, yas'r." She drew him closer
and laid her cheek against his curly head.

"Well, you know if you did as she asked of you, he could
go to their school and learn to be a fine, good man, and you
would be very proud of him some day."

"I be right proud on him now."

"I know, but then he would leam to read, and be a great
man, and — "

"Yas'r, but I reckon I hev to do fer him myse'f and live
whar I be." She spoke so conclusively that he was almost
vexed at the thought of her stupidity and opposition. He
essayed to argue the point with her.

"But why must you live there, Lury ? What reason can
you give me?"

Her expressive face took on its old, vacant look, and her
only response was : "Hit be fer me to do."

"Well," he thought, "it may be a sin to take her back.

2o8 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

but what can I do ? '^ So they sped on in silence for a time.
Then she said :

"I reckon I betteh git out heah. Ef I ride on, 1*11 be goin'
too far fer me to walk back, weth Honey-Son, he go that
slow."

Instantly Bob slackened speed and stopped. ^'Why,
Sal — Lury Bab ! Have you let me take you too far ?
I'm sorry. Wait until I get where I can turn, and I'll take
you back again."

'' I don't guess I be too fer. Thank ye." She clambered
out, and he sprang down and lifted the boy to her arms.
The little fellow was almost asleep. *'You mustn't carry
him. He's too heavy for you. Let me carry him a Httle
way." But the child twisted and writhed in his arms
when he took him from her, and he set the stubborn little
feet on the ground. "There, make him walk on his own two
feet. That's right."

"He be right skeered o' strangers," she apologized, and
the little one wound himself in her thin blue skirt, causing
her slender figure with its graceful curves to be plainly re-
vealed. Classically statuesque they were together, and
Bob could not help but admire. He regarded them with
a poignant sense of pain, as he recalled their pitiful loneli-
ness.

"Nature is so wasteful — so wasteful," he thought, look-
ing helplessly back at her.

As she stood thus, her eyes were wistful, and her red lips
curved in a half smile. She seemed to realize that she had
not made herself understood, and that he would not know
she was grateful, so she spoke again hesitantly.
You-uns all be right good. Thank ye."

((■

IDEALISM 209

"That^s all right, Sally Cloud ; I'm sorry you won^t stay
down below." And he leaped down to his machine and
sent it spinning on rapidly, thinking as rapidly and as
wildly. "Oh, I'm an idealist and a fool — I guess."

She swung a small bundle by the string and comforted
Honey-Son, as she walked away, searching for the trail
leading to her home. There was food in the bundle with
which Elizabeth had supplied her, and soon beside a little
waterfall, a tiny thread of a stream that trickled over a
high boulder, she seated herself and began to eat her lunch
and feed her little brother.

CHAPTER XIX

DAVE AND LURY

*^Ltjry, hu-come you here? Seem like you runnin'
away f^om me right spry these days."

^'Oh, Dave, I be so glad you here, I be like to cry. Yas,
I run. I run like th' mountain was afire and like to ketch
me an' Honey-Son. Hu-come you oveh this-a-way?"

The anxious look faded from Lury's face as she watched
Dave Turpin saunter toward them. He sat down on the
other side of the boy, but he reached his arm across to in-
clude them both in its curve, as he stretched himself on the
ferny bank where they sat.

^'I done a right smart o' travelin' this mawnin'. I be'n
oveh to oV man Arl'nton's 'n' cl'ar back here goin' on to'ds
Plainsville, an' I 'lowed to gin th' mules a restin' spell, an'
set here an' eat. I be carryin' a heavy load this trip, an'
hit be th' last load I'll carry fer th' Cove's long's I be livin'."

^'Oh, Dave, what fer ? Ef I hed a' knowed thet, I mount
'a stayed thar."

Dave's face expressed dismay. Had Ellen poisoned
Lury's mind against him? ''Stayed whar, d'ye mean?
Did ye run 'way f'om th' Cove 'count o' me bein' thar?
See here, Lury, what-all hev Ellen Furman be'n telHn' ye?
She be th' low-downest hell cat eveh clawed 'er way 'long
a hillside, er out'n a hole. Lury, tell me. Tell me." He
took hold of her elbow and drew her toward him till her head

DAVE AND LURY 211

rested on his shoulder and Honey-Son's curly head was
pushed down on his lap, where he soon fell asleep. "I
hain't neveh done no meanness to ye, Lury," he pled.
*'Hu-come you run off, when you know'd I were leavin'
with a load this mawnin'? Hev Ellen be'n th'owin' dirt
on me, makin' out I were — were — up to devilment tow'ds
ye?"

He spoke gently, and Lury found comfort in the hollow
of his arm. She drew a long breath and nestled closer.
"Dave, ef Ellen did sich es that, makin' out you up to
meanness, I — I'd git Jim's gun an' kill 'er. You think I'd
listen to words 'gin you, Dave? She mount holler words
gin you, Dave, so loud they'd hear her screach cl'ar down
to Woodville, an' I'd neveh hear 'er."

*'Thar, Lury. I knowed ye wouldn'. Tell Dave what
she done?"

"I has a heap to tell. You tell me first what fer you
goin' to quit."

But Dave chose to be silent over his grievance imtil he
had heard Lury's story. Then she told him where she had
been and why she would not stay in the Settlement with
the good school-teachers.

"I reckon Ellen means we-uns to cl'ar out an' leave the
hull dam Cove fer them to do weth an' make ofF'n fer
th'rselves," he said at last. "Bes' thing we c'n do'll be to
leave 'em be thar 'til th' rev'nues ketches 'em, — fer they
cain't sell no thin', not secret like. They hain't be'n a
raid fer quite a spell, an' hit's 'bout time fer one — When
th' officers comes an' cl'ars 'em out, we'll go back thar an'
hev things fine. You'n me'll git married, Lury ; how about
it?"

212 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

*^0h, Dave ! Ye reckon so? Dave, do ye think a heap
on me?" She lifted bright, wistful eyes to his.

Dave laughed a merry laugh and threw back his head
with the joy of it, just as a bird will lift its head and throw
out its happy breast to sing more loudly to its mate. Lury
laughed too, with the contagion of his joy, but she was a
bit discomfited. Why should he laugh at her question?

^'Quit laughin', Dave. I'll neveh marry nobody 'thout
he do think a heap on me. What fer'd I do sich es that ? "

Then Dave burst out again, with fresh happiness. He
had not dreamed, when he rode away from the Cove with
Ellen's foul words in his ears that morning, that he could
be thinking such sweet and happy thoughts before night.
But Lury had suffered too much during the last twenty-
four hours, and her heart still ached, and she feared the fu-
ture. There was still much to be said, and with nothing
to live on, and little Honey-Son to keep, what could she do,
and how could they live until the officers had cleared the
Cove for them — even if they should make a raid. She was
silent and her eyes filled with tears.

''Thar, Lury, don't," said Dave tenderly. "I hed to
laugh 'er bust, I be that happy. Hain't you neveh
thought on how you'n' me, we'd git married some day?
Why, Lury, I hev thought on hit eve'y day an' eve'y
hour o' all the days, and drempt on hit all the nights,
an' I jes' be'n waitin' fer you to grow up, an' now, all to
wonst, I see here you be grow'd."

"But what'll we live on, Dave, ef you quit — an' th'
hain't nothin' fer ye to do but quit, th' way she hev acted —
an' — Dave, I hev to keer fer Honey-Son."

"You think I'd leave you keer fer him all by yorese'f,

DAVE AND LURY 213

Lury? Why, I'll keer fer him." He laid his hand on the
pile of golden curls in his lap, that covered the sleepy head.
"They's a heap I c'n do fer 'im. We'll do fer 'im an' school
'im, an' — an' — he'll be a heap betteh done by 'an eveh
you an' me has been, hear?"

She had drawn away from him when he laughed, but now
she nestled again in his arm, happily silent. Where Dave
had learned the art, who may know, but certain it is he was
artistic in his love-making. Deep down in his soul he loved
Lury. She was his all, and for her only, since Sally Cloud's
death, he had lived, hardly thinking of marriage, until of
late when she had become so womanly over her little
brother. It had matured her and lifted her out of the sloth
and disorder of the home where Ellen presided; and she
had grown tall and looked older for the added height.

Now he began to plan the future for her, as is the way of
lovers, and all he planned included himself as her constant
companion and sweetheart. He would go on and sell his
load and bring all to her, and he would get a license in Plains-
ville, and Preacher Price would marry them, as soon as he
returned. And they would live in a little house somewhere,
and he would hire out to some of the low-coimtry farmers
with his mules, and all would be well with them until the
revenue officers would have cleared the Cove of the Fur-
mans. Then they would go back there and take possession,
and Lury would come into her own. They would not have
to go to law about it, for it would all come about so natu-
rally. The Furmans would go the way of all evil-doers, for
they would be arrested or die of drink, as Jim Furman's
father had done.

"Why, Lury, th' be 'nough hcker thar in th' cave fer to

214 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

bring you five hundred dollars, 'er a heap mo*n thet, maybe
a thousand, — an' not what they hev made since your paw
were killed, either. The hull on hit be youm. Hit be'n
layin' thar sence way back. I reckon some on hit has
laid thar fer nigh on to twenty years. An' hit's yourn —
like I tells ye. They won't nobody find hit, and they cain't
sell hit, since I hev quit 'em. Ev'ybody down below knows
th' Furmans, an' ef they 'low to tote hit therse'fs, th'
officers'll hev 'em on th' chain gang' fore they c'n turn
round to go back up mountain. I wisht now I hadn't
gone to see ol' man Arl'nton, fer he mount tote fer 'em, er
Sim Arl'nton, one, but they won't stay by long, ef so be
they do, fer th' Arl'ntons cain't stan' fer Ellen, no way."

**Dave, could you git her indited fer trying to pizen
Honey-Son? She'd ought to be."

*'She hed ought to be — an' — ef — ef she do a thing
to me — I'll hev her indited fer hit too."

''Dave! She cain't do nothin' to you, can she, Dave?
Can she?" Lury raised her head and gazed into his eyes
with a frightened stare.

"I do' know what she mount lay out to do. She honin'
oveh some devilment, I can see that."

*'She. be always grumblin' somethin' 'bouts you, Dave.
I heam her a heap o' times, but I 'lowed she on*y do hit to
skeer me, an' make me stan' by an' he'p her. Dave, ef
she do meanness to you, I'll pizen 'er. I'll fetch rattlers
to bite her. I'll—"

"Haish, Lury. She hain't got no mo' power to hurt me
'n she has to climb up an' knock Dan M'Cune's eagles
off'n the rock thar."

"She mount do hit weth a gun, Dave."

DAVE AND LURY 215

"Ef she go fer me weth a gun, she'll lie in jail fer th^^'rest
on her days."

^'But, Dave, some one shot my paw, an' nobody hev be'n
took fer hit."

*^Yore paw, he were some diffunt. I hear the mules
stompin' down thar. I'll tote you and Honey-Son long back
to th' Settlement, an' you bide long of ol' Miz Basle, ontwel
I come back weth th' Hcense." He carried the child down
to the wagon and laid him, still sleeping, on the fodder in
the back and returned to her, where she sat waiting, look-
ing into space, dazed, and wondering at Dave and what he
had said to her, and at the mystery which his love-making
had wrought in her.

He came bounding back and stooped over her.

*'Be ye ready, Lury?" She lifted her long lashes, and
her eyes looked dreamily and wistfully into his, but she sat
still and said not a word. Then he lifted her to her feet and
took her in his arms, and his body trembled in his eagerness
that had so swiftly come upon him. "You 'er goin' to be
my ol' woman f'om now on, Lury. Say ye be." He kissed
her lips then, and the sweet, new feehng of being loved, —
with a love such she had never known but to give to her baby
brother, — such as had never entered her thought as being
given to her, turned her faint with joy. She swayed in his
arms and clung to him. ''Ye be goin' to be my ol' woman,
Lury?"

"I be, Dave."

"I reckon th' be no one Hvin' on earth c'd git you away
f'om me, Lury."

"I reckon not, Dave."

Then in happy silence they walked down to the wagon,

2i6 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

and he lifted her to the seat at his side, and they drove on
to the widow's home, the two happiest beings on the
mountain-side. In Dave's joyous and sanguine nature
there was never a fear — never a doubt.

"Hit be a heap easier to quit an' leave 'em be thar, long's
you'n me'll be ol' man 'n' ol' woman to each other. They'll
see-saw an' fight an' drink an' gin'lly raise hell an' git
ketched in ther devilment ; 'n' when they be th'ough 'n' in
jail fer sich, we c'n go back an' live like we'd ought, an'
pull easy together, jes' like them mules. They knows betteh
'n to pull agin one 'nother, an' so'll we. I c'n jes' set here
an' drive, 'th one han', an' leave my arm be roun' you,
Lury, fer th' rest o' our lives. Jes' so."

While they were contentedly driving thus, Ellen Furman
was making her way back to the Cove from Plainsville. A
new question had come up to trouble her. After they were
well rid of David Turpin, and he had taken his mules and
wagon with him, or sold them, how were they to get rid of
their product without hiring some one else? For even if
she should make the trips down herself, as she was deter-
mined to do, they had no wagon and only the old mule
she was now riding, — the one that "kicked", as Lury
had explained to Daniel McEwen on that eventful morn-
ing. Leaning forward and chewing her snuffstick, Ellen
struck the heels of her heavy shoes into the old mule's sides
and planned and schemed.

The widow Basle stood in her doorway watching the
village below her small hillside cabin, interested in all that
went on there and pleased with the life and stir that had
come to the place in the last two years. She spied Dave's
wagon and wondered that it did not turn toward the store,

DAVE AND LURY 217

until it swung up toward her own door. Then she spied
Lury's happy face under its great hood and smiled
contentedly.

^' Howdy, Dave. Wall, howdy, Lury. I heared you
was down to the school-house yestidy, an' thar ye went off
up th' mountain 'thout givin' me a word. Miz Graves,
she b'en oveh an' tol' me all what be'n done to ye. I says
then Ellen betteh hide her haid 'er git out 'o th' country,
one. You jes' hght, both on ye, an' — How ? " She stopped
and looked at Dave, who had leaped from the wagon and
stood close at her side, speaking in a low tone. She stared
at what he said and glanced from him to Lury, who could
not hear them from her seat under the hood. He spoke
hurriedly — eagerly, but in low tones.

''Th' be betteh fer ye to do 'n that, Dave," she said at last.
''Lury hain't mo'n fryin' size yit, she be that young.
Leave 'er bide weth me, an' you git some decent work 'at's
wuth doin' first. You be a good man, but you be in a bad
business."

"Wall, I'm quit — soon's I sell tliis 'er load, fer she got
to hev th' money. What I got here'd ought to bring her
thirty-five dollars, maybe fifty er mo'n thet. An' she need
hit, too, fer th' won't be nothin' else fer 'er, afteh I quit.
She hev th' kid to do fer, too. Don't you work gin me,
please, ma'am, fer — hits a heap betteh I marry her — an'

— keep keer on 'er. They be nobody but me to do hit.
Ellen Furman, she'll do a heap o' quare talkin' an' — they's

— I reckon I betteh marry Lury. I'm on my way to
Plainsville now fer th' license, an' when I git back, I'll
git th' preacher — yas'm." He returned to the wagon
and lifted Lury down. Their eyes met as he did so, and

2i8 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

the widow saw in that one glance between them that Lury
had indeed become a woman.

She hastened forward then and spoke kindly, leading the
sleepy boy by the hand, yet she looked doubtful. *'Dave
be'n tellin' me what-all you layin' out to do, betwixt ye. ^
Wall, th' be a heap to say, an' th' be a heap I mount say
what I hain't goin' to say, fer hit wouldn't do no good.
Ef ye be sot, ye be sot, but I'll do what I kin fer ye. Come
in, Dave, come in an' set."

*' Thank ye, I'll git on." Dave's manner was shy and
awkward, as he mounted to his seat under the wagon hood.
He said not a word to Lury, but as he drove away, he looked
again in her eyes, and she in his, and it was plainer than
words, — the silent speech of their glances. ''I'll not be
round likely befo' to-morrow 'er maybe th' day a'ter.
Hit'll be a long way 'round goin', but a short way back
when I'm th'ough." He laughed and drove away, looking
back from time to time around the hood of the wagon,
although Lury had disappeared into the cabin with the
widow.

CHAPTER XX

THE ARREST

It was a long way going, as Dave had said, but he found
it longer returning. He made a detour to sell his load at a
few places of distribution, because he did not wish to arrive
in Plainsville until it was all disposed of. He suspected
from Ellen's manner and her leer after him as he drove away
from the Cove, that her sinister design might be to set the
officers on him as he went with the liquor in his wagon.
To be "caught with the stuff" was his only fear, and to rid
himself of it was his first care. Thus it happened that he
lay out all night near Rock Creek, a few miles above Plains-
ville, after having sold all he had, and drove in early next
morning with an empty wagon and a good wad of money in
a little tobacco bag drawn up with a string.

His first act was to go to the Court-house for his license.
Happy as a lord, he went out from the registrar's office
with his Kttle document in his pocket and strolled across
the square to his team. They were tied to the rear of his
wagon and were contentedly crunching corn. He removed
their harness and leisurely brushed them off with a handful
of fodder, and then crawled into the wagon and stretched
himself on the bed of corn fodder therein. Taking the
license from his pocket, he examined it all over mth great
care. He could not read a line of it, but the registrar had

220 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

read it carefully through to him, and he was well pleased
with the contents.

He was not sure that Lury was of marriageable age, but
he had sworn that she was, which would do quite as well,
and he was troubled with no compunctions of conscience
therefor. Then he counted carefully the contents of the
little cotton tobacco bag, and found it to contain over a
hundred dollars, and his heart leaped within him.

*'Now, who would a' thunk I hed took in th' hull o* that !
Hit be hem, thet's what." Then he unfolded from its
brown paper wrapping a little cotton handkerchief which he
had spied at Ross's store after he parted from Lury at the
widow's and had thought too pretty to belong to any one
but Lury. It was scalloped all around with blue cotton
thread, and bright pink roses were worked in the corners.
He examined this also carefully and picked at the threads
to see if it was strong.

"Th' hain't nothin' too putty fer her, now I teU ye," he
said, holding it off at arm's length and addressing it ad-
miringly. Then he folded the license around the little
bag of money and tied both up in the small cotton square,
and again wrapped all in the brown paper and tied the
compact parcel carefully about with red twine. "Thar!"
he said contentedly, and thrust it in his trousers pocket ;
then, turning over on that side, he placed his hands beneath
his cheek and soon was soundly sleeping.

He had need of the rest, for he had been travehng since
four that morning, in his eagerness to have the Hcense
safely in his pocket. All had gone well, and his heart was
light, and he slept as sweetly as a babe, while his mules
finished crunching their corn and drowsed and rested.

THE ARREST 221

He was awakened from pleasant dreams by a rough voice
and a commanding tone. *'Git up, young man. Ye no
need to sleep now. Ye'll hev plenty o' sleepin' time
later."

He lifted his head suddenly and beheld the round, red
face and fat shoulders of the sheriff leaning over him from
the wagon seat where the man had climbed to get a good
hold of him should he attempt to draw a *'gun" or show
any resistance. Two other men stood at the tail-board of
his wagon, gazing at him curiously. They were there to
help the sheriff, should there be any trouble, and also to enjoy
the excitement of the arrest.

Dave laughed sleepily, contentedly, and raised himself
on his elbow. "Aw, quit yer fooHnV' he said. *^You-uns
think I c'd git into Plainsville weth a load o' licker 'thout
you-uns gittin' holt on hit an' bein' cl'ar plumb drunk 'fore
now? Quit!" he shouted again, as the sheriff produced
a pair of handcuffs and proceeded to secure him by the
wrists. *^Sarch th' wagon, ef ye don't believe me. Th's
nary a jug thar."

''This 'er no foolin' matter, son," said the sheriff, as
he fastened the irons on Dave's wrists, while the men held
his feet. ''You no need to kick, an' they's no good re-
sistin' th' law."

Then Dave sat up in the fodder and cursed, deeply and
roundly. "Sich a fool business! What you doin' this fer,
anyhow? Who be'n settin' ye on me? What fer?"
he at last found breath to ask.

"You haish up, an' come along o' me, an' ye'll know
what fer, right soon," was the reply. "Hit's betteh to go
whar ye'r wanted peaceably, weth no resistance, er hit'l

2 22 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

go a heap harder weth ye. When this 'er' warrant is read
to ye, ye'll find out hit's murder in th' fust degree, an'
thet's a hangin' offense. Ye'll do a heap betteh to — "

** Who's be'n kilt?" asked Dave, stopping in his dazed
fury to wonder, for strangely enough he did not think of
the murder of two years past of which he was so entirely
innocent. That had been an accepted thing, and in his
mind was so just and right that there could never be a
question of arrest for any one, except in the crazy mind of
Ellen Furman, and for the moment he had forgotten her
threat of the morning before. So much happiness had come
into his life since then, that it had been swept clear of her
scurrilous words. His arrest now seemed preposterous to
the point of being a practical joke.

He stood silent a moment, then began to laugh. Quietly
he laughed and chuckled. ''I reckon you-uns thinks this
be a good joke," he said. "Ye mount take them irons
off an' leave me be, now, ef ye th'ough weth yer fun."

But the sheriff made no reply and grimly led him on.
In his own mind he had no idea that the boy had really
done the deed, for it was not like Dave, and yet he had
seen him in a rage before now, when he could believe it
possible for him to do anything. "Dave hev fieh an'
spunk 'nough to kill a hundred ef he got goin'," he said to
himself.

In the court-house the warrant was read to him pompously
in due form, and the whole sinister aspect of the indictment
began to dawn on him. Nevertheless the impossibility
of its amounting to anything cheered him, arid he walked
across the square again towards the county jail non-
chalantly. While the men were searching his wagon, where

THE ARREST 223

they stopped to see if there were any liquor, in spite of
Dave's denial, he spied his friend, Sim ArHngton, who,
seeing him in trouble, came to him.

"Howdy, Sim," he said quietly. '* Put yer han' in my hip
pocket, will ye, an' take out thet bun'el. They'll sarch me
nex', an' this be none o' mine. Hit's Lury Bab's. Say,
quick, don't 'low 'em to see ye. Say, you take hit to Lury,
will ye, fer me? She's down to ol' Miz Basle's. Say,
you tell 'er to stay weth the widder, will ye ? Tell 'er to bide
right thar till I come fer 'er, will ye? An', say, tell 'er to
keep thet thar paper fer me, till I come to 'er, will ye?"

"Sure I'll do hit fer ye. What's th' row? Up fer
licker seUin' ? "

"Naw, hit's thet thar damned hell cat to th' Cove; she
gitt'n' smart, an' has hed me indicted fer killin' Lee Bab,
when th' hull mountain knows Jim Furman done hit. Say,
I done be'n to your paw's to git ye to tote fer 'em. Don't
ye tote a single jug fer 'em. Let 'em go to hell thar, an'
tell Lury keep away, I'll git cl'ar, an' hev Ellen Furman
indicted fer pizenin' er tryin' to pizen Lury's leetle brotheh.
Tell 'er I be all right. I got th' bottle what helt the stuff,
an' kin sw'ar I hauled hit out'n the fireplace the mawnin'
af teh she done hit an' th'owed hit thar. You tell Lury keep
still ontwel I git cl'ar, an' I'll hev thet thar low-down bitch
jailed fer life, fer what she done to Lury's leetle brotheh.
You tell 'er— "

The return of the sheriff cut him short, and the two friends
clasped hands and looked in each other's eyes significantly,
but the only thing they heard Dave say to Sim was : ^' Say,
gin me a leetle tobacca, will ye ? " and Sim obeyed.

Left alone in the county jail, poor David sat for hours

2 24 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

with bowed head. To be arrested for liquor selling was one
thing and meant very little to him, for he could easily pay
his fine and go free, and take up the work again with more
caution. But to sit there and ponder over the meanness
of the woman who had done this thing and understand that
there was no chance to go free, even until the time of his
trial, by a fine or any other means, was quite another
thing.

He was glad he had seen Sim Arlington, thus to send word
to Lury ; and he knew she would do her best to get word
to some who would interest themselves in getting him an
early trial. That was all that was necessary, — just to
have the chance to tell folks he had had nothing to do with
it, because he was down the mountain. The Furman boys
knew he was off with a load, and the whole thing was folly
and spite on the part of Ellen.

Little did he dream of the ways of lawyers and courts of
justice. It was the first time he had ever been arrested, in
spite of his many trips with illicit supplies, and his complete
innocence of the crime prevented him from realizing the
gravity of his plight. The real blow was to his self-respect,
and the separation from Lury.

No sooner was Lury taken in by the widow Basle than
that good woman was told by her all her troubles, fluently
and eagerly. It was right that the widow should know, and
who could advise and help better than she ? No longer was
Lury silent or inscrutable. With the simplicity of a child,
she laid her head on the good woman's knee and sobbed and
told all : the lonehness and sorrow of her Hfe, — the cruel
innuendoes of Ellen, — and the terror of her soul lest some
evil befall David or her little brother — some evil at which

THE ARREST 225

Ellen had many times hinted would come if Lury ever left
the Cove to live elsewhere.

What Dave could have done she did not know, or what
she herself had done to make Ellen say so often : '' Ef eveh
ye go down to WoodviUe, ye won't know what struck ye.
They'll spit on ye."

"Wall, don't ye think abouts hit. They be nothin
mean 'nough fer Ellen to think, an' I tell ye leave go thinkin'
'bouts her an' bide right here. I'll go oveh to Miz Graves,
an' see kin ye go to school thar, an' do somethin' fer yer
schooUn'. You'd ought to I'arn to read an' write, like
yore maw done. She hed schooKn' fore eveh she come
oveh this side th' mountain."

"Maw done teached me a leetle, an' she were goin' to
I'arn me mo' ; she done tole me so, — she I'arnt me a heap
o' letters — " Lury caught her breath sobbingly as she
thought of the beloved mother, and Honey-Son trotted to
her and patted her flushed cheek, giving baby sympathy.
"Look at him," she said. "Hain't he sweet? I'd Hke fer
Honey-Son to I'arn read'n' an' writin'. I'll work fer him, I
will, an' he'll be a gre't man some day. Maybe he'll be a
preacher like preacher Price. I'd like to see Honey-Son
stan'in' up thar, jes' layin' hit off to 'em. I reckon he so
smart he'd make 'em skeerder o' hell 'an preacher Price
kin."

"I reckon, but you'd ought to gin him a name o' his own.
Hit be a shame an' crime to make 'im grow up 'thout no
name but Honey-Son. You' maw wouldn' like to hev 'im
grow up that heathen, no name, pore leetle feller."

" Yas, he hev a name, but I hain't tole nobody — fer —
fer the' mount tell me go to hell fer sich — leastways up to

226 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

the Cove they would. Paw, he'd rise in he's grave an'
haunt me, ef he knowed what I hev named Honey-Son."

'^ What hev ye named 'im ? I won't tell on ye."

"In the night, when hit be so dark the' won't nobody
see, I jes' reach out an' tech 'im so, an' tell Gawd his
name be — Dan'l Cloud. Then in the mawnin', when
folks be thar, I jes' call 'im Honey-Son. Hain't nobody
but Gawd know'd his rale name. He got a right to Cloud,
fer hit were maw's name ; he got a right to hit." She said
this last defiantly, as if it might be taken from him, even by
allowing the widow to know. ''He got a right to t'otheh
name, too, fer Dan M'Cune he I'arnt me how to feed 'im an'
keer fer 'im, an' — an' — he gin me th' cow — he gin me
Josephine."

"How do ye know he gin ye Josephine?"

"You knows he done hit."

"Whateveh did ye do weth th' cow?"

"I done brung 'er back up th' mountain, when she run
dry."

"An what 'd Dan'l M'Cune say when ye brung 'er back? "

"He didn' say nothin', jes' say tu'n her in th' lot, an' he
ax' a heap 'bouts you-uns, an' 'bouts Honey-Son. Then he
gin Honey-Son a gre't big hunk o' fine corn-brade 'n' 'lasses,
an' put 'im on the mule's back an' led 'er half-way down
th' mountain, an' axed me a heap 'bouts how I livin' an'
I didn' let on nothin', jes' tol' 'im I git'n' on right smaht."

" WaU, you be'n a leetle fool. What fer didn' ye tell 'im
the truth, like ye be'n tellin' me ? He mount 'a' hep'd ye
out o' thar."

"I neveh baigs fer nothin'. Maw, she kep' 'er mouth
shet, an' she I'arnt me how to keep mine shet."

THE ARREST 227

**What eveh put hit in yer head to carry the cow back
thar?"

"I hearn Ellen tell Joe Furman she were goin' to git a boy
come thar 'n' carry Josephine down to Woodville an' sell
'er fer beef. She know'd betteh 'n to tell Dave do sich es
thet, but I know'd she'd do hit, an' I run off weth 'er, an' she
neveh know'd what-all done come weth the cow. She were
drunk thet day, an' neveh know'd I were gone. Thet's
hu-come I done hit."

^'Wall, you be peert. You be wuth schoolin', an' I'll
tell Miz Graves. She'd ought to hev help, fer her sister
hain't none too strong."

^'I reckon Dave, he'll be back fer me right quick."

"I reckon ye'd do a heap betteh to bide right long weth
them good sisters, an' leave Dave git a start fust."

Lury's red lips lost their sweet curves in an instant and
set in a thin, straight Hne, and her eyes took on a dreamy in-
scrutability, as they gazed straight before her out of the
open cabin door.

*' Ye'd betteh think twice 'fore ye marry Dave. You'll git
no schoohn' an' hev no money to school yer leetle brotheh,

an'—"

*'Dave say as how he'll gin 'im schoolin.' He done said

so."

The set look in Lury's face warned the widow that she
would gain nothing by opposition, and she grew more politic.
*'Mind, I hain't sayin' one word gin Dave. He be peert
'nough an' good, fer all I knows, but he hev a heap to do 'fore
he c'n marry, an' he may come fer ye soon, an' he mount
be late ; an' ontwel he do come, ye mount's well be doin'
fer yerse'f a leetle."

228 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

''I'll do all I kin to he'p out, but th' hain't nothin' fer
him to do but git th' Hcense an' th' preacher."

"An' whar 'llyeKveat?"

''Dave'll fin' a place to live at. He say so."

''An'what'llyeHveon?"

*'Dave, he say, he'll do haulin' weth his mule team, an'
make a heap to live on. He say so."

"An' you goin' to leave the place up yandah to th'
Furman's to live thar an' do weth hit as they like? Do
Dave say sich es thet?"

"I reckon. We hain't no call to Hve weth 'em like we
be'n doin'. Dave say he hev be'n wait'n' fer me to grow up.
An' I be grow'd."

"Pore lamb !" said the widow. "I reckon th' be nothin'
fer me to say er do. You jes' bide 'long o' me ontwel Dave
come back." Nevertheless she did go over to the sisters
and asked their advice about it ; and their advice was to
wait. Maybe the Lord would provide a way out of the
dilemma. It was often so. The very things which we
thought in our ignorance were all wrong turned out to be
the best in the end.

" Meybe so," sighed the widow. "Anyhow, th' be nothin'
fer we-uns to do now but wait, 's far's I see, ef th' Lord'll
he'p — "

"Of course he will," cried Peg cheerily. "And I'U help
the Lord."

"Why, Peg I" said Caroline, gently reproachful.

"Why, what's the matter with that? Aren't people
always singing something about working for the Lord?
Wouldn't that be helping? If you don't think it proper to
say it, I'll sing it."

THE ARREST 229

''Well, sing it, dear," said Elizabeth. ''Tell them what
you are really going to do, how you will help in this."

"Why, we'll build a little house for them and let them
get married if they want to ; and Lury can go on and learn
at our school just the same, and Dave can work for us, and do
hauling for the new building I am going to put up for you,
and she can help you. And I am going to go all through
these hills, and wherever I can find a girl who really wants
to learn, I'm going to give her a home and have her taught
the things she ought to know most, and get teachers to help
you both — so you won't be killed doing charitable work for
me and the Lord — "

"Peg!"

"Well, that^s the way with a lot of people who think they
are doing what they call 'The Lord's work', and being
very charitable. They begin in the first place on such a
grand scale that they don't have enough left over to pay
their teachers nor the ones on whom they must depend
to carry out their grand schemes, and then they load
them with things to do and look after until they go to
pieces and die of overwork, and never get the credit for
all they have done. It is always the ones who have given
the money, not the ones who have given their very
lives — "

"Well, dear, those get the credit who deserve it in the
long run," said Elizabeth.

"Well, I don't propose that either of you will have to wait
for that long run to get the credit. I'm not going to begin
so big that I can't carry it through without making life a
burden to some one. I'm going to take care of twenty
girls, — have everything right, you know, and do it right

230 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

here, where you have begun. It's your beginning, not mine.
You gave me the idea, — I won't try to say all the things
I've been thinking, but this : if you didn't do a single thing,
Aunt Caroline, but just he, just live right with those girls
and he, — you know what I mean, — they'd grow good and
sweet and — a lot of things they'd never understand — or
know — or feel — just living here and hearing you talk
and watching you he — your own selves."

Barney sat over by the window with a book, and now and
then he lifted his eyes, all his attention on Peg, and never a
thought for his book. Peg, glowing and happy, was not
thinking of him at all. He knew that, and although he
did not begrudge her the happiness, he felt a httle pang
of pity for himself. Yes, money gave women power, and
with power they were satisfied and intoxicated, and men
were left out. He could never be anything to her. Why
was he hanging around her ? He rose and walked out, and
sat on the hillside and whittled a stick.

As he sat there, Honey-Son trotted over to him, and he
coaxed him into his arms and comforted himself with the
beautiful child. He wished Peg could care for him and the
kind of a home he could give her, and he would be willing
to sweep all these other interests out of her life. Barney
was selfish in all this when he thought himself really generous
and rather misused — for was he not willing to throw at
Peg's feet all he had and all he was, his life and heart
and soul? While she was striking out for power and
her own will and independence, regardless of him, so he
thought.

Thus he brooded as he sat with his arm around the child ;
and it was there, amusing the little one, that Peg found him,

THE ARREST 231

half an hour later. That he admired and amused the little
one did not injure him in Peg's eyes. Right there he had
his lesson to learn, but Barney was so filled with his own
ideas that he was slow to appreciate hers, or to realize their
importance, and Peg knew this.

CHAPTER XXI

peg's way

"Oh, you little love !" cried Peg.

"Who? me?" grinned Barney, holding the boy tightly
and refusing to let him free, when Peg coaxed.

"Of course, Mr. O'Harrow. Come, let me have him.
Don't be a piggy. He Hkes me best, anyway, don't you,
Honey-Son? See how he's struggKng to get away from
you."

"He was contented enough before you came here. Don't
leave me, boy."

"There, of course he'll leave you, when you hold him
against his will. So would I. So would any one."

"I wouldn't hold you against your will. I couldn't."

"Oh, I don't know. You'd never get the chance." Peg
cuddled the Httle fellow and Hfted him to her knee and
clasped her bracelet around his arm.

"No, you carry bribes. I'd never take bribes."

Peg seated herself on a small ledge of rock some distance
from Barney, and now that she had succeeded in getting
the child away from him, she deliberately turned her
attention to taunting him.

"Bribes aren't offered you, sir." She found a red feather
from a cardinal bird's wing and proceeded to tickle the
baby's ear with it. He would have seized it, but she held
it out of his reach. "No, you little scamp. You'd spoil

PEG'S WAY 233

the pretty feather. Watch his dimples now, when he smiles.
Aren't they fascinating?''

*'They are, indeed." Barney was not looking at the
child, and Peg had dimples of her own.

''Aunt Elizabeth is over at the widow Basle's trying to
get his sister to stay here with us. Mrs. Basle thinks she
ought to hve with us and be 'I'arnt read'n' an' writ'n'.'
But she's just determined to marry that young man who
brought her back, — the esquire I told you about who fixed
the tug for us the other day."

''She's nothing but a kid herself. What should she get
married for? She'd better listen to Mrs. Basle and your
aunt."

"She won't, though. She says he'll be here to-night or
to-morrow with the license, and then they'll be married, —
no place to live, — no relatives to go to and not a cent,
that we know of."

"He'll have some money about him, never you fear for
that ; and if he hasn't, it wouldn't make any difference.
They are the most improvident people, — the merest
children."

" She says if he leaves the Cove, he must have her to 'do'
for him. If she cares anything for him, I think that's pretty
good sense for such a girl, and I don't see why she shouldn't.
He's an awfully attractive mountain boy. You remember
I said so that time."
I remember, indeed."

Did you hear what I advised, in there, when we were
talking of it?"

"I heard a little of it, yes, but not to take it in ; something
about twenty girls to be fed and cared for and tanght for

234 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

nothing at your expense ; I thought your plans were all very
good, but did not concern me, so I — "

*'0h, of course — naturally nothing would interest you —
but something that would concern you. Come, Honey-Son.
We'll go find sister."

*'Peg. Come back, Peg. I — I'm a — a bear. Peg — "

*'Say by-by to the man, baby. Nice man. Say by-by."

But the baby only smiled and showed the delightful
dimples and said '* Howdy." Barney leaped after them,
caught the little fellow in his arms and tossed him high
in air, whereat he screamed with laughter. It was the
way Dave had of treating him, and he was used to the
rough play.

^'Oh, come on back. Peg, and let Mrs. Basle and Lury
and your Aunt Elizabeth have it out together. Honey-Son
likes me. He says * Howdy'; he doesn't say by-by.
Come be friends, Peg. I don't see why we always have to
quarrel."

''We don't have to, and it isn't my fault. I try to be
friendly, and to tell you things, but you toss them off as if
they were just nothing on earth — and to me they are
something." She turned with him, and they began walk-
ing up the path toward the spring.

''Well, you see. Peg, — of course your plans do mean
a lot to you; and that's just it — they don't — "

"Mean anything to you. Go on."

"Don't put your own interpretation on everything I say.
I am not fluent, as you are — but I do think things some-
times — that are not easily expressed ; and I am — I am
terribly interested in all you say and all you are wishing to
do — and — and yet — it sort of shuts me out, don't you

PEG'S WAY 235

see. I'm out of it — of no use to you — so I just step out
of the way."

"Well, you are very stupid. Why do you think I am
always trying to get your advice and telling you things if —
if — I want you out of the way ? "

"But, Peg, I can't stand it. I just can't stand it. You
don't understand how a man feels when he sees he's ab-
solutely nothing — only a sort of — friend and advisor
thing to a woman — like — a computing machine to a bank
clerk — or an encyclopaedia of useful information about
things, and all that ; that he has no part in and can have no
part in, even if he would — he doesn't — he — "

Barney grew incoherent. He was carrying the child on
his shoulder, and the baby arms were clasped tightly around
his head. Carefully he held the drooping branches from
brushing the little one's face, or swinging back and striking
Peg as they passed. Peg was watching him, as well as
listening, and was following in his wake as docilely as the
lamb followed the historic Mary.

"No, of course he doesn't, Barney — if he only would !"

"Would what?" he fenced, with a rigid set of his jaw.

"My goodness, Barney! You have just said. Can't
you see how you have just admitted that you are out of
the things I am interested in, and that they are of no use to
you. I know well enough that young men feel a girl ought
not to be interested in anything but — sewing and cooking
and — and dancing attendance on some young man.
You are so absolutely unfair. How would you like it if we
apportioned off a very narrow Hst of things that we decided
young men ought to be interested in, to the exclusion of
all else, no matter what your tastes might be, — and then

236 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

held you to our notions, or else snubbed you, or went off
and sulked, or stalked around feeling very superior?"

"Here we are. Let's sit up there by the spring, where
this talk really began, and have the thing out. Run and
play, little man." Barney set the child dowTi on the path
and gave him a little willow whip. " Now, run up and down
and drive the horse. That's right."

He turned and gave his hand to Peg, helping her up the
low bank to their seat of the previous day. She did not
need his help, but she took it as women always do take
the masculine arm or hand, and she liked it — even as
women do.

He spread his coat for Peg to sit upon and bent a branch
to keep it from annoying her. She glanced at him merrily
out of the comer of her eye and laughed.

"Now what have I done?"

"Nothing. You have just been very nice, that's all.
Now, Barney O'Harrow," she continued, "you don't
want me to be interested in anything that does not include
you and put you first and foremost in my thoughts and
my life, or that would ever divide my interests so that they
would not be wholly and completely centered in you. And
you are jealous of my money, because it looms so large in
your thought that you even think it sets me above you ;
and you are not glad to have me, even in the false estimates
of the world, set even the least little inch above you —
because you want to be the important one. I am just
going to tell the truth for once in my life. You think
you are in love with me; and you are not really, for if
you were, you would be glad of everything good and great
that is mine, no matter how it might affect you. You'd be

PEG'S WAY 237

glad for me to have interests that are wide and helpful and
make me happy, whether they concerned you or not, or
whether I cared more for them than I do for you or not — and
it's mostly not — only you are too stupid to see it, Barney.
Stay away. You shan't touch me till I'm through. I
understand you, and you thought I did not. You want
to be ' Highcockalorum ' and 'Grand Mogul', giving every-
thing and appropriating everything, and — and — being
everything, making me be you — and not myself. That's
mascuHne. Men want to apportion our lives and our loves
and our tastes, and they want them to be all man- ward.
While we want you to do things and care for things out in
the world and be wide in your interests. We despise you
if you are narrow, and we don't want you to be tied to
women's apron-strings. Why can't you be as generous
to girls? Why must you presume to dictate even one
thing to them ? Would you allow them to do that to you ?
Why—"

Peg's voice became suddenly smothered against Barney's
breast, and her lips were stopped, and they trembled so
when they were free to speak again, that she could not
finish her argument.

Barney O'Harrow, you haven't — said a word ! "
How could I? You've said it all. Peg; and it's all
true, as true as gold. And it can't be helped — it's mascu-
line — as you said, and you have to put up with it — if you
have anything to do with us. We have to learn to be really
generous and fair, by main force, for we want you — to be
us, to belong to us — we would devour you, we love you
so — we — we can't help it, and — you — you wouldn't
like us if we helped it. We wouldn't be men."

238 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Peg laughed happily.

^' Did — did I understand you, Barney ? "

''You did. You've scored one against me, and youVe
got your reward — you've got a bear on your hands for
the rest of your life."

*'And did — you understand me, as you thought you
did, Barney?"

''I — well — I may have understood you, but then
again, I may have misjudged you a little."

''I'll put it plainly. You thought I did not love you."

''I wouldn't intrude myself on you enough to find out.
Why should you? I had nothing to offer you."

"You had nothing to oft'er but a very stupid boy, Barney
O'Harrow. I told you all the time you were stupid, and
you wouldn't believe me. You thought I would put my
money in the scales and weigh my dollars against your
love, and you didn't know that they counted against you
only so much as you made them count. You made them
mountain high, Barney. You held out your hand to help
me up that little bank of moss that I could dance over,
and then you made me climb alone over that mountain
of dollars to reach your love that had outweighed them
so that it was away down on the other side, and I almost
broke my heart trying to get to you — "

Again she found her lips stopped and her voice smothered.
''I'm in the dust at your feet. Peg. You are on the tip-
top of your mountain of gold, and I am just crawling up
to you, inch by inch. Peg. I am."

"Well, I guess I'm through talking. I've given up,
and you may have all your own way — and thank the
Lord, you have a way. You wouldn't be loved by me a

PEG'S WAY 239

minute if you hadn't. Can you say that about me, Bar-
ney?" Peg's eyes were suspiciously misty, and Barney's
voice was very tender as he made reply.

^'I can. I — I'll make your way, your sweet way — ".

But Peg never learned what he would make it, except
by experience through the rest of the years, for at that
moment they were awakened to reahty by a piercing
scream. Honey-Son had fallen in the spring, where he
had been switching the water with his willow whip, to make
it splash.

Barney lifted him out, and Peg had him in her arms in
an instant, regardless of the wetting she got.

"You darhng little thing. Did Peg forget him. You
dear ! There ! We'll go find sister. You little love.
That's right — laugh about it. See his dimples, Barney ;
did you ever see anything prettier or lovelier than this
child?"

"Yes," said Barney, stoutly contradicting her. "Let
me have him. You are getting yourself in a terrible mess
with his wet, dirty clothing."

"Then you'll be in a mess; and I have things here to
change and you haven't."

"Well, put him on his feet, then, and we ^11 lead him
between us." So they led him, each taking a hand, in
one of which he still clutched the whip. "You've got some
mud on your face, from his little paws."

"Where?"

"Here." Barney wiped it away with his handkerchief
and kissed the place. "Wait, I think there's a little on
the other cheek."

"No, there isn't."

240 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

*'But I'm sure there is, and on your lips too. Now,

hold still."

" Barney ! I never thought you'd be — be — "

''But you see I would. I've suffered enough from my

own fault. I'm — different. I'm — There I "

CHAPTER XXII

THE WAY OF PROGRESS

^'I GOT to git Honey-Son some more clo's some way,
fer I hain't be'n back sence I run away that night. Seem
like hit's be'n a y'ar sence then, an' hit's on'y three days
gone."

Lury was standing under the great tree where Mrs.
Basle's big wash-kettle hung, and the two of them were
working at the same tub, wringing out the garments and
dropping them in a large splint basket. Honey-Son was
asleep after his dip in the spring, and Lury was washing
his little dress to put on him when he awoke. She held
it up by the two sleeves and examined it carefully.

"I has to wash his clo's most ev'y night whilst he be
sleepin', he runnin' 'round so into ev'y thing. He be peert,
kin do mos' ev'y kind o' thing. He be'n growin' so big,
an' Buddy, he so stunted an' leetle, Ellen she done took
th' bes' things I had fer Honey-Son and put 'em on Buddy,
ontwel they be cl'ar plumb wore out."

"Wall, thet be th' way weth chil'en — always sopaethin'
to git fer 'em, ef ye keep 'em decent."

"Dave say he goin' to bring me eve'y cent he git fer this
load, to make up fer the things they hev' took from me.
Dave say — "

"Howdy, Miz Basle. Howdy, Lury." Sim Arlington
stood before them, hat in hand, holding his mule by the
bridle.

242 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"Howdy, Sim?" said the widow. "Come in and set."

"I cain't set, thank ye. I has to git on." Sim shifted
from one foot to the other. His was a hard message to
deliver.

"Hu-come you weth Dave's mule?" asked Lury won-
deringly.

"He top me take th' mule and git 'long right smaht,
to fetch you-uns this er — he done sont ye." He handed
the Httle package to Lury, just as David had given it to him.

She turned it over in her hand without untying it, wait-
ing — wondering. Something was surely wrong, or Dave
would never have let Sim ride the mule or send her some-
thing he could bring himself.

"Dave say keep hit ontwel he come fer hit. He say — "

"Wharbehe?"

"He oveh to Plainsville. He — " Honey-Son cried
out, and Lury ran into the cabin, and held him tightly
in her arms, while she opened the package which so stirred
her curiosity and imagination. It was very strange.
What was Dave doing there ? Looking for work, maybe.

With quivering fingers, she removed the brown paper.
The license she could not read, but she guessed what it was.
She laid it by while she shook out the handkerchief and
untied the little bag. She hugged them to her breast and
kissed Honey-Son. Again and again she kissed him, as
she had never done before — as Dave had kissed her.
Then she wrapped the bag of money in the handkerchief
as Dave had done, and thrust them in her bosom. Taking
up the license, she examined it with great care, holding it
upside down and sidewise and rightside up in turn. Then
she looked up and saw Sim mount and ride away.

THE WAY OF PROGRESS 243

'^Sim, Sim," she called after him, running to the door.
''Sim, whar be Dave at?"

''Neveh you mind," said the widow, wiping the suds
from her hands and coming slowly toward the door. ''You
git Honey-Son's clo's dryin', so ye c'n git 'im dressed.
Sim say Dave, he hain't ready to come to-day. What's
thet ye hid'n' in yer dress? Cain't ye 'low me to look at
hit?"

Lury handed her the license, and the widow read it
laboriously through. She looked very grave, and Lury
was filled with concern at the mysterious look of things.

"What be th' read'n' on hit?" she asked.

"Wall, ef ye'd do as I tell ye, an' bide along o* we-uns
fer a while, ye mount I'arn to read sich es thet yerself.
The' be no gret hurry fer hit, as I see. Hit be his license
fer marryin', an' I reckon he'll hev to wait a time 'er two,
ontwel he git somethin' to do, ruther 'n peddlin' licker."
The widow walked slowly into the house and took down a
long disused coffee-pot, in which she kept her money,
when she had any to lay by. In it she placed the license,
carefully standing the coffee-pot on a high shelf in the
chimney corner.

"Thar! Hit'll be safe thar, gin he wants to use hit.
I see he hain't got yore age right. He has hit sot down
three y'ar too ol'.

"What fer he sot me down three y'ar ol' ?"

"I say he got ye three y'ar mo' 'n ye be. I know how
ol' ye be. Here. I'll pin this apron 'roun' Honey-Son,
whilst ye git the clo's out in th' sun. You hang out mine,
too, will ye? I hev to go oveh to Miz Graves, to tell 'er
'bouts th' weavin' she axed me to git done fer 'er."

244 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

She took off her blue gingham apron and tied it by the
strings around the child's neck and waist, in such a way
as to dress him comically in a waist and skirt, from which
his bare limbs showed white and round, like those of a
masquerading Cupid. Then the widow walked down to
the school and Lury hung the clothes in the sun, and the
baby ran after her. Now and then she stooped and petted
him, or snatched him up and kissed him. Bob Kitchel,
strolling aimlessly around the village, stopped to watch
the pretty sight. Which was the prettier, Lury or the
child, he did not know.

He was glad to see that she was back again and told her
so. She only laughed happily, for over her heart lay the
pretty handkerchief and the little bag of money. He
tried to coax the baby to come to him, but the little imp
only swimg himself around in his sister's dress, as he had
done on the hillside that day, and peeped at him with
laughing eyes.

*' Leave go, Honey-Son. Sisteh hev to work," she said.
"He fell in the wateh, an^ I has to git his clo's dry, fer he
hain't no mo' down mountain."

"Then you didn't go back that day, after all?"

"No, I — I come back heah. Leave go, Hon. Sisteh
cain' do no thin' weth you hangin' on this-a-way."

"Come, boy. I hke Httle chaps. Come here." But
the child would not.

"He be cl'ar plumb spoilt. He won't go to nobody, 'less
he jes' take hit in his hade to go." She laughed again
merrily. "He do look thet funny. Miz Basle she done
tie 'im up that-a-way ontwel I git his clo's dry." She
caught him up in her arms again and bore him into the

THE WAY OF PROGRESS 245

cabin. ''I'll gin 'im somethin' to eat, to keep 'im good
whilst I git th'ough." Bob watched her disappear in the
shadows of the interior and then strolled on.

Meantime the widow and the sisters and Peg were
earnestly consulting as to what they could do. Should
Lury be told the truth? How might Dave be helped?
The trials and sorrows of their neighbors were their own.

''I reckon th' be nothin' to do but tell 'er. She'll be
boun' to hear some way. Bad news travels fast, they say."

''Oh, wait just a little. Maybe we can get Dave out
some way. Barney, can't we have Ellen Furman taken
up on the charge of giving Lury's little brother that stuff ? "

"If we could get the evidence, we could, but there is
nothing to prove it was not an accident. All we could do
would be to stop its sale here, I'm afraid." Barney scowled
because he could not do exactly the thing Peg wished.
"You might wait a Httle, before telling her, and I'll go to
Plainsville and see Dave myself."

"I thought you were starting for Tennessee to-morrow,"
said Elizabeth.

"I've changed my mind since yesterday and am not going
as soon as I had planned. We'll all go to that preaching
together, first. I may be able to pick up something there
that has a bearing on the case. We want to go to the
preaching, don't we, Peg?"

"I reckon we'd all betteh go," said the widow. "I
declare, I do' know what-all to say to Lury."

"Why, just tell her to wait for Dave and be patient.
We'll get her interested in making her little brother some
new clothes to wear to the preaching," said CaroHne.

So the widow went back and told Lury to set right to

246 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

work on new dresses for Honey-Son, and she was full of
the thought immediately. She showed the bag of money
with glee, and good Mrs. Basle, not wishing to send Lury
to the store, lest she hear the truth in regard to David,
counted out a little and went over herself to buy the cloth,
and set Lury the task of ironing out his one little dress in
the meantime.

Thus the days flew by until Sunday, when they were
to start early for an all-day excursion to the little hill
church. By the gentlest and most tactful persuasion on
the part of Peg, Lury was induced to accept a few clothes
which she had brought for any who might need such help.
She even allowed Lury to pay a small sum for one suit
to use as a pattern to fashion others by.

Peg was settling down to her work, entering into all the
details of the sisters' life, and helping them with delighted
interest. ^'I'm so happy!" she said to Barney. **It is
wonderful to have something to do that I can know is
worth while. You know it is worth while, don't you,
Barney?"

''Of course I know it. Peg! I'm learning my lesson.
I'm staying on here just for the delight of learning it.
Sweetest lesson any man ever learned and finest place to
learn it — right here beside you on this settle, beside an
autumn fire of logs. Here's the schoolroom all our own,
you the teacher, and I the pupil. Ideal ! Glory, but it is
ideal ! Own up. Peg. How soon do you think we can —
set up for Ufe on this basis?"

Peg made a httle mouth at him. ''You've only just
made up your mind to — to — "

"Play second fiddle to you. Peg?"

THE WAY OF PROGRESS 247

"Dominate me for the rest of my days, you mean ; can't
you give me a little freedom first?"

Barney looked grave. ''Let's not look on that aspect
of the situation, dear. It's not good. I don't want to
dominate. I really want to dance to your piping. I've
been so situated that I have always had to dominate. I
had to, Peg, to get anywhere."

''That is one reason I love you, dear. I really want
you to dominate. I do. We'll both pipe, and we'll both
dance, taking it turn about."

"Well, if you love me for it, tell me, how shall I dominate
you first?"

"Order me to stay right here and do all I can to get
things going the way they should be — and spend all the
money I like on this work ; and — order me to wait here
for you as long as I please and — hunt up all the young
women that need help — Oh, there is a lot you can make
me do, if you like to try."

Barney laughed joyously. "That's the way to do. I
understand. I'm beginning to dance. But, Peg, I want
to make love to you a little. I never have. I want to
court you a while, as they say down here."

"All right. I never have been really courted. You
must get a buggy and take me out riding. I never went
off buggy-riding with a young man in my Hfe. You must
have a flower in your buttonhole and bring me candy in a
paper bag."

"I'm going to do it in my own way, young lady. Look
at me !" Then Barney put in a few minutes making love
to Peg in his own way. He made her hair look very frowzy
and her eyes very bright, — but when the sisters came in

248 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

a few moments later, they found her seated on one settle
and he on the other, but his eyes were also very bright
and his Hps were smiling a most contented smile.

A little later Bob appeared and walked discontentedly
up and down the great room.

*'Do come sit beside me, Bob, and stop looking so for-
lorn, — walking up and down there like a lost soul."

''I'm discontented. What are you hanging around here
so long for? I thought we were going to housekeeping
together in New York, or else going to travel for a while.
This is stagnation. Barney, there, he has his job and sits
with a smile like the cat who has eaten the canary. — By
all the saints 1 I believe you have eaten the canary 1"

Bob sprang forward and seized Barney's hand, then
dropped on the settle beside his sister. ''Kiss me. Peg.
I say, sis, I'm lonely. A fellow gets lonely — left in the
lurch like this." He stretched his long legs toward the
fire and looked dreamily into the coals.

"Not so. Bob. Our relations remain the same. I'm
your friend, and Peg's your sister. You can't monopolize
her all your life, keeping house for you. Get some one
else to keep house for you. My advice is — "

"Oh, you give advice, will you? Who was your
advisor ? "

"Well, Bob dear, you don't need to be so moody, when
the rest of us are all happy, does he. Aunt Caroline ? You
and Aunt Elizabeth are happy, aren't you ? "

"We are indeed, love."

"Now, there 1 And Barney's happy, and I'm happy,
and you ought to be. Let's talk about something else.
You'U go to ' preachin' ' with us to-morrow, won't you ?

THE WAY OF PROGRESS 249

Try to take a little interest in what I am going to do here.
It ought to make you happy, just as it does me.'*

**Very well. What are you going to do about Lury
Bab? She is the first responsibility you have just now,
and I foresee she is to be one for quite a while. Dressing
her and teaching her is not everything. I've been thinking
about her. That fellow is jailed for life, or for death, —
for they are Hkely to find a true bill against him, — and she
was to marry him, poor kid, and no doubt he killed her
old reprobate of a father. It's a miserable mess."

''She may make a splendid woman. Bob. She has it
in her," said Elizabeth.

*'Yes, and if she has, don't you see that our work is
important do^vn here ? If he killed that man, this may be
the saving of her, for she can't marry him now, can she?"
Peg was emphatic.

*'Not unless he can get free or is pardoned! Kissing
goes by favor here. There is not much chance of real
justice. If ever she is to marry that boy, of course she
should not be educated and given a taste of the kind of
life she might lead otherwise. That would be too cruel.
That is the trouble with the kind of work you are setting
out to do, anyway. As long as you can't change conditions,
you would better leave these women alone. They can't
be happy, if you don't."

''Why, Bob! What a heathenish idea! It is their
education that will change their condition," said Caroline.

"Not by educating the girls alone. I can tell you that.
How about the men?"

"I say Peg's idea is all right. You can take care of the
men, if she looks after the girls, can't you?" cried Barney.

250 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

''You could set up a model community here, if you could
regulate all their marriages, after you get them educated."

"Hone could."

"I have an idea. Get all the men jailed and educate
the girls. Jail the men for life or have them hung, and
then a lot of you New York fellows, who have nothing to
do but improve the race, come down here and marry the
girls."

"Barney ! You men don't either one of you realize the
seriousness of the work here. Aunt Elizabeth, say some-
thing."

"I do realize it," cried Bob. "That's what I'm telling
you. You don't realize yourself what you are under-
taking ; trying to change the destinies of men and women,
— making a muddle of things half the time."

Bob still sat with his arm around Peg, his legs stretched
toward the fire, and his chin on his breast. Elizabeth
thought she understood him.

"It is the way of progress, at all events. Bob," she said.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE "preaching"

It was a fair, sweet, October day, and the air was cool
enough to make walking a delight. The Blue Ridge hills
were their bluest, and rose from height to height out of a
haze which veiled the gorgeous coloring of the foliage
along their sides and settled in the hollows at their feet,
iridescent, shifting, and deeply mysterious.

The whole Settlement seemed to be going to the "preach-
ing", and the winding hill road which branched off from
the new highway above Cloud's Mill and then crossed
through a gap and curved around to a small settlement
on the other side of the ridge, known as Gower's, was
dotted with buggies and wagons drawn by oxen or mules,
with riders, and those who climbed afoot in couples or in
groups.

These last gradually scattered along diverging paths,
taking short cuts, but all making toward one point. Many
paths diverged, some used and beaten, and others mere
thread-like footways, piercing dense undergrowth and
leading often to a Httle waterfall or cool spring, and then
back to the more trodden ways. They all touched the
main road at intervals, often crossing it as it wound back
and forth on its easy grade up the mountain.

There was only one regular two-horse carriage in the
train, and that one Barney had motored down to Wood-

252 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

ville and engaged, because Peg wanted the sisters to ride
in comfort, and the Deals needed their mule for their own
use. The mother and daughter might have walked, for
the sake of the fee, but the father was averse to so great
an exertion ; moreover, he had always gone to "preaching"
in his own conveyance, with his wife and daughter, greeting
his neighbors as they drove along, hearing bits of gossip
here and there, with a sense of opulence in the ownership
of wife and daughter, as well as of mule and high-top buggy.

"Paw'* Deal was round-shouldered, stubbly of beard,
chubby of figure, and unkempt of head, yet cleanly enough,
as if used to at least a weekly scrubbing. The neat little
wife attended to that. "Maw" and the daughter were
both meagre and slight and dark, with bright, dark eyes
not unlike polished chincapins, looking eagerly and alertly
out from under their overhanging headgear. Two gaunt
black hounds raced around them, as alert and eager as they.

The widow Basle rode with the sisters, and Honey-Son
wriggled between her and the driver. She carried a paper
bag of cookies to divert him at intervals, and these he
divided impartially between his interior, his exterior, and
the knees and coat-sleeve of the driver, and the widow's
lap. Now and then he turned and glanced at Elizabeth
with shy, bewitching smiles, looking out from under his
long, curling lashes, and making dimples in his cheeks and
dancing lights in his eyes.

"Did you ever see a child so good?" said she.

"He gitt'n' me a sight, puttin' his cake in his mouth
and then gormin' hit all oveh my black dress. Set still,
Hon. I has to give 'im somethin' to keep 'im f 'om hollerin'
fer Lury."

THE ''PREACHING" 253

''She'd run and take him, if she heard him call for
her, if she had to carry him all the rest of the way," said
Caroline.

"She shore would. I tell 'er she hev 'im plumb spoilt."

"I can't say I like the idea of Peg's taking this long
walk, not a step less than six miles by the short cuts, and
they are all very steep. She's not used to it, Lizzie."

"She used to tramp the Alps farther than that, she said,
— twenty miles a day, sometimes more."

"But she's out of practice now. Lury, of course, is
different, but there ! They would do it. Youth feels
equal to anything, when — "

Caroline paused, and Elizabeth finished for her. "When
she has Barney along. They would do it."

Lury was happy this Sunday morning. She was sure
David would be there and would have his team, and they
would all ride back in his canvas-covered wagon, seated
on the fodder, and she would ride up on the seat beside
him. She debated in her thoughts whether she should
not tell him to ask Peg to sit there, but maybe Peg would
rather ride behind with Barney O 'Harrow.

As the carriage came creeping up toward them, the
sisters noticed the transforming illumination of Lury's
face. She was wholly one of them. No one would have
dreamed that she was a lonely mountain girl, who could
neither read nor write, and who had never entered any
home other than a mountain cabin until she was carried
into the schoolroom so short a time ago, in Bob Kitchel's
arms. He more than all noticed the change. If such a
miracle could be wrought by one of Peg's pretty dresses
and a few days of her companionship and care, what wonder

254 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

might not be worked by a year of such living, let alone a
year of effort toward improvement.

The party had all constituted themselves a sort of body-
guard for the girl, they so dreaded the moment when she
must know that her David Turpin might never return to
her. It seemed wrong not to tell her, but as Peg said:
''At least, try to get him out first.'* It might not be im-
possible to prove that it was all a trumped-up charge
without any foundation. So as they continued their way,
they kept her near them and watched every group they
passed, lest it might be a party whom Lury knew, who
might tell her of Dave. Thus far, all had gone well, but
after the carriage passed them, along came a buggy with a
single driver and a single mule. It was Dave's mule, and
the driver was Sim Arlington.

"Yondah be Sim, an' he hev Dave's mule. I'm goin'
to run an' ask 'im whar is Dave at." And Lury sprang
away from them, as fleet as a deer, scrambling through
the brush straight up the steep hillside to the nearest point
at which she might gain the road.

"There! Now it's come. We ought to have told her
ourselves, and not let it fall on her like this," said Bob.

As they followed the path, they lost sight of her, and a
moment later they saw her standing beside the buggy,
looking up in the driver's face. They could not hear the
conversation, but a few moments after they heard Sim
laugh, and then her laugh came down to them, happy and
carefree.

"Glory! He's not going to tell her," cried Peg. Then
Lury came back and called to her :

"Sim say he done come fer me to ride weth 'im. He

THE "PREACHING" 255

say Dave hain't usin' the mule, so he took 'im. Ef — ef —
you-ims don't keer, I guess I'll go, fer hit'U sarve Dave
right, stayin' 'way like he do, when he toF me he shore
would come an' take me to 'preachin'.'"

"All right — if you want to — but you'U find us again,
will you?"

"Oh, yas'm. We'll go on an' git Honey-Son. We'll
see you-all at Gower's at the church."

"Well, did you ever see anything like that? There
goes my little Paris outing dress climbing into the buggy
with that mountain man."

"You're going to have your hands full with her," said
Bob with glee.

"Oh, no, I shan't. She's perfectly natural, that's all.
Dave has failed her, as she supposes, poor fellow, and she
is not going to let people know she cares. Why, the most
sophisticated girl on earth would do that."

"I believe you," said Barney. Had he not bad evidence
of it?

Lury had not far to ride, for they were nearly at the
church, and they could hear the quavering lilt of an old-
fashioned hynm sifting sweetly down to them through the
wooded slope. They followed along the road now and
soon arrived at the open glade where fifty or more vehicles
were left, the animals "unhooked" and standing about,
mimching fodder and resting. These were the early ones.
Many more were yet to come. By the time they reached
the little impainted building, the sermon had begun, and
they slipped quietly in and sat themselves near the open
door.

The men were all on one side of the church and the women

256 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

and little children on the other. The boys sat on the
men's side, with their fathers and big men relatives.

"You ought to sit over on the other side," whispered
Peg. "The men are there."

"Oh, this will do. We're near the middle, and the sweet-
hearts all sit near the middle, see, so they can be together."

Honey-Son was with Lury , and Sim sat just across the aisle
from them. Jenny Deal sat behind them with her mother,
and her father had gone up in front with the elderly mem-
bers of importance. Jenny did not look contented, and
she kept her eyes on Lury and glanced from time to time
at Sim. She did not understand the situation. Sim, she
had fondly hoped, was to have called for her that Sunday,
but he had not done so. He had not said he would, but
he had acted last time as if he were going to do so. At
any rate, she had had hopes, and now her hopes were sink-
ing as she saw his shy, awkward regard of Lury.

Before them, leaning over the Uttle, high pulpit, his
large, lean hands gripping it on either side, and his elbows
raised to a level with his wide, square shoulders, making
one long, straight line from elbow to elbow, with his head
dropped and chin thrust forward until it also was on the
level with his shoulders and elbows, stood the preacher.
His short, thick, wiry, gray hair stood on end, as if it had
risen in horror at the pictures of human woe and the punish-
ments for sin that filled the head it covered.

"My bretheren and sisters, you young men and you
young women, you sit thar in yore seats, at ease with yore-
selves, and fittin' the coats I be measurin' off to ye on yore
neighbors. Rise up an' put 'em on yore own backs an'
see how they fit ye. I tell ye thar be backbiters amongst

THE "PREACHING" 257

ye. Thar be swearers amongst ye. Thar be liars amongst
ye. Thar be them amongst ye what cain't go f'om one
day to th' next ^thout yer drink o' corn licker, an' I tell
ye, thar be no place fer the drunkard in the kingdom of
heaven. He be worse'n th' hogs what feeds on the sour
slop what ye th'ows out to 'em, fer the hogs therselves
won't drink the devil's brew ye makes f'om hit.

''Thar be swearers amongst ye. What says the good
book? 'Ye have blasphemed My holy name.' An' what
be the meanin' o' that? Hit mean takin' the name o'
God on yer lips in vain, when ye hain't no need fer takin'
hit ; when yer hearts be full o' the devil's thoughts ; when
ye hain't no mo' consarn fer holy things an' no mo' keer
fer sich 'n ye have fer good food, when ye've filled yer-
selves plumb full o' licker. When ye be like the Prodigal
Son as is told about in holy writ, what filled his belly with
the husks which the swine did eat and wallered weth th'
hogs as he et weth. I tell ye thar be a place prepared fer
sich ; an' thet place hain't in the kingdom o' heaven ; no,
my bretheren an' sisters, hit be the place prepared fer the
devil an' his angels down in th' lowest pit o' hell. 'An'
thar shall be wailin' an' gnashin' o' teeth.'

"The good book says : 'Woe be to the man who putteth
the bottle to his neighbor's lips.' I tell ye the' be no diff'ence
whether hit be a bottle 'er a stone jug. They be no diff'ence
whether hit be in goblets o' gold 'er a tin cup ; they be
death in the cup ; they be th' coiled-up sarpent o' destruc-
tion, an' a rattler'd be less pizen. Fer all ye takes hit fer
th' bite o' a rattler, hit be fer th' reason 'at the deadliest
draft be th' onliest thing to meet hit weth. Yet they be
them amongst ye, — put this 'er coat on an' see how hit

258 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

fits, — they be them amongst ye 'at fills his neighbor
plumb full o' licker, an' takes money fer sich, an' places a
stumbling block in the way of ieetle childern; an' thar
the good book say : ' Woe be to him by whom the offense
Cometh, it were better fer 'im if a millstone were hanged
about his neck an' he were cast in the depths o' th' sea.'

^*Thar be the swearer an' the drunkard, an' the man
what puts th' bottle to his neighbor's hps; whar be they
goin', my bretheren? They be goin' along thet smooth
an' easy path — tromped smooth by a many feet, 'at
leads to destruction, 'at leads straight to the bottomless
pit o' hell, an' ^Thar shall be wailin' an' gnashin' o' teeth.'

"They be them amongst ye thet backbites and lies on
the'r neighbor. Now who be th' chief o' all liars? He be
th' devil, and they be no place fer them as sarves th' devil
but thet place prepared fer the devil an' his angels. The'
be no place fer sich in th' kingdom o' heaven. Why, my
bretheren an' sisters, ef ye sniff fer hit, ye c'n smell the
brimstun in the very gyarments a' ready, o' them as know-
in'ly takes away his neighbor's good name, an' he don't
alluz do hit in so many words, neither. He may do hit
by hol'n his mouth shet, 'er he may do hit weth a laugh,
'er by turnin' his back, 'er by jes' flingin' out his han'
'er shakin' his head. He thet taketh away his neighbor's
good name be a murderer an' a liar, and the chief o' sinners
an' the mouth o' hell is yawnin' fer 'im, and th' devils own
angels are a-reachin' out ther ban's to draw 'im in."

His face was thin and mobile, and his eyes were so blue
that they seemed to scatter blue rays, as he stretched out
his head and looked keenly here and there over his audience.
The wrinkles at their corners were deep, and their blueness

THE '^PREACHING" 259

was intensified bv the dark tan of his weatherbeaten skin.
The expression playing about his large, well-shaped mouth
and massive chin conveyed continually greater and more
powerful meaning to the words he uttered, and as he paused
now and again after some impassioned invective, it seemed
to his listeners in the rear that if he said nothing but just
stood before them and looked his thoughts, he would be
quite clear and eloquent.

"But," thought Peg, ''how terrible for these people to
have nothing to make them good but the fear of such a
hell!" She whispered this to Barney, and he bent his
head close to her flushed face to hear.

"He know^s what these people need," he said, his eyes
smiling into hers, and she felt comforted.

"You-all come here, twicet a month. You come here
an' set an' listen to prayer, an' sing yer holy songs, an' ye
Hke to hear me preach to ye abouts the kingdom o' heaven,
an' ye think you-all be goin' thar fer bein' thet good as
to come to preachin' reg'lar. Smooth as honey an' cream
the good words roll from yer lips, but I tell you I've been
about some, an' I know w^hat-all be in yer midst, and I'm
preachin' hell fire this day, an' ef the Lord wills, I'm gi\dn'
hit to ye, too.

"You-all knows the Lord's prayer, er ye ought to ef ye
don't, an' you-all prays thet prayer, 'thout stoppin' to
think what ye sayin'. 'Our father who art in heaven — '
Be ye sons o' God er childern o' th' devil? 'Hallowed be
thy name.' Be ye hallowin' the name o' Gawd when ye
take hit on yer lips to cuss weth? 'Thy kingdom come.*
Do ye eveh stop to think how many o' ye'll be throw'd
out, when Gawd's kingdom come on yearth like hit be in

26o A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

heaven? Be all you liars an' drunkards and throwers o'
stumblin' blocks an' backbiters, what takes away yer
neighbor's good name, an' them what covets yer neighbor's
goods an' yer neighbor's wife, — be the kingdom o' heaven
made up o' adulterers and thieves ? Whilst you-uns han's
be busy fittin' these er coats I be'n flingin' to ye on each
other's backs, jest you stop a minute an' think what- all
you sayin' when ye says 'Thy will be done, on y earth as
hit be in heaven.' Do ye mean thet? What be th' will o'
th' Lord? He hev fixed a gre't gulf betwixt them as git's
into heaven an' the place He hev prepared fer sinners an'
the de\dl an' all his angels. Be ye ready to go thar?
Weighted down weth sin, like millstones about yer necks?
I ask : Be ye ready to say Thy will be done, and Thy king-
dom come now? Right now? Be ye ready? All you
as be ready, jes' rise thar whar ye be, an' let's hev a look
on ye.

"I tell ye, my bretheren, they be them amongst ye right
now what think yerse'fs the chief o' sinners 'at be more
ready than a heap o' folks 'at thinks they be cFar plumb
fitten fer th' Lord to appear now in his glory. They be
them standin' afar off, weth ther hades dropped, beatin'
ther breasts and cryin' 'Lord be merciful to me a sinner.'
An' they be more ready 'an a heap o' folks 'at rejoices in
ther own righteousness an' shouts Glory be. Ye be all
sinners. They be none good, not one, an' they be one
path to th' heavenly throne, an' thet path be wet weth
the blood shed fer sinners an' filled weth the thorns thet
pierced yer Saviour's brow."

The preacher rose to his full height and Hfted his hands
high above his head, and shouted ecstatically his short

THE " PREACHING '^ 261

ejaculations. '''The soul thet sinneth it shall die.' It
shall die 'er bear the punishment. They be only one path
to safety, and hit be the hard an' narrow way. Ef the
punishment be more than ye can bear, they be One as bore
hit fer ye. They be One as tromped the paths o' this world,
an' bore the meanness an' defilement heaped on him by
all o' you-uns, an' died on th' cross fer ye, an' descended
into hell fer ye ; ye no need to go thar now ef ye accept
him, fer he hev been thar fer ye ; but ye hev to turn f 'om
yer wickedness an' Hve. Ye cain't live 'ithout ye turn.
Turn, my fellow sinners, turn. Lift up yer eyes unto the
hills f'om whence cometh yer Hght — the holy hills whar
sits the Lord in glory, an' turn yer backs on yer sins ; and
hell, an' the devil, an' all his angels may howl afteh ye to
the very gates of heaven, but ef yer feet be trompin' thet
narrow way they cain't one on 'em come nigh ye., Let
us pray.'^

Preacher Price dropped on his knees, and the people
before him swayed and rocked under the lash of his im-
passioned prayer, beseeching the mercy of God for them.
Some wept and called "Amen." Some groaned, and
bowed their heads and covered their faces with their hands,
while some sat apathetically looking on, and speculated as
to who among them all had really been "convicted of sin."

Good old John Arhngton was one who sat with streaming
tears and covered face. "No drunkard shall enter the
kingdom of heaven," he wheezed. His good wife crossed
over to the men's side and sat close to him and patted his
back affectionately.

"Ye hev be'n a drunkard, but ye hev be'n in the fold.
Ye hev backslid, John, but glory be ! yer back in the fold

262 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

agin, John, glory be ! Rise up an' go to th' mo'ner's bench
whilst he be a-prayin'. He be a-prayin' fer ye, John, glory
be!''

So John rose and went, and knelt where he had been
many times before, for his life was made up of periodic
backslidings and reconversions, followed by days of ecstatic
emotion and happiness, when he often prayed for death
before he should backslide again.

During the whole sermon Peg had noticed a woman
seated not far from her, thin and dark, heavy of counte-
nance, having a great knot of coarse, black, unkempt hair
beneath her black hat, which set far over her face and was
decorated with cheap black ribbon and a huge black rose.
Her black eyes roved continually about the church, shifting
and watchful. They rested often on Lury and her little
brother, who was sleeping with his head thrown back on his
sister's arm. Again they rested on Sim Arlington and then
on Jenny Deal. She seemed to be taking in everything
but the sermon, and certainly she was not intent on fitting
herself with any one of the coats flung out by the preacher.

When Peg lifted her head after the long prayer was done,
the woman was no longer there. Lury also was gone,
and Sim Arlington was quietly tiptoeing out. Jenny Deal
still sat beside her mother, looking straight before her.

CHAPTER XXrV

LURY LEARNS ABOUT DAVE

A LITTLE distance from the church, among the trees, the
animals were tethered, contentedly eating and drowsing.
Families were gathering in groups here and there among the
brilliant autumn foliage, setting out their abundant supply
of fried chicken and baking-powder biscuit, ham and bacon
and boiled eggs, fried pies galore, and a varied assortment
of preserves and jellies and pickles, — everything a good
housewife could think of to fill her hungry brood and the
friends who might eat with them. Married sons and daugh-
ters brought their food and their little flock of children to
sit with their parents, who often themselves had children
no older than their grandchildren, so that a tiny uncle and
niece might be seen amicably sharing their corn-bread and
molasses, or vigorously snatching away each other's chicken
bones.

Lury was making her way toward the carriage which had
brought the sisters and Mrs. Basle. Honey-Son was still
sleepy, rubbing his eyes and yawning. She had brought
him out before the general uprising of the congregation for
fear that he might cry when awakened, and she was cajoling
him with promises of goodies when they reached the wagon.
Peg, keenly interested in everything and every one, was
standing with Barney near the door, waiting for the widow
to join them, for she was detained within by many friends

264 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

and acquaintances, who, always leisurely, made elaborate
inquiries after her state of health.

Elizabeth and Caroline were already at the carriage,
busily taking out the luncheon. Bob was sauntering around,
observing quietly, making his way unobtrusively toward
any group that promised more than usual diversion. Their
scraps of conversation interested him. Their odd and
often whimsical turns of phrasing especially delighted him.
He waited a moment, watching some boys, and heard
two men behind him drop their tones to a confidential
pitch.

"Who's peddlin' fer ye now?"

The reply was still lower and more covered. "We
hain't 'lowin' to peddle much. We gin Ellen th' use o' th'
mule some."

"What ye 'low'll come to Dave?"

"Th' case'U be called likely next week. I 'low he's boun'
to git what's comin' to 'im."

The men moved farther off, and Bob did not follow. In-
stead, he walked toward the carriage and overtook Lury
with her little brother.

"Honey-Son be so cross I had to fetch 'im out," she said,
with a glance at Bob, shyly smiling. Sim Arlington was
making his way toward her, but as he saw Bob join her, he
turned away to the two men and walked with them.

"He's hungry, poor little chap. Let me carry him."

But the baby arms only clung more tightly around his
sister so that she moved with difficulty. She stooped to
him and stood a moment petting him and coaxing him to be
good, when the peevish voice of Ellen Furman caused her
to lift a flushed and angry face. Bob had noticed the

LURY LEARNS ABOUT DAVE 265

woman watching Lury and had wondered at the look of
sinister interest in her eyes.

^'Thar ye be, spilin' 'im like ye always do. Make 'im
leave go an' foller along like he'd ought to."

The child set up a wail in earnest when he spied Ellen,
and Lury snatched him in her arms and soothed him.
"She shan't tech ye, son, don't ye holler."

Ellen laughed. "Ef I did tech 'im once, he'd I'am to
behave. 'Pears like ye don't think much o' Dave, goin'
buggy-rid'n' weth 'nutheh man th' minute ye git shet o'
him."

Lury paused, lifted her head high, and turned suddenly
upon the woman. '^Whar be Dave at?" Her voice was
hoarse with suppressed passion. What was Ellen hinting
at? She never could say anything straight out, but must
always hint and cast insinuations first.

" Whar be he ? You knows whar Dave be at. Whar he'd
ought to 'a' be'n two y'ar ago. You be cute, seem like,
pickin' up Sim Arlin'ton fust thing." A crowd began to
collect around them, and Lury turned from one face to
another, like a snared creature.

Bob took her by the arm. ''Come over to the carriage,
Lury. I'll find out for you. Come."

He would have led her away, but Ellen would not be
balked of her maHcious triumph. She stepped in front of
them, and thrusting her sallow face forward close to Lury's,
she said : *'Askin' whar Dave be at, like ye neveh know'd?
I'll tell ye ; he be in jail, an' he be thar fer kiUin', thet's
what fer, an' he be thar fer life, 'er fer hangin' one."
Then she drew back to mark the effect of her words, but for
a moment it seemed as if there were none.

266 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Lury stood motionless, apparently passionless, holding
her little brother closer — closer, but silent. Bob thought
she was going to fall, as he watched her still face turn
white to the Hps, and put his arm around her. But she
did not fall. Slowly she turned to him.

*' Leave go," was all she said, then walked swiftly to the
carriage. Bob followed, and Ellen gave vent to a cackling
laugh. Peg had seen the interview from a distance, and
she and Barney hastened to Lury, while the group that had
gathered lagged along in the same direction.

''She be hit right hard," said Sim, who had not allowed
himself to be far from her at any time. '' I 'lowed I wouldn'
tell 'er, but she were boun' to hear."

^'Miz Basle," Lury was breathless, and the words could
scarcely be heard. '^ Please, ma'am, will — " she choked
and began again louder. "Please, ma'am, will ye be so
kind — I got ter — go, will ye keer fer Honey-Son ontwel
I git back?"

"Lury, dear, you can't do anything. Where are you
going?" Peg took her in her arms and caressed her.

" Yas, Lury, honey," said the widow, ** but you cain't do
no thin'. I knowed all the time what 'd come to Dave, but
we 'lowed to keep hit f'om ye."

"What good would thet do? Git 'im free? Leave me
go. Leave me go I I got ter go."

But whar'll ye go at, child ? The's no place fer ye to go."
Leave me go. I'll come back. Keep keer o' Honey-
Son fer me ontwel I come back, will ye, — please, ma'am ? "
She turned from them resolutely, in spite of all they could
say, making no response to their attempts to comfort her,
but Barney stopped her.

il

LURY LEARNS ABOUT DAVE 267

**Tell us where you are going, Lury ; what are you going
to do? Maybe we can help you."

^'Ye cain't he'p me none. Ellen, she be'n lyin' on Dave,
an'I hain't said a word to 'er, for fear I'd cuss, like the
preacher said, an' go to torment ; but ef cussin' would sen'
her thar, I'd do hit an' be glad to go fer doin' hit. "

^^But it would be better for you to wait and find out just
what the charge is. We all stand ready to help you as soon
as there is a way. You can't do anything by going to
him."

"I hain't a-goin' to him. I be goin' to who kin he'p
him." She looked around on them all with pathetic, tear-
less eyes. Her lips trembled, and she was very pale, but
she held herself erect, with lifted head. "You-uns all be
right good. Thank ye. I got ter go. Leave me go.
Thank ye." Her little brother's hands were tightly clinging
to her skirt, but she stooped and uncKnched them and
thrust him toward the widow. ^'I'll be back d'rectly,
Miz Basle, thank ye."

She swung away with the carriage of an empress, swiftly
out of the crowd gathered in the grove, on the edge of which
Ellen stood watching her depart, the hat with the black
rose tipped forward, her hands on her hips, and her meagre
form loosely hirng with the clothing she had purloined from
Lury's Kttle store.

" She carry herse'f like she trompin' on the hull crowd."
Ellen addressed the two men Bob had heard talking a few
minutes before. "What in hell she want to be so crazy
'bouts Dave, rannin' to him like she had no shame, an'
ev'ybody seein' her do hit, shovin' her leetle brother onto
Miz Basle to keer fer. I neveh seen th' like ; cain't nobody

268 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

manage her no way, — cFar spoilt, like thet 'er young 'un
she call hern." The three walked over to an old rattletrap
of a rig, and Ellen began to unhitch the mule. The two
men climbed into the lopsided buggy, allowing her to do the
work while they talked and chewed and spat.

Caroline hastily wrapped in paper a few sandwiches and
a morsel of cake and thrust them into Bob's hand. "Run
and give her this. She hasn't had a bite of Iimcheon.
Tell her to eat it. Poor dear."

"Lury," called Bob, overtaking her, "stop a moment.
Mrs. Tabor sends you this and says you must eat it. Listen,
don't give up. We'll all stand by you." She lifted her
eyes to his as she took the package, but said nothing.
"Let me go with you, won't you? It's hard on you, we
know."

"Hit's no good you goin' — thank ye — you be right
good. Hit hain't me, hit's him. I be all right." She
turned from the road and began climbing a hardly defined
path up the mountain, and was quickly lost to his sight
among the laurel and flaming sumac.

He turned back to the waiting group, who had estab-
lished themselves beneath a wide-spreading white oak, and
sat with them in silence meditating on the strange manner
in which this whole episode had worked upon him, to make
him feel thus the anguish of the girl, who was only an
ignorant mountain child in love with a crude mountain boy
whose whole business had been to peddle illicit corn whisky
and evade the law of the land.

For some reason Bob's philosophy had never taught him
to expect such a phase of emotion in himself. Why should
the sight of the girl's anguish stir him thus? He looked

LURY LEARNS ABOUT DAVE 269

toward the widow and saw the eyes of Honey-Son fixed
on him ; he began to make grimaces for the child's enter-
tainment and soon had him off in gales of laughter. This
created a diversion for all, and the tension lightened. The
sermon was talked over, and they debated whether they
should stay for the afternoon service. Barney was restless
and averse to hstening to another sermon. Peg didn't
care but would do whatever he would, and they finally
wandered away in deep conversation. Bob decided to
take a stroll by himself, and shortly thereafter he was
missing.

^'Now, Mrs. Basle," said Elizabeth kindly, ^'I know you
would like to stay for the afternoon service, and we'll stay
with you — if it won't be too much for you, Caroline?"

^'If it is, I will let you know, and we can go any time,"
and so the matter was settled.

Bob thought he knew where Lury was going, and as soon
as he was beyond the grove, he took an undignified pace
down the hillside, following the trails they had taken in
the morning, and soon was at the Settlement. There he
got out his little car, examined it carefully, and presently
was speeding up the new road toward the mountain top.
He could at least try to find her and bring her home. Of
course she was nothing to him but a girl in trouble and
likely to be in more trouble, and here he was drifting
around — in common humanity he should help her.

By late afternoon he had gone as far as he dared, lest he
miss Lury altogether. He drove his car to the roadside
and started off on the mule trail toward Daniel McEwen's
cabin. She had no doubt gone there.

He clambered on at the same eager pace he had taken

270 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

down from the church, hardly conscious of the internal
dynamo which was driving him thus to action on her behalf,
yet pleasurably excited by it. Glancing restlessly about
as he walked, he caught sight of a scrap of blue through
the bushes at one side. There she lay, face down on a
bank of moss and pine needles, and close to her side, with
her arm thrown over him, was her dog, which had been
shut up in the widow's cabin when they left to keep him
from following.

The faithful creature lifted his head and growled when
Bob approached them, but her arm tightened around him,
and he lay still. She was worn out with her exertion and
grief. Bob would not wake her, but seated himself some
little distance away, to wait. The dog subsided and stretched
his nose close to her neck, but kept one eyeHd lifted a bit
to watch Bob's movements. So for an hour they remained.
Bob stretched on his back, his hands beneath his head,
his eyes on the sky, and his mind busy with the problem
of life, so unsolvable and mysterious.

Then Lury sat up and clasped her arms around the dog
and looked off over the valley below them. ''God, God
A'mighty," she moaned. "I hain't a-cussin', I be prayin',
God. I hev cussed. I be'n driv to hit. You knows how
I be'n driv. An' Dave, he be'n puttin' the bottle to his
neighbor's lips, like the preacher done say. Gawd A'-
mighty, don't 'low 'im be hung, fer he neveh done no killin'.
He done put the bottle to his neighbor's Hps, but he
neveh didn' kill nobody. He say he would, but you knows
he neveh. Be ye hurt 'n' we-uns fer cussin' an' lyin' an'
drinkin' an' sich? Be ye. Gawd? We be'n awful bad, but
we hain't goin' to be so no mo'. Gawd A'mighty, he'p

LURY LEARNS ABOUT DAVE 271

Dave out. Don't 'low 'im be hung. He'p 'im out." She
dropped her head and covered her face, and her whole
body shook with silent sobs.

Bob could stand it no longer. He rose and came to her.
The dog gave a low, sullen growl, and Lury started and
turned frightened eyes upon him. Instantly her expression
changed to one almost of gladness.

^'Haish, Clip. Lie down. Good dog," she said, and
rose, holding out both hands to Bob. ''You be that good
to come."

What could he do? He wanted to take her in his arms
and kiss her and comfort her as he would Peg, — this
mountain waif, so strangely simple and beautiful, with her
flushed face, and her scarlet lips, curved and quivering,
and her eyes pleading with him.

'Tve come to help you, little Lury," he said gently
and took her hands in his. "Come home with me now."

''I'll go back. Ye be good." They stood a moment,
hands clinging to hands, and eyes to eyes. Bob thrilled
to her beauty, and he knew it, but she understood only her
sorrow and the help he brought her, and that he would
take her back to Mrs. Basle, now she was too weary to
walk farther, and that maybe he could find Daniel McEwen
for her.

He took her to the car, his arm gently supporting her.
"What might she not be in a year's time, with those sisters,"
his thoughts ran. Why should he leave her to the rough
mercy of mountain folk? Why, indeed?

"Please, mount Clip ride, too? He be'n follerin' me up
the mountain, an' he's hurted he's foot some way." Surely
the poor dog was limping.

272 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"Of course he may ride, if he will." Bob placed her in
the seat at his side, and the dog leaped in and sat close to
her feet, his head between her knees.

In silence Bob began to descend the mountain far more
slowly than he had come. Presently she turned and looked
at him. "Ye be good," was all she said.

"Oh, no, not so very, Lury. What did you come here
for? Didn't you know Mr. McEwen was not there?"

"No. Ev'ythin' were locked up, an' Josephine gone,
an' the chick'ns gone, an' the well bucket all dry an' fallin'
to pieces, settin' on the curb. I filled hit weth wateh an'
lef hit thar, leakin'."

He wished to divert her, as the only thing he could do to
lighten her grief for the moment, so he asked who Josephine
was, and laughed on being told she was the cow.

"She were a right good cow," said Lury, seeing no cause
for laughter.

" I haven't a doubt of it. Do you go to preaching often ? "

"I goes a heap — when I c'n git to go. I has to start
right early, weth Honey-Son draggin' back on me."

"Of course."

"An' when he were leetle, I didn' go at all, an' Ellen say
I were plumb heathen."

"Was she the woman who came up there and told you
you had spoiled your little brother?"

"Yas, 'n' she know 'bout 's much how to bring up chil'en
as — as — she don't know as much as Clip here. This er
dawg know a heap mo' 'n she do. An' when I do go to
church, I don't set thar chawin' on a tooth-brush. "

"Was she chewing a tooth-brush? That was a queer
thing to chew."

LURY LEARNS ABOUT DAVE 273

"That 'er stick what she dip snuff weth. She chaw on
thet th' hull day long."

*'Did you Hve with her? Was she the one who gave
your little brother that drug?"

"She were — an' I'll hev her indicted fer hit, too. I
didn' live weth her; she live weth me."

"Oh!" said Bob. He was being enlightened. "And
does she go to preaching often?"

"She go to ev'y preachin' she kin. Here an' yon' she go.
She alluz quar'l'n' 'bouts hit, too. She say I be shore
goin' to hell, fer^- why I neveh be'n dipped cl'ar undeh.
She say my maw thar too, fer why she were on'y sprinkled.
My maw were Methodis'. She say my maw a-ha'nt'n'
'roun' yit, 'cause she neveh were right baptized, a-honin'
fer to git to heaven. I reckon ef Ellen goin' to heaven fer
bein' dipped like she say, I'd a heap rutheh go 'long weth
my maw."

"You mustn't mind what she says. She knows
nothing about it."

"She say a heap mo\"

"What else does she say?" Bob found Ellen's theology
entertaining and serving a good purpose in keeping Lury's
thoughts from her trouble.

"She say Dave shore goin' down fas' as he kin jump to
hell, fer why he neveh go to preachin' ner neveh were
sprinkled ner dipped ner no thin'. She say he got ter git
convarted an' wrastle fer marcy, er go to hell one. She
say she wrastled fer marcy fer a hull week, an' got convarted,
an' were dipped, an' she be cl'ar plumb saved, an' don't
hev to do nothin' mo' — jes' on'y set. She settin' thar
drunk mo'n half the time, too. Preacher say them as does

274 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

thet, cain't git in heaven. What-all do preacher mean by
^vain'?"

"By Wain'? — why — there is more than one meaning
to that."

" Ef ye takes Gawd's name in vain ; how kin ye take hit ? "

*'0h. That means you must not use the name of God
needlessly. You may use it in praying or in speaking about
God, when you have to, but you must not — you must — "

"An' ye cain't cuss weth hit?"

"No. That's very bad."

"Wall, ye cain't cuss wethout hit, kin ye? Miz Basle
say ef I go to preachin' to-day weth you-uns, I got ter quit
cussin'. She say right folks don' do sich es thet. I don't
guess she thought I'd see Ellen thar. Ef I takes the name
o' Gawd, an' axes Him in prayin' to sen' Ellen straight to
hell, ye reckon He'd do hit? Would thet be vain?"

"Oh, Lury, that is no way to do. How do you know
there is such a hell ? How would you like it if Ellen should
ask God to send you there, or — well — " Bob searched
through his stock of philosophic lore, but found there
nothing which would help Lury or solve her difficulties.

"I reckon she hev. She be so plumb shore I be goin'
thar, an' Dave, too. She hev tol' on him 'at he done kill
my paw. He neveh. He say a heap o' times he will
kill 'im, but he neveh, — fer he were off sellin'. Hit were
th' officer done hit, er Jim, one. She know hit, too."
Lury suddenly clapped her hand over her mouth.

"Why, what's the matter?"

"I were goin' to cuss. Oh, Gawd, I were goin' to cuss.
I has to cuss, fer ther hain't nothin' else I kin do."

"Don't do it, Lury. Try to think better thoughts.

LURY LEARNS ABOUT DAVE 275

Why do you say it was Jim who shot your father ? Who is
Jim?"

*'Jim? He be kin to my paw. He be Ellen's ol' man.
Ellen an' paw, they uset to pester Jim somethin' awful.
Paw, he'd gin Ellen licker, an' Jim, he'd cuss, like they do
at th' Cove, an' paw an' Ellen they'd set an' laugh at Jim,
ontwel he were like to go blind ragin'. They were awful
bad."

Bob turned and looked with wonder at the girl. He could
not reconcile the strange, almost spiritual beauty of her
face and her gentle voice with the terrible things she was
telling him, and with the Hfe she must have led in that
degraded home. How did this flower ever happen to
blossom in such a place? His thought reverted to the
mother.

''And then what did your mother used to do?'^
''Maw jes' set still. Gawd! How still she set — ! An^
she look o2 to the top o' 01' Abe mountain, Kke she get
he'p thar. An' sometimes she take me by th' han',
an' we'd walk far up on th' mountain an' set — waitin'
— I hev set thar weth her — all night we hev set out thar,
an' them in the cabin howlin', plumb full o' licker. Then
in th' mawnin' we'd go back, an' they'd be cl'ar played
out, an' maw, she'd make coffee and git ther breakfast,
an' paw cussin' at 'er. Them times Dave tell paw quit,
er he'd kill 'im. Dave he neveh drunk, fer he done gin
maw his promise. He were mos' times down mountain
seUin', er else he'd come an' set weth us, er lie down by
th' still an' sleep."

"What became of the money they got for their liquor?"
"Paw an' Jim, they'd divide hit, an' then they'd hide

276 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

hit some'er's. Ellen, she be'n wil' to fin' ther money. I
seen 'er lookin' eve'y whar she kin think fer hit. All
'bouts th' chimley, — but she neveh know'd whar hit were,
nor ther licker, neitheh. They has a heap, Dave say.
Cain't nobody in th' worl' fin' hit, an' they neveh tell Ellen
no thin', for they cain't trust her fer no thin.' She jes'
honin' fer hit, an' she try a heap o' times to make me
search fer hit, but maw say she betteh leave all sich be, fer
hit be devil's money, an' ef she fin' hit, destruction'd
f oiler her cl'ar to hell."

**Your mother must have been a remarkable woman."
''She were good, ef she were neveh dipped."
It was dusk when Bob brought the car to a standstill
by the school, yet light enough to see the buggy of Sim
Arlington drawing up to the Deals', and Jenny alighting
from it. They heard her happy voice asking him to "come
in and set."

CHAPTER XXV

dave's letter

David Turpin's case was called at the autumn term of
the court, but his defense could not prove an alibi. The
whole Settlement knew that he had hurried up the mountain
and left his mules in Ross's stable while he went on toward
the Cove, and that the next day Lee Bab was found lying
dead beside his own door.

Many of them had heard his foolish, boyish boast that
if Lee Bab didn't ''quit some of his meanness" he would
shoot him, and that ''hangin' would be too good for him."
Poor Httle Lury was placed on the witness stand and bravely
lied for him, saying she had no interest in him, had always
hated him, and that if she could say that he had done
this, it would be no more than he deserved, but that he
was not seen by her until after the ''buryin' ", that he had
gone the day before on a four-days' trip, and much more,
to the effect that she would not He for him if she could,
even to save her own soul, but that he was down the moun-
tain at the time ''er hkely he mount 'a' done hit." All
this was told in laconic replies to repeated questions, and
unless the questions could be answered as she chose, her
replies were innocently vague and uninforming.

The woman who had bought blue caHco and molasses
at the store and had seen Dave drive up that evening as
she walked away with her purchases, gave damaging testi-

278 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

mony against him. Others there were who desired to have
an example made of some of the law-breakers at the Cove,
and for the sake of order in the community, brought their
influence to bear against Dave. Nothing could be proved,
yet the circumstantial evidence was too strong to be set
one side ; he was given a life sentence, and the prison doors
closed behind him.

*'Ef on'y they won't hang Dave," sobbed poor Lury, and
when she learned it was to be a life sentence instead, she
lifted her head and laughed. "I kin do a heap fer Dave,
ef they leave 'im live," she told Peg.

Some one bought Dave's mules, she did not know who, —
and the money was placed to his account in the Woodville
bank. Lury saved the little tobacco bag of bills Dave had
sent her, never spending a cent more, and worked faithfully
at the school for her board and tuition, and a very small
wage, which kept her little brother, for she would not accept
charity.

*'I hain't pore," she explained to Elizabeth one day.
^'Ev'ythin' thar at th' Cove be mine, ef I'd go thar fer
hit, but I'm feared to go thar, lest I do somethin' worse 'n
eveh I done — fer seem Uke I'd tear Ellen Furman's heart
out ef I met up weth 'er. I hain't cussin' no mo', but I does
a heap o' studyin' 'bouts gittin' even weth 'er 'thout git'n'
whar Dave be at."

Down in Woodville one day. Bob Kitchel met Daniel
McEwen at the home of the banker. He had been av/ay
from his hilltop long enough, he said, and he "reckoned
Gov'nment wouldn't miss him, not so's to notice it much."

He appeared to know nothing of matters at the Settle-
ment and asked many questions, and it was from Bob, so

DAVE'S LETTER 279

Bob thought, that he first learned of the trouble which had
befallen Dave, and what had become of Lury.

''And th' trial's gone agin 'im?"

'' Quite. It's a good thing for the girl, but hard on him.'^

^'I reckon so, both ways, yas."

''If he hadn't been arrested, of course, he would have
married her. Now he can't, and she will have a chance
to be educated and develop — and — it may lead to her
occupying a place in life where she would be well cared
for and do a lot of good, you know, — while if she were to
marry now, it might lead to the very life her mother led."

"You reckon what thet mount 'a' been?"

"From what she told me, I should think anything that
would save her from such a life would be a Godsend to her.
She does not seem to know what a waste her mother's life
must have been, but after she has spent a year in that
school, she will know more about it. She will know what
her mother must have suffered, at any rate."

"You reckon hit would be good fer her to know thet?"

"Why, it would keep her from falling into the same fate,
— the same kind of a hfe, — or trusting herself to a young
reprobate like Dave Turpin."

"An' what kind of a life you reckon she'd be good fer?"

"Why, with a good education, she might become the
wife of a man who could give her all in the world to make
her happy. She has a rare quahty. I never saw a girl
for whom nature alone has done so much, or the worst
kind of environment has hurt so little." Bob looked away
meditatively, and Daniel looked at Bob, also meditatively.

"I reckon hit be so. Women has to git to be th' wife of a
man pretty gin'Uy, to git anywhar therselves, an' hit be a

28o A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

right hard thing fer 'em to git the right man sometimes, an'
then ther be a contrairy sorter streak in 'em what makes 'em
clar plumb sot on th' wrong one. I hev knowed of sich.
They'll stick up fer some low-down, oncivil, or'nery
cuss, Stan' by an' do fer 'em, ontwel they drap into ther
grave an' neveh let on nothin'. Women is quare."

Richard Hadley came in, and the conversation changed,
but still clung to mountain topics. What the sisters had
done with their school, and the changes Peg had wrought
with her individual help and her money, and the number of
girls there now, and what the education was likely to do
for them. There again came up the question as to who
they could marry, after all was done, and they were back
again in their old environment.

''Half of them go back and live in the same old way,
merely existing and having a brood of ill-fed, unwashed
children hanging about. Whew ! I have seen such hope-
less homes," said Richard Hadley.

'' Leastways, th' be the other half, an' thet's mo'n they is
now. Time has been I thought mount's well leave 'em
be; but now I reckon we'll have a call to thank them
sisters, or the mountain will hev, some day."

"I count a great deal on ancestry," said the banker.
*'If we only knew how to choose and pick the ones with
good ancestry and help them — "

''An' hit be some mixed, here on th' mountain, don't ye
guess?"

"Of course," said the wise Bob. "Take a girl like this
Lury, with such an inheritance as she must have had from
her mother, and then such a boy as the one lying in jail
for murder, and let them marry — "

DAVE'S LETTER 281

"An' yit, hit be right thar. I hev hearn her paw weren't
much fer quality, an' ye were sayin' she hed thet."

There was a minute of silence, and then Bob Kitchel
bade them all good-by. He was off on a long trip, perhaps
to the other side of the world. How long would he be gone ?
Possibly a year — possibly longer. Perhaps it would
depend on when Peg or Barney sent for him to be best man
at their wedding ; and that might be soon or late.

''Watch Peg, and you'll know when to expect me," he
said.

But Peg was not one to be easily watched. The banker
had the best means of knowing what she was doing and
where she was, for he held her purse strings. Certainly
she was in earnest in her decision to make the sisters'
school a center of good to the young girls on the mountain,
and in so doing, Peg was the happiest girl of them all. It
was her delight to watch them unfold, particularly Lury.

Peg was troubled that Lury was so silent and understood
so little how to associate with other girls, and to throw off
care and be simply a girl with them. They were all moun-
tain girls, and there seemed to be no reason why Lury should
hold herself aloof, or be in the least shy with them. Her
devotion to her little brother remained unchanged, and the
only smiles she had to bestow were for him. He was grow-
ing fat and exceedingly comely, and all her spare time, which
was but little, was spent in sewing for him and in making
her own clothing. This she did at the cabin of the widow.
She seemed to prefer to isolate herself thus from the rest
of the school.

She preferred to earn her tuition and would not accept
the scholarship offered her by Peg.

282 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

^'They be them 'at needs hit. I be right well fixed," she
would say.

"But you don't have the time you should have for
study."

"I gits my lessons."

*'I know you do. You do well. You ought to have a
little time for play, though, Lury."

"I be growed, thank ye. Ye be right good. I has my
leetle brotheh. I no need to play. Sich es thet be fer
chil'en."

"Oh, Lury! If you only knew what a child you are!
Every one needs happiness and sport. Don't you like to
watch the girls in the gymnasium? Isn't it fun?"

"I reckon hit be — fer them as likes hit. I has to keer
fer — Danny." She loved to call him by that name these
days, where there were none to say an unkind word to her.
"I has to put by fer him. He got ter hev schoolin'."

So that was it. She was laying by her little wage for
the brother. Was it for that? Or was she thinking that
sometime Dave would be set free? She never mentioned
Dave nor her past life. Her lovely, curved lips were
beginning to take on an inflexible expression, and the sisters
did not hke to see it. Her body was rounding out in the
most graceful, delicate curves and Hnes, and her movements
were easy and quiet, yet often swift, Hke those of some
wild, untrammeled creature.

Watching her one day. Peg thought of something she
hoped might waken her out of the dream in which she
seemed to be living. "How would you Hke to learn to
ride, Lury? Did you ever ride a horse?"

"Naw'm, not a horse." Instantly warm lights danced

DAVE'S LETTER 283

in Lury's eyes. "I uset to ride Sam. He were the mule.
He kicked, but I could ride 'im. He be my mule by rights,
but I see Ellen Furman drive 'im down to th' Settlement
ev'y week. What fer she do hit fer, I cain't make out.
Likely she selHn' fer 'em."

*'What could she sell? Is she selling their whisky?"

"I reckon so. Sim Arlin'ton, he tol' Jenny Deal he
quit sellin' fer 'em. Sim, he's took to drinkin' awful bad,
she say." It was so rare a thing for Lury to mention Ellen
these days that Peg was surprised.

She wished she could know what was in the girl's mind.
She wished her school to be a charity, and only allowed a
tuition to be paid because, in the judgment of Caroline and
Elizabeth, it was part of the girls' education to pay some-
thing, if only a mite. ''Money plays a large part in the
world, and they must not be allowed to have things that
cost somebody money, without learning its value." " Things
must not come too easy in this world, either, or they are
not valued," they would say. So each girl was allowed to
pay a Kttle or do something for what she received.

It was very hard for Peg to be judicious. She wished to
do more and more for them. All had been done expedi-
tiously and well thus far, — a few dormitories and a gymna-
sium, a good kitchen and dining-room were built. The
room provided by the sisters in the first place had been
ample for school room, with the addition of verandas, where
the girls did most of their studying. Two instructors had
been added to help the sisters, as Peg had insisted in the be-
ginning, but she wished more out-of-door interests for them.

"I'm going to have the girls learn to garden," she
announced. ''Did you ever make garden, Lury?"

284 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"Naw'm."

"And you did not say if you would like to learn to ride."

"Yas'm. I kin ride. Rid'n' mule be right like rid'n'
horse, I reckon."

"Of course. Well, would you like it? That's the
question. '-

"Yas'm, I'd like hit right well."

Peg knew by the light in her eyes that she would. "I'm
going to have a stable and some horses. Then you can
ride."

Then Lury for the first time offered a remark of her own,
which gave Peg a hint of the direction of her thoughts.

"I seen Dan'l M'Cune rid'n' by here on Bess," she said.

"Oh, did you? Is that the name of his black mule?"

"I reckon he come home now. I has a letter Dave
writ me."

"You have?" Peg was astounded. For six months
they had not heard Lury mention Dave's name. "Was —
was he well?"

Lury sat down and drew the letter from the bosom of her
dress. She would not allow it out of her hand and held it
unopened, but looked at it with loving pride.

"Dave, he hev be'n Tarnin' a heap. He hev writ this
hisse'f, an' I kin read hit myse'f. What be ^s'preme co't',
please, ma'am?"

"Supreme Court, I think it is. It means a higher court
than the first one where he had his trial. What does the
letter say about it?"

"Hit say somebody hev took his case to s'preme co't,
an' he mount git free, 'er hit mount go worse weth 'im, an'
he mount git sentence fer hangin', stidier life." Then

DAVE'S LETTER 285

Lury broke down and wept. Before this, her eyes had been
hard and her manner reserved, but now she let Peg take
her in her arms and comfort her.

''Do you care so much for Dave, Lury?''

"Yas'm. He be all I hev, but Honey Son."

''Did he say how he got the chance to learn to write?"

"He say hit were fer good actin'. Dave be awful good.

They sure must be a hell fer them as put Dave thar. Mr.

Kitchel say mebby the' be no sich place, but preacher Price

say the' sure be. A lady she sont books, an' one o' the

men be'n he'pin' 'im." Now Lury opened her letter and

smoothed the two short pages lovingly, and placed it in

Peg's hand. "You kin read hit. I be awful skeered he'll

be gin a hangin' sentence, an' I be'n up to Dan'l M'Cune's

place. Twicet I be'n thar, oncet when we were to the

preachin' and oncet when I were gone all day, an' Miss

Elizabeth say as how I cain't go no more fer bein' so long

gone. I couldn't go thar an' back no quicker."

"Why do you keep things to yourself so much, Lury?
We might help you often, if you would tell us what you
want. We knew he was not at home, and we could have
found out if he had come back, and you would have been
saved all that long climb and the disappointment."
. "I cain't tell ye. Maw, she I'arnt me to keep my mouth
shet."

"What is it you would like of Mr. McEwen?"
"I want him to git Dave out an' tell 'em he neveh done
hit, er I want him to stop 'em f'm takin' his case to the
s'preme co't, fer I'd a heap rutheh he'd be in prison 'an
I'd hev him hung."

"Of course you would, Lury."

286 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Peg read the letter slowly through, sitting there with her
arm around the weeping girl.

"Deer lury say i hev larnt writn an rit this mysef fer
good actn is a lady she gin me books an a man hear he
heps me reed in the books. A man hear reed avy thin i
rite an he ul reed evy thin yu rite. Rite me soon i kin
reed hit. Say lury som one hev took My kase to spreem
cote an hit May be worst an hit wer ef they gin me hangin
verdik nex time, I Don kno who done hit i a heep rutheh
be like i be, fer good actn i can git out Som day may bee
but ef they change to Hangin i kant. Say lury Bee good
an larn good whilst yu be weth them good foks fer i ul
Come fer yu the minit i git out fer gawd no i nuva kilt
no one an i ul do fer yu like yud ought to bee don fer So i
say no more fer i luv yu an think a heap on yu all the time
an hop yu ar the same an think on me so Good by dave
Turpin."

"That's a good letter, Lury. Don't cry so. You are
doing as he says, and if he has another trial, he may be set
free. Think of that. In the meantime he is learning as he
never would have if he had not been arrested, and you are
doing well and becoming a fine woman. If he is innocent,
he will be set free. It must be so."

"I cain't he'p cryin', fer he have been puttin' the bottle
to his neighbor's lips, like the preacher say, an' Gawd be
punishin' 'im fer hit, an' he hev say heap o' times 'at he
will kill Lee Bab, an' he done come back thet night, an' he
mount o' done hit. Oh, Gawd, he mount. I don't know
where he went when he lef me thet night. I jes' had to
Stan' up thar an' lie fer 'im. I lied fer all I were wuth,
but now I'm skeered they know I were lyin' an' thet may be

DAVE'S LETTER 287

fer why they hev took hit to s'preem cote fer to git hangin'
verdic' on him. Hit mount be them Furmans done hit,
fer they hev a heap o' money hid away. They c'n pay ther
witnesses an' git hit bad on 'im, an' they be skeered I'll git
back on Ellen fer dosein' Honey-Son nigh to death. Ev'y
sence Mr. O'Harrow done cl'ard out all sich f'om Ross's
store, an' show'd up that bottle he done got, what Dave
took out f'om the fiehplace, she hev been nigh skeered to
death."

"I see. Well, I'll fight that out for you and for Dave.
I wouldn't be afraid, if I were you. Don't you believe he is
iimocent, Lury? I thought you did, of all people."

"I do. But he mount 'a' done hit. He hev cussed paw
out, an' swore he would kill 'im, an' he mount — ef he
seen maw lyin' thar like I seed 'er. I would 'a' done hit
myse'f. I be th' child o' the devil, an' full o' sin, an' I
cain't git cl'ar, fer Dave, he cain't git cl'ar 'thout I He
fer 'im, an' I cain't pray to Gawd, fer my heart be full o'
cussin' gin Ellen, an' I He all night an' try to pray. But
thar I see preacher Price leanin' oveh thet pulpit, lookin'
at me, an' I hear 'im say hell be gapin' fer me an' Dave,
fer what we done, an' the devil an' all his angels reachin'
out ther arms to draw us in, an' I cain't stop. Dave, he
mount stop, fer he be whar he cain't do no mo' badness, but
not me. I be driv. Gawd know I be driv."

"Lury, dear, there is a way out for both of you, I know
there is, but I am not wise enough to show it to you. We'll
go talk to Aunt Elizabeth. I'd back her against preacher
Price any day, for knowing what is right. She has been a
missionary, you know."

So the problem was taken to EUzabeth Graves to be

288 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

solved, as many another was, and she had help for Lury,
giving her the sweet solace that had been the mainspring
of her own Hfe, — absolute faith in the love of Christ and
the mercy of God.

Barney O'Harrow had indeed cleaned the poisonous drugs
out of Compton Ross's store, and the man was well fright-
ened lest the fact be made public. It was cleverly man-
aged by Barney, and Comp Ross was given the chance to
do it himself, quietly, and make a virtue of so doing, while
the real threat was carried over his head to the makers
of the drugs. At the same time Ellen had been called upon
to defend herself for what she had done, and emerged from
the interview with the inspectors, pallid with terror. So
the matter rested, as Barney recognized the fact that it
was next to impossible to punish her in any other way than
through her fears of being arrested for attempted murder.
That she was culpable and had done it purposely, he had not
the slightest doubt, and for that very reason she was the
more easily frightened. Thus were they able to hold her
own terrible weapon of fear over her own head.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE VERDICT

Days, weeks, and at last months passed. Dave lay in
jail in Raleigh, silent, well-behaved, gentle, and innocent of
manner, like a hurt creature submitting to fate ; and no
one who did not know his kind would have dreamed that
danger lay underneath his childlike demeanor, or that if
ever he were released, those who had brought this trouble
upon him would be wise to go where he could never find
them.

In the spring his case was taken to the Supreme Court,
and the money for his defense provided, no one knew why
or by whom. It was evident that some one was deeply
interested, but David himself was puzzled over it and feared
more than he hoped. It might be an enemy, who wished
him to have a more severe sentence. He had hoped that his
durance might end sometime, but to be put to death for a
thing he had never done, — even though he knew well he
could have done it, had the conditions been such as to make
it seem the thing for him to do, — to suffer thus for the act
of some one who was the real criminal, was more than he
could think possible.

His life had been spent up to this time in doing his work
and evading the law, and quietly serving those to whom he
felt himself beholden and for whom he would willingly have
laid down his life, had it come to the issue. But the thought

290 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

of giving his life for some unknown evil-doer or of being
forced to lie year after year in jail, while the real criminal
walked free, filled him with a sort of frenzy, which deadened
his spirit and left him in a strangely quiescent condition,
like a lion waiting for the chance to spring and rend. This
lasted all during the trial.

The judge who gave him the Hfe sentence was a good
man, who was filled with the idea that the sort of law-
breaking for which David was being held must meet with a
more decisive and condign punishment than had been ad-
ministered in the past. He had decided from the first to
make an example of this young man, to teach other young
men that illicit selling of liquor, and drunken brawls, and
setting the law at defiance, by killing and shooting among
themselves, no matter for what reason, must be stopped.
It happened that the judge of the Supreme Court was a
man even more decided to give the severest penalty, and for
the same reasons. So, after all the testimony was in, and
the jury again found David guilty of murder, wilful and pre-
meditated, this good, conscientious judge, against his own
desire and in spite of much pleading with himself for the
young man's Hfe, pronounced the death sentence. Then
David was led back to his cell. He stumbled as he walked.
When he reached the cell, he stretched himself prone on his
bed and hid his face and said never a word.

He had done nothing, but the blow had fallen, and he was
dumb. So might a wounded animal lie down in his den to
die. He did not weep. There was no solace in tears for so
deep a hurt. When he went back after the first verdict,
he had wept, but then in the distance appeared a nebulous
light that might brighten — sometime — and bring him

THE VERDICT 291

release. There was Lury — sitting somewhere, thinking
of him and waiting for that distant time when the release
should come ; and there was God. God knew he was inno-
cent of that crime, and would not let him lie there forever.
So he could weep, and lift his head and hope again, and listen
to the kind people who brought him books and taught
him, and made him understand that there was a real right
in his suffering for his wrong-doing, even if he had not
done the particular thing for which he was ostensibly being
punished.

But now that distant, nebulous light of hope was
quenched. He had said all he had to say. He had told
them he was innocent, and if he had been thoughtful only
for himself, his innocence could have been proved, for he
might have stayed down in the low-country and allowed
them to look after themselves at the Cove. Then he could
have proved an alibi. But for Sally Cloud's sake and for
Lury's, he had gone back, had hurried to get there that
very night, and now — . He could not think out these
thoughts coherently, for during all these days of the trial
he had suppressed and covered his emotions until he had
exhausted his power of feeling. He did not even think any
more about Ellen nor waste invectives on her. She was dead
to him. Only Lury Hved, and only the thought of her filled
his mind. If he could prove to her that he did not commit
this crime and die with her faith in him still Hving, he would
be comforted.

As he lay thus, gradually the thought of Lury rose su-
preme, and he lived over again the moment when he had
kissed her. She had promised to be his ^'ol' woman." He
stretched out his arms and clutched the mattress on which

292 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

he lay. He would be put to death in the electric chair, or
hung, he did not know which. He would rather be hung.
Then he grew stiff and stupid with the terrible thought, and
then again Lury appeared before him, and he could feel her
in his arms. She was to have been his " ol' woman ' ' ; and she
loved him. He wanted to weep now, but he had no tears.
They were dried up. Then he ceased to be sorry for him-
self and grew sorry for her. He wished she might never
know what happened, and that she might think he was still
to lie in prison.

The key turned in the lock of the cell door, but he heard
nothing, and lay still with covered face. Was he asleep?
Daniel McEwen quietly entered and bent above him and
listened to his breathing. Then he touched him gently on
the shoulder.

''Dave," he said very softly.

The boy sat up and stared in his face, still dazed as if he
had been dreaming all this horrible thing. He put his hand
to his head. Who was this? Dave had seen him before,
but not in this dress. He had worn blue jeans and a soft
shirt and a kerchief about his neck. He had Hved up on
the mountain. Dave had thought more than once during
this long time that if he could see this man, he might get
help, and now — too late — he had come of himself. Thus
for a moment they regarded each other, Daniel looking
down on the boy, and the boy looking wearily up, with a
blank, hopeless stare. At last Dave spoke.

''Howdy." That was all.

"Howdy, Dave?" said Daniel.

Dave sat on the edge of the couch, and Daniel took a stool
in front of him. "I reckon I'll set a while." And again

THE VERDICT 293

it seemed as if they had no more to say. Dave just stared
before him and was silent.

Daniel rose and walked to the little cell window, and felt
of the bars, pulling and twisting at them, then returned to
his seat. ''I come to tell ye a word, Dave. I be'n tryin'
to he'p ye, an' in doin' hit, I hev made a right smaht of a
mistake." Still Dave stared. ^'I reckon you didn't think
I were interested none, but I were."

"Thank ye." Dave's voice was hoarse, as if he had
used it too much, and had shouted all the emotions he had
suppressed.

"I took yore case to th' Supreme Court myse'f, an' I
'lowed we could git ye cl'ar ; but hit hev gone against us.
Now I hev come to tell ye to keep good heart, fer — "

''Thank ye, hit be too late."
: "Son, nothin' be too late. Ye be livin' yit?"

Dave nodded. "I reckon."

"Es shore es ye be livin', I'll git ye cl'ar. Hear?"

"I cain' prove nothin'. I hev said all I has to say, an'
hit hain't nothin' I kin prove. You cain' prove nothin'
yorese'f, fer ye gin me th' mule to go up thar weth, an' ef
they hed 'a' know'd thet, they mount 'a' made ye go on
witness stan', an' thar ye'd 'a' hed to say 'at I were thar,
leastways 'at I said I were goin' thar. Ye were right good
to keep out an' say nothin'. Hit be too late."

"Did ye go thar thet night, son?"

"Naw, I seen Lury half-way down mountain, an' she say
her maw were dade, an' so I done brung 'er to Miz Basle,
an' went back an' slep' in th' shed whar th' mules were at.
I didn't go nigh th' house fer fear o' disturbin' somebody,
an' thar nobody could say whar I were sleepin' thet night.

294 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Nobody livin' knowed whar I were thet night, an' nobody
to sw'ar fer me, on'y Lury, an' she swore to a lie, fer she
do keer fer me a heap, an' she hev damned her soul to hell
fer me." Dave swallowed back the lump in his throat and
drew his sleeve across his dry eyes.

"Son, I'll git ye cl'ar." The positive tone with which
this was said broke in upon the youth's hopelessness with
assurance, and he looked up in Daniel's eyes.

"Ye reckon ye kin?" A light spread over Dave's face
slowly, then faded. "I wisht I could see how. All be agin
me. An' — an' — all be true, on'y jes' 'at I didn' do what
they say'n' I done. All be true, on'y thet. I hev sold
licker. I hev fit agin th' law an' hev lied a heap — an' I
reckon I'm gitt'n' what's comin' to me, fer them things.
I cain't bide to die fer 'em, fer thar be Lury. I neveh
heered as Gawd hev hed a man hung fer cussin', but likely
thet be what fer He don' 'low me git cl'ar."

"Son, do ye reckon ye knows what-all the Lord hev in
mind fer ye? Ef ye does, ye knows heap mo'n th' angels
therselves."

"I don' reckon," said Dave despondently. "But I hev
said all I has to say fer myse'f, an' the Lord, He hain't
he'ped me none yit, an' thar's Lury. Ef hit were on'y fer
her I were boun' to die, I could b'ar hit a heap betteh, but
fer low-down Jim Furman, er fer thet hell cat thar, hit be
hard."

"Die fer 'em? What ye talkin' bout, son?"

"Somebody done kilt Lee Bab, an' th' be nobody else
what mount 'a' hed cause to do hit, 'thout hit mount 'a'
be'n one o' th' officers, an' they hev swore they hain't none
o' them done no thin', an' if they had done hit, they hadn't

THE VERDICT 295

no reason fer 'lowin' me He here when they were in the rights
o' what they done. Th' law wouldn' do nothin' to 'em."
Daniel's gentle manner and the hope he held out to the boy
had unlocked Dave's heart, in spite of himself, and brought
back his mental control. He was now ready to talk, even
to argue the case against himself. ''Hit must 'a' be'n
Jim — likely Jim, er Joe, — on'y he hedn't nothin' agin
Lee Bab, much, less'n a quarrel come up, — er hit mount
'a' be'n Ellen. She were strong fer Lee mos' o' th' time, so
hit weren't Ukely her. An' she an' Lee uset to raise hell
fer Jim a heap o' times. I reckon hit were Jim done hit,
but I wouldn' dar' sw'ar to hit — an' I cain't rightly sw'ar
to nothin' on'y jes' I neveh teched Lee Bab, ner fit weth
him, an' I cain't sw'ar I wouldn't 'a' done hit, neitheh ; fer
I would, sometimes, he were thet mean. I tol' him I would,
ef he done like he uset to do any more, too. He know thet,
an' so he quit. What he done to make Sally drap like she
done, I don' know, but ef I hed be'n thar, I would 'a' kilt
'im. An' thet's hu-come I cain't say no more — jes' set
thar an' hear 'em charge th' jury to find me guilty fer what-
all I neveh done, an' hang me fer hit, too, an' leave who hev
done hit go free." Again Dave drew his sleeve across his
dry and smarting eyes. Again he swallowed back the lump
in his throat and looked about him for a taste of water.
''Gawd! Ef I c'd on'y git down on my knees an' drink
out'n ol' Rock Creek!" he said, and his head drooped as
when Daniel first roused him.

" Son, I hev I'arnt a heap, jes' livin'. An' one thing I hev
I'arnt be 'at the law cain't touch eve'y darn thing as ought
to be punished. Hit be a righteous thing to put some men
out'n th' worl' an' th' law cain' do hit. Hit be fer some one

296 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

to do as'd be willin' to stan' fer hit. Who kilt Lee Bab
done a good deed, an' th' shan't nobody die fer hit, neitheh.
I'll see thet jedge an' git yer sentence put off fer's long's I
kin, likely a year. Meantime, we'll git ye cl'ar. Keep up
yer heart. L'arn all ye kin, an' some day — these doors'll
swing wide open, an' ye'll walk out a free man, an' a heap
wiser, better man, fer all what's come to ye here. Th' be
good women to he'p ye on, an' ye'll hev books, an' you keep
to them here as'll tell ye right ways o' thinkin'. Hit's how
a man thinks as makes a man good er bad."

Daniel rose and laid a hand on Dave's shoulder, but
Dave sat still.

" Stan' up an' give me yer han' like a man. The thought
'at ye be cl'ar f'om crime'd ought to make ye hoi' up yer
head. That's all, Dave."

The young man rose and put his hand in the one Daniel
held out to him and looked squarely in the older man's
eyes.

"Ye be right good," was all he said.

"Thet's right. Hoi' up yer head like thet. Ye be a
good man, an' the' be — " Daniel swallowed and waited
a moment, then continued, "the' be them as'll stan' by
ye."

Then Daniel went out, and his lean face was grave and
set. He walked in a high-headed, nonchalant manner, but
his eyes, dim with tears for the moment, belied his carriage.
Yes, Dave should be set free, but it should be accomplished
in Daniel's own way, not by bringing the real culprit for-
ward, but by insistence on the innocence of the youth.
Why should any one die for the death of a criminal who had
been allowed to live too long, as it was ?

CHAPTER XXVII

Daniel's dilemma

Daniel McEwen was as good as his word. He man-
aged to get a promise from the judge that the execution of
the sentence pronounced on David be postponed for one
year, on the plea that he knew to a certainty who the real
culprit was, and that he would make efforts to find him in
the meantime. He almost convinced the judge of the
young man's innocence by his earnestness. He hinted at
dark secrets in the life of Lee Bab that might have produced
enemies, who would cunningly select just such a moment as
the arrival of the officers and the death of Bab's wife to re-
venge themselves without detection. Daniel's own dignity
of character and his keen wit carried weight, and as soon as
this point was gained, he set himself to secure a pardon, or
at the very least a new trial on technical grounds.

Now Daniel, although a man in the very prime of life,
began to age. His soul was torn and tortured with the
thought that an innocent man was lying condemned to
death for his own crime. When his duties in Raleigh ceased,
he went back to his eyrie, and there he quietly planned and
schemed to avert the legitimate action of the law. Every
now and then he descended and visited Dave in prison, and
satisfied himself that the young man was gaining ground in
every way but physically. Then a psychologic complication
occurred on which Daniel had not counted. It was the love

298 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

and respect which awoke in the heart of the youth toward
him. Many a time this fact brought Daniel to the point of
confession. Then a feeling that after all, justice did not
demand that either of them should die for the killing of
the man and that he could yet make up to Dave for all he
had borne, caused him to persist in the course he had chosen.

The fact that Dave had no enemies other than the scurri-
lous crew at the Cove was greatly in his favor, but yet he
seemed to have few friends. Barney, who would have been
glad to show him kindnesses for Peg's sake, was away most
of the time in the Tennessee mountains, on an engineering
job which he fondly hoped would bring him a little nearer
his sweetheart. It was all very well for her to have gold
and to spare, but it was not for him to be anybody's bene-
ficiary. He could not so far lay aside his pride.

Lury could do nothing but sit and wait. In the doing of
this, however, she was changing, growing, drinking in and
absorbing into her very being, from the atmosphere with
which she was now surrounded, the courtesies and amenities
of life. All the gracious and sweet growths that make a
character delightful and winsome found place in the garden
of Lury's nature. All the girls were crude of speech when
they entered the school, but they were mostly sweet-voiced
and gentle of manner. Still, they were no more gram-
matical than Lury Bab, and they were as innocent for the
most part of all knowledge of books or the world.

The sisters found their code of ethics not so very unlike
that of the world, but differently manifested. They put
loyalty to their own families and their own people above all
else. It would be a shame in a girl not to lie, if that were
the surest way to cover the wrong-doing of a father or a

DANIEL'S DILEMMA 299

brother or a friend. A friend might be lied for and an enemy
be lied against, with impunity. The bland and convincing
way in which a sweetheart would be shielded from blame by
any convenient excuse was to Peg something appalhng.
While nearly all of them dipped snuff openly and unashamed,
none of them had Lury's fluency of language in the way of
''cussin'." Yet they accepted her manner of speech with-
out comment, other than casual, just as she accepted their
snuff-dipping as a matter of course, although she did not
do it herself. Indeed, of the two habits, they seemed to
look upon hers as the most reprehensible, as did she herself.

Peg Kitchel was gloriously happy in all her work, and the
problems and difficulties it often presented were met by her
financially and by the sisters ethically, in much the same
spirit. It was all a work of love for humanity, and Peg's
money was being spent in joyful activity. Out-of-door
occupations, she came to reafize, were the most efficient
means of upbuilding and training those girls. Many of
them took care of their own little patches of garden and
sometimes of the horse they were allowed to ride. Some of
them had been used to riding from childhood. They were
from the more thrifty class and were the ones on whom the
faculty counted for the most marked improvement. As
fast as possible, they were called upon to assist in the creat-
ing of a school sentiment quietly working against the vul-
garities and crudenesses and foolish pride and weak sensi-
tiveness of those undisciplined daughters of the hills.

Their isolation had left them singularly simple, and yet
they were as complex and unique with it all as their sophis-
ticated sisters of civilization. The timid were foolishly
shrinking and fearing, and the bold were over-bold. The

300 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

restraints laid on those who live in cities or even villages had
never been laid on them, and the vagaries of each nature
sought their own natural outlet. They had grown as the
trees and vines and flowers of the hills grow, each seeking its
own way out to the sunlight and air and often battling
futilely with the forces against them, — reaching out, grasp-
ing here and there at good as they saw it, — sometimes
finding it, and sometimes clutching only filth and dead
leaves.

Peg, herself more untrammeled than most citizens of the
world of conventions, was yet often bafifled and at a loss to
understand and harmonize these strange complexities of
character in one and the same individual. She said to
Elizabeth once, of Lury Bab : *'She is the most fascinating
and perplexing creature I ever got hold of. You never
can predict what her decisions will be or what her aspira-
tions are. For herself she seems to have no reckoning for
the future, and for her little brother, she seems to consider
only his future. It is what he is yet to be that absorbs her.
And she won't say a thing of what she is yet to be or do.
She just seems void of thought along that line."

** Still, she is improving. I have noticed it more of late.
She seems to be taking more pains to correct her way of
speaking. She corrected herself twice this morning in class,
saying ^is no' for 'hain't none.' Carrie said she almost
fell off her chair this morning when Lury came back from
the garden and said, 'There are no ripe tomatoes yet.'
Think of it ! That's improvement."

''I have it. I've touched the right note at last," cried
Peg, with glee. "I told her the other day she was not
taking the pains she should to speak correctly. I've tried

DANIEL'S DILEMMA 301

in every way I could to make her change some things, and
she seemed really stubborn about it. She said : *I reckon
I hev to talk like I were rose to talk.' Such a wistful, sad
clinging to her old manner of speech she had, I couldn't say
anything more. But the other day I said: * Danny loves
you so he is going to copy you in everything. You must
set him the right example, mustn't you?' She looked
straight in my eyes a moment, and then I saw an idea had
struck her."

*' She's trying for Danny's sake." Elizabeth knew more
of the workings of Lury's mind than any one else. **And
yet she does not wish to change for the sake of Dave Turpin.
She thinks he may be released some day, — poor child,
it^s not likely, — but if he is, she does not want to be
different."

"If he never is, what will become of Lury I"
"She'll live for the Kttle brother. It might save her
from endless sorrow. You can't know. It's a good thing
sometimes that people can't arrange their lives to please
themselves."

"That sounds — sort of — hard. Aunt Elizabeth."
"I know." Elizabeth spoke sadly. She was looking into
the past, and Peg was straining to see the future.

Peg had held Barney off, for she was unwilling to allow
any advance to which he was not driven by his love for her.
She could wait very happily, for she had her work, and her
life was warm and rich and overflowing. She gave daily
thanks for her fortune, and Richard Hadley had much ado
to keep her within its limits, for it had a limit, as all for-
tunes have. She had remained longer and longer at the
school in the hills, and made shorter and shorter her sojourns

302 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

in New York, until her friends there complained that she
was being absorbed and lost in her work, and had become a
regular old plodder.

Suitors many flocked to her when she was in the city, and
none could understand why she should make a recluse of
herself, when the arms of the four hundred were out-
stretched to receive her. None of them would believe, even
if they were told, that they had a rival in a struggling young
engineer. But Peg carried with her, as she walked away
from Elizabeth, a letter from Barney, and she knew her
wedding-day was drawing near. There was less in the
letter than usual, and yet there was more to grip her heart.
Barney, too, was changing. His spirit was becoming re-
leased from the chains which had bound it : the desire
for financial success, and the gauging power of money
and position.

Yes, he was beginning to comprehend the great truth
that lovers alone may understand : that nothing, after all
is said and done, is worth while that shuts love out. So
now he wrote :

*' I'm your lover. Peg. I'm just your lover, every day and
all the time. I've written Bob to meet me wherever you are.
Where shall it be — at your stepmother's or at the school ?
I'm coming — yes, I'm coming. I shall land at the school
next week, and if you are not there, I will follow you up.
Bob is to go there first. He's a terribly lonely old fellow.
It's his own fault ; he should find somebody to be lover to.
It's all over. Peg. Money isn't in it. I don't care what
you have or what you haven't. It's only what it can do — •
and I'm your lover. I can't think of anything else just
now. This job is done, and I'm coming. Peg, do you hear?

DANIEL'S DILEMMA 303

I'm shouting it in my heart; I'm coming, and I'm Peg's
lover. I'm a crowned king."

Every now and then Lury also received a letter, mis-
spelled and unpunctuated, but there was the same mes-
sage. ''I'm your lover, Lury." Yet poor Dave could not
say ''I'm coming." Peg knew Lury's heart was weighted
down with a load her own had never felt, and by that very
sympathy Lury was drawn closer to the great heart of Peg.
Instinctively Lury felt this, and she unfolded and blossomed
into a more exquisite womanhood for this nearness.

Yes, Peg's wedding-day was drawing nearer, and after
that wedding-day, and Peg was gone on her wedding-trip,
what was coming to Lury — what was coming to that other
lover? Barney arrived, a joyous, beaming Barney, shed-
ding happiness all over the Settlement and the school, and
in the home of the widow Basle, wherever he showed his
joyous face. Lury's little brother, plump and lovely as a
cherub, followed him about with open admiration. Barney
loved him. He seemed to feel that the child had helped him
to his own happiness, and truly he was right.

Peg did not wish to go to New York for the wedding.
She did not want to go so far from the school, to tell the
truth, and Barney did not care. But the stepmother de-
murred. Why should Peg be married there like a moun-
taineer? Barney would be calling her his "ol' woman"
next. She must come down and live among folks again, she
and her husband, too. He certainly needed civilizing a
Kttle. They must come to her and do the proper thing for
that time, no matter what they might do later on.

Then the banker came forward, and a compromise was
made, so that the wedding was celebrated at the home of

304 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Richard Hadley, and the stepmother met them there.
Bob stood as best man, and Lury came to the wedding;
and no one knew she was the simple mountain girl, in love
with a desperate young law-breaker sentenced to be exe-
cuted for murder — none except themselves. She was
another Lury, — straight and slender, fine of mold, shyly
observant, and quick to perceive and do as others did.

Daniel McEwen was not there. He was asked, but he
did not come. He sat brooding on his mountain top, watch-
ing the eagles, solitary and remote, at long intervals come
and go. His face was drawn and sad. Things were not
going as he wished and had planned. He was baffled.

He sat on his hilltop, his head bowed in his hands, knowing
the wedding bells were ringing down below him. He knew
those gathered there were his friends, and that he had won
many more than these during his term of office, — friends
who had influence and power, and who would gladly use it
for him, if they knew he needed it. But one among them aU
he had not been able to bend to his will. He was the kind
and gentle judge who had forced himself to pronounce the
death sentence against David Turpin. His mind had been
set upon justice. He had reached his decision slowly and
reluctantly, and he refused to turn from it, unless Daniel
made good his word to produce the real culprit before the
year was up.

Daniel had steadfastly maintained a brave demeanor and
swore that David should be set free, and had walked with
high head out of the bank only two days before, but his last
interview with the judge had convinced him of the futility
of attempting to obtain a new trial, or even to get Dave's
sentence reverted to a life term. Bob had visited him as

DANIEL'S DILEMMA 305

soon as he returned from his trip, and the visit had been a
merry one. Daniel McEwen had easily led him on to speak
of his sister's marriage, and from there to his own intentions,
and so on to his opinion of Lury Bab. What he thought of
Lury and her future and of Dave's future, if he were to have
one. What effect his end would have on the girl, and many
other intimate things.

From joking and reminiscing over the trip they had made
together so long ago, when Daniel had led them that weari-
some tramp over the hills in search of a path for the new
road, and through mutual confessions of the friendship
then formed between Daniel and the two young men, it
was an easy step to the rest. Differences of speech and
rearing and environment meant nothing to them. It was
quite true, as Daniel had said: "Hit's how a man thinks
in himself 'at makes him one thing or another. He mount
act like a angel o' Gawd, an' be cl'ar plumb devil, fer all
anybody 'd know, — but th' truth'll be shore to come to
light some day, an' thar he'll be."

Daniel had speculated about Lury and her future many
times, and he sounded Bob with a purpose. If Dave was
set free, he would marry her ; but if not, — was there a
chance that this rich young man would ever look upon her
with the eyes of a lover ? If he did, would it mean happi-
ness for her? Would he always feel that he had stepped
down to her from a height and make her feel it also ?

"Why, I've known all the time, — from the first moment
I set eyes on her, — that if she could be taken in hand by
the right ones, she would develop into a perfect wonder,
and she has. She'd turn some of our belles of the 'Four
hundred' green with envy, if they could see her now. She

3o6 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

has what none of them have — she — " Bob paused in the
midst of his speech and gazed off over the blue hills undulat-
ing, range beyond range, before them.

"Hit wouldn't be hard to go sweetheartin' weth a creeter
the like o' her, now — would it?"

"Oh, that's bound to come, and she'll know it, too."

"You reckon she'll hev sense to choose right, ef she
hed th' chanct ? "

"Choose? She choose? Why — some one will have
to choose her, first, or — how can she choose ? She will
have the privilege of taking."

"Reckon so. Privilege of takin' — what comes to 'er.
Wall, women is quare, an' sometimes they do be surprisin'.
I hev know'd 'em to th'ow down one as seemed right
likely an' peert, an' take up weth 'notheh 'at were hell
cheap — but then — mostly sich es thet were a matter of
meddlin ' er spite. You'll mebby find 'at a gell like Lury'll
do some choosin', too."

Now, seated on his mountain, his head between his
hands and his ears alert for the sound of the wedding bells
far below him, Daniel McEwen ruminated sadly on many
things.

CHAPTER XXVIII

CONFESSION

Dave was given many privileges in the prison, and all
liked him. He lost his sullen aspect under the kindness
of Daniel McEwen and the hope he continually held out
to him. He came to believe that his friend had power
to really bring forward the murderer and set him free, and
that it was only, as Daniel assured him, a matter of time.
Now, when Daniel entered the prison cell, the young man
would rise and stand before him, like a son before a father
whom he more than loved, — one whom he reverenced as
well. Daniel felt this, and it made him sad, but he covered
this sadness with debonair good cheer as he entered.

*'You shore be growing pearter an' pearter. Ye be a
leetle too white in the face, but yer color'U come back fast
enough when ye git out o' here," he said, standing and
looking levelly in the young man's eyes, his hand on Dave's
shoulder. "An' ye be read'n' books an' papers an' writin'
letters — sweetheart — be she?"

"I reckon so."

"Wall, hold to 'er fer life 'er death, son, an' when ye
git 'er be good to 'er, hear ? "

"Ye shore reckon I'll git out o' here an' git 'er? Ye
reckon so? I kin wait weth good heart fer sich a thing.
I shore will hold to 'er when I git 'er, an' I'll be good to 'er
an' earn a heap fer 'er, too."

"How will ye earn fer 'er ? Stillin' ? "

3o8 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"I don't guess I will. I mount, but hit be fer her to say.
I reckon I'll cFar out them Furmans fust thing, an' ef
Ellen live, she'll spen' th' rest o' her life lyin' in jail, 'er
she won't be Hvin'."

^^I reckon ye'll hev to quit all sich es thet, son, if eveh
ye be sot free. The Lord say vengeance be his'n, an' fer
all I hev I'arnt in this life, I reckon hit be."

"Ellen Furman hev took vengeance on me fer nothin',
an' all know I hev done fa'r by 'em all. I don't guess
she'll be let live long afteh I be out o' here, less'n she come
here to live."

"Son, leave all sich es thet. I know what-all I'm tellin'
ye. A man hev got to bow to th' will o' Gawd. He cain't
kick agin hit. I hev done some kickin' myse'f an' I hev
I'arnt a heap. I hev took th' law into my own hands, an'
I be'n up agin a bigger power 'an I be, an' I got to quit."
Daniel dropped upon the stool before the couch, and Dave
sat on the edge of his narrow bed, and there they gazed
into each other's eyes, but for a while nothing more was
said. Then David leaned forward and spoke in a whisper.

"I reckon you hain't did nothin' ? Ye be good."

"Naw — son, I hev done ye a wrong, but I'm goin' to
make up to ye fer hit all I kin. I be'n 'lowin' ye lie here
fer a long year an' a half, an' now th' time be drawin'
near fer yer takin' off, an' I be right whar I were at the
fust. I cain't git ye cl'ar 'thout I bring forward him what
done the deed, an' I'm the man. Son, hit'd he'p me some
ef ye'd set thar an' cuss me."

Dave leaned forward and gazed more eagerly into the
older man's face. "I cain't believe ye. Ye be givin'
yerse'f fer me. I cain't — "

CONFESSION 309

"All right, son. Look a' thar." Daniel handed Dave
a box of cartridges. "Count 'em, an' yell see th' hain't
be'n but one round took out o' thar. Th' be a gun in the
sheriff's office, 'er som'ers, 'at was picked up at Lee Bab's
feet, weth all them cateriges in hit but one, an' thet one
went into the heart 0' him as you found lyin' thar weth
the gun at his feet. I thow'd hit thar, an' I sont th'
bullet, an' hit were what I swore to do long ago, 'fore I
done hit."

Dave sat still, dazed, stunned. Slowly his eyehds
drooped. His face flushed and then turned deadly white.
He strove to rise to his feet, but his trembhng limbs would
not support him. At last he said weakly :

"I cain't set here an' hear ye say sich es thet about
yerse'f. I cain't. I wish hit were Jim — an' then I'd
walk out o' here an' go cl'ar an' be happy."

There was a long, long silence, and then — quite sud-
denly David's strength seemed to come back to him,
with a new resolve, a resolve that gave him power.
He rose and walked over to the little barred window, and
leaned his arms on the stone sill, and his forehead on his
arms, and so stood, still, silent.

"Oh, son, I know I've done ye a great wrong, but I hed a
reason, er I thought I hed. I reckoned we hedn't neither
on us just cause to perish fer he'pin' the world to be rid o'
a man like Lee Bab, an' I 'lowed to git ye cl'ar an' then
tell ye, an' make up to ye fer hit, too. Now, son, jest
you cuss. I'd fa'rly admire to hear ye."

But Dave had no mind to "cuss." He was weeping.
Yet he was ashamed of tears and hid them. He loved
Daniel, who seemed to be his one and only true friend, and

3IO A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

he was being torn between his love for Daniel, and his
desire to live, and his love for Lury ; and these three great
passions seemed to have devoured all his bitter enmity
and the sullen hatred which had so long dominated him
after his arrest.

**I'm goin' to th' judge now an' tell 'im the truth; an'
as soon as they-all c'n git through weth ther red-tape
foolin', I'll step in here, an' you'll walk out, a free man.
I hev wronged ye, but I shore hev loved ye, all th' same."
Still there was silence, and Daniel perceived that the
youth was weeping. Then he rose, lifting his tall form
to its full height, and dropping his debonair manner, he
stepped across the little space between them and laid his
arm gently across Dave's shoulders.

^'I reckon I understan' ye, boy. Ye don' like to walk
out o' here an' leave me behind? Naw. Hit be like
we're kin folks in speret, fer th' be the same thing inside
o' each on us. I done what I done fer love o' her, an'
now she be singin' up thar weth th' angels. An' yore
sweetheart be still walkin' th' earth and weepin', on 'count
o' yore trouble, what I'm responsible fer. I hev knowed
hit, but I 'lowed to make up to 'er an' to you fer hit some
day. You'll walk out an' go to your sweetheart, son, an'
thet right soon. Likely Gawd'll 'low me to set som'ers up
thar an' look at mine, an' hear 'er sing. Gawd know I
hev done a heap o' repentin'. He'll 'low me set thar, I
reckon."

Then Dave turned to him. His cheeks were wet and
his lips quivering. "I hain't goin' to walk out an' leave
you here. I cain't do hit."

*'Naw, son, ye'll do what I tell ye, when th' time comes.

CONFESSION 311

I'm right happy now. I hev suffered a heap, but when a
man gives up, some way th' comes a peace into his soul,
an' I reckon I'll set here right happy like, an' go when th'
time comes."

''I mount 'a' done hit myse'f. I mount. Any day I
mount 'a' kilt 'im, ef you hadn't 'a' done hit."

*'But what mount 'a' be'n hain't what is. I see ye kin
read right smaht. Here be a paper fer ye to keep to he'p
ye on in a work I be'n doin', an' hit'll be a heap better'n
stillin'. I hev writ hit all out how to git th' gold out'n the
soil, an' how to dig fer hit, an' ye'll find thar how to find
the place where th' gold is at. I hev worked thet mine
fer seventeen year, an' the' be a heap o' gold yit, fer him as
knows how to git hat out. When you an' me changes
places, jest you go up to my cabin and work thet mine,
an' leave stillin'. I'll think on ye thar — "

Dave turned on him a clear gaze, reproachful and set.
''I be goin' to bide here. I'll sw'ar I done hit, an' they'll
be no way fer ye to prove I didn't."

*'Whar be thet caterige box?"

^' Hit's mine. I'll sw'ar to hit. I'll keep hit, an' ye
shan't hev hit back."

**Son, they be no way but the true way. Will ye leave
Lury die of heartbreak an' me go to my grave grievin'?"
The debonair lift of Daniel's head was quite gone now,
and he dropped on his stool and sat with bowed head. He
covered his eyes with one hand and held out the other to
David. *'Put that 'er box in my hand, son. I love ye,
an' ye cain't make wrong come right thet- a- way. I tell
ye th' truth has to stand, an' the he go down to hell. They
be no otheh way. Gin me the box."

312 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Slowly, reluctantly, and with tears, David drew his
clinched hand from his pocket and dropped the box of
cartridges in Daniel's palm. They heard the grating of
the turnkey's key in the lock, and both stood as he entered,
quietly looking at each other, a tremulous smile playing
about the lips of each, hand clasped in hand.

CHAPTER XXIX

LURY DECIDES

The wedding was over, and Lury stood in the banker's
home, looking out on the village street, half screened by
the lace curtain. She was alone, waiting for Jenny Deal,
who was to drive down for her. All the other guests had
gone except Bob, and Lury supposed he was gone with the
rest. Richard Hadley, with his wife and children, had
gone up the mountain, taking the two sisters with them,
and only Lury was left.

She felt very lonely, and her eyes searched the empty
street wistfully. Everything had been so different from
anything she had ever known or seen, — the whole wedding,
the flowers, the pretty gowns, and the fun and badinage were
all new and strange to her, and life took on a new aspect
here in the banker's home. No one would dream, speaking
to her, or watching her, what thoughts were passing in
her mind. Her past life stretched back to her childhood,
a long vista of contradictions and emotions, sometimes
of terror, sometimes of eager longing, and short glimpses
of joy, but filled mostly with fear, and silent wistfulness,
and shrewd contriving of ways to escape from the unkind-
ness of her father, or to shelter her mother from his drunken
outbursts of brutality or meanness.

True, he was not always drunk, and there were times
when he could show glimpses of a former power of fascina-

314 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

tipn and a crude humor. He had once been fine-looking,
and a trace of that early masculine beauty showed
itself when he was sober, and everything had been going
to his liking. But up to the time of her mother's death,
Lury's life had been dominated by three primeval emotions :
fear of her father, hatred of him and his associates, when
he had been brutal and they derisive, and strong love for
her mother, — a tender, almost unchildish love, always
contriving how to protect and shield her.

A vague notion of right and wrong and a strong sense of
justice also had been developed in her. This last trait
was what now troubled her. Why should David lie in
prison, condemned for murder, if God were good, and he
innocent ? Therefore, since God must be good, — or else
the Bible lied, — Dave must be guilty. If so, he must
die, for there could be no other way. Yet he had done
only what she had many times desired to do. Had she
not cursed and sworn many times that she would kill
Lee Bab? Had she not told Daniel so, when he found
her in Bear Wallow with the babe, hiding from her drunken
father ? He had deserved it ; and so now, when Dave had but
administered justice to him, why should Dave suffer death ?

Now all her life had changed, and she was in a sweet
place, where the former things were thrust behind her
as if they had never been, and she was trying to be like
those who cared for her and had taken her in. All was
weU with her now, and the world was wearing a new face.
Yet there was Dave. The terrible things were gone out
of her life, but still the old terror for one she loved domi-
nated her with the old power. What could she do? Oh,

LURY DECIDES 315

what could she do ! She stood still and straight before
the window, her hands clutching tightly her dress skirt.

Bob entered unheard, and had come near to her, when
the wind caught the soft lace curtain and wrapped it around
both of them.

"Well, well," said Bob, lifting it back and looping it
out of the way. "The wind seems to think we belong to
each other, doesn't it?'*

She looked up in his face as one come back from some
sad dream, and smiled wanly. "I reckon."

"Have they gone off and left you all alone?"

"SeemHkeit."

"Seem Hke they've left me alone, too."

She walked out into the hall, and took up a long box,
around which a suit-case strap had been buckled.

"Are you waiting for some one?"

"I be waiting for Jenny Deal. Miz Deal said she'd
send down for me with the top buggy."

"Well, it's getting late for her to take you up the moun-
tain now, isn't it? Will she be alone?"

"I reckon her maw^ll come with her. We c'n ride three
on a seat."

"I'll take you up in my car. That will be better, won't
it?"

She smiled, and with the smile came the peculiar charm
of her countenance. She lifted her eyes to his face, and
his heart gave a sudden throb of pleasure. No other girl
he had ever seen could look on him with such eyes. He
thought of the day he had spoken of those eyes first to
Barney, and he was pleased with his own perspicacity.
His predictions had come true.

3i6 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

*' Won't it be better?" he reiterated.

*'It will be a heap betteh — for me. Only — are you
going, anyway?"

^'Oh, yes, I'm going, anywsiy; yes, indeed."

She followed him in silence, and in silence also she took
her place in the car. As they whirled around the curve
of the drive out into the street, he glanced at her still,
set face and wondered, for the hundredth time, how she
came by those beautiful and classic lines. Certainly
there outcropping were the traces of a fine ancestry, but
the personahty of the girl was all her own, molded by her
suffering and striving and loving; a new creature, and a
quite new and independent beauty. Vaguely he began
to recognize this. The desire seized him to analyze her
nature and probe into her soul. What right he had in that
sacred precinct he never stopped to think. His place in
society, unconsciously recognized by himself as far above
her, seemed to give him the right to her innermost thoughts ;
and her reticence seemed to him to be merely shyness,
which he was perfectly warranted in breaking down.

How should he begin? Was there not a single thing
in common about which they might exchange thoughts?
Why, of course, there was Peg.

**Well, I'm a lonely old fellow, now my sister is married
and gone."

She only turned and looked in his face with an enigmatical
smile. Then she looked far beyond him, and the smile
played a moment about her lips.

"What are you thinking, Lury?"

"I was thinking were you lonely all this year whilst
you been gone?"

LURY DECIDES 317

"Oh, traveling about, a man doesn't get so much time
to be lonely. He has some change of thought all the time.
Do you mind being lonely?"

"I reckon I'd ratheh be lonely than I would have some
one nigh me all the time I couldn't abide."

'*0h, that, of course. But I wouldn't stay where there
was some one I could not abide. Would you?" he asked.

"If I were tied, I'd have to stay. I reckon it be some
different with you. I don't guess you eveh have had to
just sit and wait."

Bob stopped a moment to think and caught his nether
lip between his teeth. Here was another viewpoint.
"No, I've always been able to pull up and go when I got
sick of a thing. How do you Hke the school?"

"IHkeitfine."

"And how do you Hke my sister Peg?"

Lury drew a long breath, and the lovely curves came
back to her red lips. That alone was enough to tell him
how she liked his sister Peg, but still further she had to
stir his heart by turning to him her face with the softened
look in her warm brown eyes, veiled by the sweep of her
curved lashes. He would make her look like that for him.
There was no one who would look at him Hke that, stirred
thereto by love for him, and the genuine glow of those
eyes, as Lury thought of Peg, made Bob jealous.

"Come, Lury, tell me in words, how do you Hke my
sister Peg?"

"Seem Hke I cain't tell in words, such a thing. She
be far and away beautiful, like heaven angels, only they
be out o' sight, and she stay by where we can love her.
I reckon if you look in your heart, and see there the sweet-

3i8 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

est thing eveh you know, and think on hit, you'll feel
what I think on your sisteh, Miss Peg, betteh'n I can tell
you."

"You are a poet, Lury. I wish Peg could hear you/'

"She have heard me. I told her when I kissed her
good-by that she were more beautiful — a heap prettier —
than moonlight on the mountain and I don't know any-
thing more beautiful than that, when the wind blows soft,
and the trees all move Hke laughin'."

"I wish there were anybody on earth who loved me
enough to say a thing Hke that to me." Bob laughed, but
he meant what he said.

Then Lury laughed. "I reckon men folks couldn't act
like she do. We sure do love Miss Peg a heap."

"There is one thing men folks can do, Lury. We can
love as you love my sister, even though we may not be
able to act like her."

"You reckon so?"

"I don't reckon so, I know so. There is a difference
between reckoning and knowing. Don't you know there
is?"

"Yes, I reckon." Then silence fell. Bob knew he had
not struck deeply into her soul yet, and he was piqued.
He looked full at her, questioningly, but she did not heed.
Her face was sad and exquisite in its sadness. She was
thinking of Dave, waiting there in his prison cell, waiting
for the day of his death. Indeed, her face was so touchingly
sad that Bob was melted with pity.

"Tell me about it, Lury, can't you?" he said, bending
to her, and the car swung dangerously near the edge of
the steep roadside under his careless hand. He grasped

LURY DECIDES 319

the wheel with the thought that he was indeed in a danger-
ous place and must have a care. Then, as he brought
the car to rights and it shot ahead, he w^ondered why on
earth the place was dangerous? Was it not where he had
been drifting for the past two years? Were not pearls
found in the sHme, and the rarest gems dug out of the
earth ? And she — what if she were found in a moon-
shiner's cabin on the mountain top — was that so bad a
place? What was the Cove and all her past? She was
a thing apart from her former surroundings. He blessed
Peg for what had been accompKshed in the girl. It seemed
as if it had all been done for him — to make her fit.

''Do you reckon God do care for all o' we-uns, whereveh
we be, here or yon' ? "

"Why — yes, of course. The Bible says so." She
said no more, and he drove slowly, watching her and
waiting for the next thought. It did not come, and he had
to ask again. ''What made you ask that?"

"Because Miz Graves say the' be as many souls on
earth as the' be stars in the sky, and that seem like a heap.
I were thinkin' could God hear all of those souls, if they
were in trouble. He might forget some."

"Don't you think God would care for all He created?
Would He forget them?"

"I don't guess so, — but seem like He don't care fer them
all, or else He didn't make them all, or He wouldn't 'low them
to be damned to hell for all time, — when they didn't
rightly know what-all they were doing."

Bob waited a moment, calling upon all his philosophical
lore, but did not find help. Certainly here were a lot of
souls, and what were they all here for, and why should

320 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

they have been made, if but for the end Lury so graphically
described. At last he threw aside all the wisdom of his
student hours and resorted to the only sane conclusion.
''Well, a God who has done such wonderful things for us
whom He has made will be able to take care of us in some
better way than to punish us in the way you say for all
time. We ought to be able to trust Him that far ; don't
you think so?"

"I reckon so." Then silence once more. Still that
pitiful sadness of countenance, and Bob could not stand it.
He wanted to take her in his arms and ask her to tell him
all she had in her heart. Instead he tried to comfort her
by diverting her thoughts.

"Lury, do you know what I'd like to do? I'd like to
take you where you might see a thousand wonderful and
beautiful things I have seen and love. Why, you can't
believe what there is in this world. I have traveled quite
around the globe. Did you know that?"

Her face lighted, and she stirred in her seat. "I know.
Do seeing all such as that make you very happy ? "

"It gives me a lot of pleasant things to think about.
Wouldn't you like to go about and see a great many inter-
esting things like that ? "

"I reckon so — if — if ev'ybody I cared for were free
and happy, too. If not, I reckon I'd be right sorry most
of the time."

"I beheve you, you beautiful, wonderful thing!" Bob
clutched the wheel and drove ahead with set face. He
was being swept out of himself, and yet he must wait —
wait. Then all at once he decided not to wait. The
end was, for him, inevitable. He would accept it and take

LURY DECIDES 321

her. She must be his, and he could make of her the most
beautiful, the sweetest wife ever man had.

"Listen, Lury, you beautiful girl. I have something
to tell you, and I must drive this car very slowly while I
tell it, or we might go wrong." She caught her breath.
"Don't you be afraid. I won't drive off. I love you, and
I will always love you. I will marry you, and make you
very happy. I will think of everything in the world I
can do to make you happy. We will go all over the world
together and see all the wonderful things in it, and we
will be happy all our lives together. Won't we, Lury,
girl ? Won't we ? " She was silent — one of those pathetic,
breathless silences. He watched her, and to watch her, he
had to steer his car to the side of the road for safety ; so
there, under a great, wide-branched oak tree, he took her
in his arms at last, and kissed her as he had longed to kiss
her many times.

"Why so still, dear? Speak, Lury. Can't you tell
me you love me, or at least that you will love me some
day? Can't you, dear?"

She had not spoken because she could not. Her breath
was gone, and her heart throbbed in her throat chokingly.
Still he held her, loath to let her free, but she Hf ted her head
and looked in his eyes as if stilled by some emotion, he
could not know what.

"We'll be happy, Lury. You'll love me all your life,
and we'll be happy — won't we? Say yes, dear."

When at last she did speak, it was in the old way. Her
newly learned correctness had sHpped from her, forgotten.

"I — I — cain't. Please, Mr. Bob, thar's Dave."

"Dave?" The words had shd from her trembling lips

322 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

so softly that Bob could not believe his ears. ''Dave?
Dave who?'*

"Jes' Dave/'

''My God, Lury. Do you mean that man who is to be
— hung? You can't — you can't love him, Lury. You
must not." He released her and sat gazing anxiously at
her.

"I be thinkin' on him eve'y day, an' ev'y minute. He
lyin' thar wait'n' fer death, an' when they take him — I'll
die too, er I'll set yondeh on the mountain — an' jes' wait
like he be'n waitin'. Gawd ! I kin wait, too."

"Lury, this is terrible — terrible! I never thought
you were still thinking of him. How could you, after
all you have been taught by those good sisters? Oh, the
waste, the awful waste ! "

She turned a look of fury on him, but the genuine sorrow
and love with which he answered the look subdued it.
"Yas, hit be a waste to take a man the like o' Dave, and
kill him fer what he neveh didn' do." She spoke sadly
and quietly.

"Lury, there isn't a man on earth worthy of you. You
don't know what you are, child. I am not worthy of you.
I see it and know it. If he dies, you might at least think
of me, and let me take care of you. Drop these thoughts.
It is inevitable. He must die, and it is too late to help

now."

Yas, hit be too late. I hev been gittin' used to hit all
this year, an' I 'low I kin jes' set an' wait, an' maybe do a
leetle good on th' mountain some way." He sat as if
stunned, and after a while she spoke again. "Ye be
heaven good, Mr. Bob, but hit be too late. Remember

LURY DECIDES 323

what ye said, 'at ef ye were tied to one as ye couldn't
abide, ye wouldn't stay? An' th' day mount come when
ye'd see how ye couldn't abide me, and ye'd be worse'n
lonely. Hit be too late. Ye be heaven good, Mr. Bob."

Slowly Bob turned to her, and once more bent to her
and kissed her. "This is for good-by, Lury. I love you,
but it is good-by, and I want you to know that I would
help you if I could."

''I know ye would, but the' is no help. That's why I
asked ye thet 'bout God, did He care fer we-uns like the
Bible say. Thank ye."

Now it was but a short climb the rest of the way, and
Bob made it swiftly. At the school he lifted her down,
and their eyes met for the last time. "Good-by, Lury.
God be good to you."

He was gone, and she stood wearily looking after him,
holding her box by the strap, the box which contained
the pretty dress she had worn to Peg's wedding.

CHAPTER XXX

SALLY cloud's MESSAGE

^^What I want to know is why did you throw the pistol
at the man's feet, when you had shot him ? It would have
been impossible by your own showing for the killing to
have been traced to you — ever — if you had not done
that."

"I reckon thet's why."

^'You mean you wished to leave a clue by which you
might be taken — you mean it ? "

^'Well, Judge, the' be a heap o' diff'unce betwixt gittin'
the betteh on a lot o' folks what thinks they knows all
the' is to know, an' lyin' low while one as is innocent b'ars
yer guilt — ef guilt hit be — jes' natch'ly sets in th' 'lectric
chair fer ye. Hit be mighty interestin' to keep you-uns
guessin' fer a spell, 'long's nobody gits hurt, but this here's
diff'unt."

*'I see. How did you expect to work it?"

"I didn't expect much. Th' weren't no otheh way, as I
seed, to bring Lee Bab to jedgment. You cain't depend
on th' law, much, fer sich — an' all is, I reckon whilst I
were cHmbin' up thar to th' Cove thet evenin', th' angels
jes' natch'ly turned ther heads th' otheh way, an' didn't
fetch in no reports. Likely they neveh seed me fire th'
shot." The old smile played around Daniel's lips. He
reached in his pocket and drew out the box of cartridges,

SALLY CLOUD'S MESSAGE 325

and turned it over in his hand meditatively as he con-
tinued: ''I cain't rightly say — not bein' familiar weth
'im, if the recordin' angel hev any thin* writ in th' ever-
lastin' book agin me along th' line o' killin'. I reckon
they be a heap else, but fer killin' — no — I reckon not —
much. But this'll prove 'at what I'm tellin' be straight."
He rose and stood over the judge a moment, smiling,
then placed the box on the table at his elbow. ^'You'll
find one round o' cateriges gone f'om thar, and ef ye look
in thet gun 'at was picked up at Lee Bab's feet, ye'll find
'em all thar but one, an' thet one went th'ough Lee Bab's
heart, whar 'twere meant to go. Now, by yer leave,
Jedge, I'll go on up th' mountain an' sleep one night moeh
in my cabin, an' see how them eagles be a-gettin' on, an'
when ye sen' fer me, I'm ready. Good evenin'."

"Hold on. Hold on. I ought to have you apprehended
now, this moment. Why, you old demagog, you, laying
down the law to me all these days, trying to get that man
pardoned and sa}dng you might be able to find the right
one, sit down here a moment." The judge rose and laid a
friendly hand on Daniel's shoulder, detaining him. ''Sit
down again; I have something to say. Do you know
why I have resisted you so steadfastly all this year?"
''Ye were jes' natch'ly trying to do your duty, I reckon.'*
"Well, yes, in a way. I thought you were in with those
law-breakers, and were covertly working against law and
order, thinking you could get a man pardoned out any
time you wished. I just determined to put an end to such
one-man control — setting aside the dignity of the law
for private reasons — and so — well, I wish I had recom-
mended pardon for the boy, and I tell you if I had been

326 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

gifted with omniscience, and knew what you have just
told me, and no living being had known beside myself,
the whole thing would have dropped forever with that
recommendation. As it is — it must go through. It
will have to be Hfe for you, man. I can in honor make it
no less." The judge spoke sadly and slowly. Daniel
smiled and Hfted his head with the old debonair swing.

"Wall, so be it, Jedge. Fer many a year I hev set
waitin', and I'll jes' hev to set a while longer. You'll
'low me to bide one more night in my cabin — an' th' be
some things I'd ought ter do. I hev an appointment
weth a widow down to th' Settlement — she say she hev a
message laid on her soul to gin me — f'om Sally Cloud —
her as I hev keered fer — well on to a thousand years —
I got ter go down an' git hit, an' I'd ought ter look a'ter
Bess,—"

''Who's Bess?" exclaimed the Judge, waking up.

"She be my mule, an' a right good friend she be'n to
me ; an' thar's Josephine — she be th' cow. I'd ought
ter look afteh what comes to 'er, an' I'd ought ter see
leetle Lury, too. She be growed, an' they tell me — right
peart. Thet's all, Jedge. I'll set thar on top o' 01' Abe^
an' be ready. Good evenin'."

So Daniel passed quietly out, and the Judge sat wdth his
chin on his breast, absently drumming on the box of cart-
ridges with his fingers. Well, the law must be upheld
and not be brought to naught, and yet, — human law, —
it was often a futile sort of thing, striking at random.

The breath of spring was sweet on the hills as Daniel
McEwen rode Bess up the mountain from Woodville to
the widow Basle's. It was during the morning session

SALLY CLOUD'S MESSAGE 327

of the school, and Lury was not there, but her little brother
was playing by the door as Daniel alighted. He stood a
moment regarding the child, then patted him on the head
and entered. The cabin was neat as always, and the
widow was busy with her back to the door, over a gay
quilt which had just been removed from the quilting-frame
and was spread over the bed. She was binding it about
with a bright, turkey red binding. She turned her head
as she heard his step behind her and rose quickly, brush-
ing the threads and bits of cotton from her dress, and
setting a chair for him.

''Why, howdy, Dan'l? I be right glad to see ye. How
ye gitt'n' on these days? Won't ye set?"

"Howdy, ma'am? I be right peart, thank ye; how's
yerse'f?" He took the chair she placed for him and laid
his hat on the floor at his side. ''Ye cain't complain much's
I see o' ol' age, fer th' years certainly do pass ye by 'thout
leavin' footprints. I reckon I find ye well, ma'am."
Honey-Son came and stood at his side, looking confidingly
up in his face, and he lifted him to his knee, and sat absently
regarding him, as if he did not really know what he did.

"The child do be growed a heap sence you last see 'im,'*
ventured the widow.

"Why, yes. He be growed, come to think on hit. What
be yer name. Sonny?"

"Dan'l Cloud Honey-Son," murmured the little fellow
shyly.

"What say?" Daniel drew back and regarded him cu-
riously, holding his cupped hand behind his ear.

"Dan'l Cloud Honey-Son Bab," said the child again in
the same shy murmur.

328 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"Lury hev named him 'Dan'l' a'ter you, fer she say he
mount 'a' died ef ye hadn't showed 'er how to feed 'im an'
gin 'er things to wrop 'im in. She say she neveh 'low them
at the Cove know what-all she called 'im, lest they mount
say sich as she'd cuss 'em fer sayin'. So she tol' me when
I asked her why fer she neveh gin 'im no name but jes'
Honey-Son. She say she hev a right to name 'im Cloud,
fer hit were his maw's name, an' he hev a right to hit.
She shore be peart."

''I reckon she be. Well, Miz Basle, I hev come fer thet
thar message ye tol me Sally done laid on yore soul to gin
me. Hit be a right smaht spell ago, — an' yit hit mount
'a' be'n yestidy — fer all o' my thinkin' on hit. I may
hev to set fer a spell by myse'f, an' I reckon hit'U do me
fer thinkin' matter whilst I'm a-settin'."

The widow smiled, and then her face grew grave. "You
hev be'n a right patient man, Dan'l M'Cune, but I cain't
think settin' thar on yer mountain, wrastlin' in yer mind
oveh things ye cain't noways help, be good fer a man.
When I gin ye Sally's word, mebby ye'll feel ye hev some-
thin' betteh to do. Leastways, ye'd ought to."

Daniel rose, and still holding the child in his arms, felt
in his pocket and produced a peppermint candy ; then he
set the little fellow gently on the doorstep and gave him the
small white lozenge. ''Thar," he said, reentering the
cabin and closing the door after him, "I be ready."

"I know all, Dan'l M'Cune, an' while I cain't blame ye
none, I know ye be'n doin' wrong. Sally tol' me how you
done, fer she knew she were to die. She say you kjiow
what-all were laid to yore door, an' she lay hit on my soul
to tell ye to go back to yore own, an' do right by 'em.

SALLY CLOUD'S MESSAGE 329

That be her message to ye. She say f'om the time she
knowed you had simied fer love o' her, she hev lived undeh
th' condemnation o' Gawd, an' she hev tried, and gin her
life to save ye from the hand o' Lee Bab, so't ye mount
be moved to go back an' do right by 'em."

Slowly, as the widow talked, Daniel rose to his full height
and hfted his clenched fist above his head, and shook it
as if in the face of an enemy, but the voice of the woman
did not cease for that.

''She say you must 'a' knowed what-all they done tol'
'er; she never say nothin' to ye, but when they gin 'er
that word, her heart done broke, fer she knew she hed be'n
the cause o' yore sin. She say when they gin 'er that word,
an' Lee Bab come one day an' took 'er, she jes' went weth
'im like a dead leaf flies before the wind, an' married 'im.
She say th' were no other way to turn ye back to th' straight
an' narrer way ye had ought to walk. She say she loved
ye so as she could 'a' died fer ye, an' she hev lived in hell
all these years to save ye f om sich a hell as be prepared
fer th' devil an' all his angels th'ough all eternity. Dan'l
M'Cune, this were the word she laid on my soul to gin ye :
* Go back to yore own an' do right by 'em. "

As one struck dumb, the man stood before her, trembling
with rage. She lifted her eyes to his face and held up her
hand for him to keep silence until she had finished, and
went steadily on.

''She say hell begun fer 'er when she married Lee Bab,
fer Bab, he were drinkin^ an' stillin' an' in all the devilment
they be to do, but she neveh went back on 'er married word.
That were before the Furmans come. Then come a raid,
an' Lee were took, an' all the helpers run off, an' she were

330 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

lef an' not a woman nigh, nor a soul to help, ef the men
come back ; an' she were plumb skeered o' Bab's helpers,
they were that bad when they were full o' licker. So she
clum up th' mountain side an' sot thar watchin'."

The widow paused a moment as if to give him a chance
to speak, but he had dropped into his chair, and sat with
his head in his hands, drooping forward as if he had been
beaten down. Then she continued :

''She sot thar watchin', an' she seed you go to the house
an' look round as if ye were huntin' fer somebody, an' she
knowed hit were fer her, an' she rose up an' went down to
ye. She said she see danger ahead fer ye. Fer she knowed
Lee Bab 'd be sot free some day, an' ef he eveh heered ye'd
be'n thar, he'd kill ye. She knowed hit. She say to look in
yer face that mawnin', hit were like she were lookin' in
the face o' an angel o' Gawd. She say you asked her fer
to go away weth ye, an' she say she were that onregenerate
and that sore-hearted, she would 'a' went weth ye, ef ye'd
'a' led her into the bottomless pit. She say she would 'a'
walked the fiery furnace weth ye — that ther wa'n't no
place above the yearth nor under hit, whar she wouldn't 'a'
follered ye. They be women thet is thet-a-way, — an' I
reckon you knows she be'n one."

Again the widow paused, hoping for a word, but Daniel
sat silent, his eyes fixed on that which he alone saw.

''She would 'a' done that, but what she done was to put
ye away f'om 'er. She say she sont ye away f'om 'er fer
love of ye. Hit were all she could do to save ye fer this
worl' an' fer th' next. She say ye asked her fer to git
a bill o' divorcement an' marry ye, but fer all she had
heard of wrong done another fer her sake, 'at she knowed

SALLY CLOUD'S MESSAGE 331

she were bein' punished fer lovin' ye, an* you fer thinkin'
on her."

''Wrong fer lovin' 'er — Gawd A'mighty know'd — What
wrong were hit to thet scoun'rel dawg — "

"You knows she weren't meanin' Lee Bab, Dan'l
M'Cune."

"I would 'a' done far by her."

''She say she meant to save ye fer this worl' an' the next.
Them were her words. She say fer this worl', meanin' she
knowed Lee Bab'd foller ye ontwel he killed ye. Up an'
down the yearth he'd 'a' foller'd ye. So be she kep' 'im
off 'n ye."

"My Gawd 1 Why fer did she go down on her knees to
me that time, an' hoi' on to me ontwel she hed my promise
not to tech 'im ontwel she gin me leave ? Why fer did she
tie my ban's that-a-way?" He rose and lifted his clinched
fists above his head. "Gawd ! I wisht I hed 'a' done hit
long ago."

"Set again, Dan'l ; they be more to tell. Why fer didn'
she 'low ye to sen' 'im to jedgment? Hit were Preacher
Price done thet fer you an' her. He come along thar an'
tol' 'er thar were only one way fer 'er to save yore soul an'
hem, too, f'om hell fieh, an' hit were fer her to set thar an'
repent in sackcloth an' ashes, an' submit 'erseK to 'er lawful
husband, an' Kve the life. He say thet, an' she hev done
hit. She say she neveh would 'a' done hit fer herse'f, —
she'd 'a' gone weth ye, like you asked her to, but to save you-
ims fer heaven she done hit. She made you gin 'er yore
promise to leave Lee Bab be, fer she knowed you'd damn
yore soul weth his murder, like Preacher Price done say, as
soon as eveh he come off the chain gang. When he come

f

332 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

back thar, she sot weth food cooked fer 'im, an^ all doin^,
like he'd neveh been gone. He mount 'a' guessed a heap,
but he neveh knowed no thin', fer Sally were powerful
strong at holdin' 'er mouth shet.''

After the one outburst, Daniel sat as before in silence.
Now the widow paused longer, and turning again to her
work she thrust in her needle and drew out her thread
with a jerk at each thrust. He lifted his head and saw the
set of her lips, as if she were holding back something.

"I reckon ye betteh go on an' say all ye has on yer soul,"
he said gently.

"I will, Dan'l, but seem like hit were time fer ye to say
a word fer yerse'f — ef so be ye hed hit to say. She toF
me how ye done th' hull two years Bab were on th' chain
gang. How ye built a shelter fer yerse'f on the mountain
side, whar ye could overlook th' Cove, an' thar ye went to
bide night an' day, guardin' 'er f'om harm. She say no
matter whar ye went by day, thar ye sot watchin' her
can'l light ev'y night th'ough them two years. She say
how ye kep' 'er in corn-meal an' bacon the hull endurin^
time, fetchin^ an' carryin' fer 'er, an' neveh say one word to
'er, ner she to you, afteh she made ye gin her yer promise,
ner eveh once comin' whar she were at, jes' leavin' hit on
the hillside whar she could git hit."

*'You be a Godly woman, Miz Basle, but kin ye tell me
whar be the sin o' me keerin' fer her like that-a-way ? " He
spoke with suppressed intensity, but very quietly.

''You'd ought to know what Sally knowed. Who
keered fer yore own an' done fer 'em, whilst ye were settin'
thar watchin' oveh Sally?"

^' Gawd, Miz Basle ! I hired a gal to look afteh maw, an'

SALLY CLOUD'S MESSAGE 333

paid 'er fer hit, too. I keered fer my own, Miz Basle, an
done hit well.'V

'^Dan'l, hev Sally neveh tol' ye why fer she quit ye?
Why fer — Dan'l, hev Sally neveh tol' ye how she knowed
ye lef ' yore wife an' chile fer to foller af teh her — makin'
out like ye hed none — down thar in th' low country — an'
how ye went down twicet a year to — "

*'The lie's come home! Hit's come home! One o'
the devil's kin be'n up on th' mountain sowin' th' lie on
my heels." He rose, and standing close to her, stooped
and searched her face with keen, hard eyes. ^'Who-all
of the devil's kin hev fetched the lie up yar? Ye hev tol'
so much — tell the rest. Pears like ye hev hed a heap on
yoire soul."

"Th' be no rest to tell. Sally hev be'n livin' all these
years under condemnation fer her part, in takin' ye away
f'om yer own."

"Likely ye kin tel me who-all fetched the lie to 'er?"

"I cain't tell ye who tol' Preacher Price, but I can gin ye
Sally's word. Hit were fer ye to know she knowed what-all
ye done, an' what-all she done in 'lowin' ye do hit. What
she laid on my soul to do, were to beg ye to go back an' do
fer yer own like you'd ought to, an' leave go thinkin' on
her."

"Leave go thinkin' on her? Leave go thinkin' on her?
Gawd! How kin I? How kin I?" Daniel relapsed,
sinking into his chair by the widow's hearth, his chin on his
breast, and his inert hands dropped at his side.

She went to him and put a hand gently on his shoulder.
"Kin ye say now, — as ye hope to see her again — on yore
soul, — kin ye say hit were a lie, Dan'l ? "

334 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

Then Daniel spoke without lifting his head, with many
pauses. *'Miz Basle, twenty y'ar ago, when I weren't
better'n a boy, I lived down country, — nigh on to two
y'ar. My paw lived oveh totheh side th' mountain, an' we
hed words, an' I lef home. I cain't tell ye what-all I done,
— some drinkin' an' some loafin' like fool boys does, — but
I married no wife and hed no child, an' when paw sont f er me
to come home, fer maw were grievin' fer me, I come home
weth clean hands, leavin' no meanness behin' me. Then I
heered they were sich a word agin me, an' one night I rode
into the village whar I were at, an' faced the crowd weth hit,
an' the man what tol' thet word, I shot. I lef 'im thar
fer dade, an' th' sheriff come an' jailed me fer hit, but he
got well, an' I come back home, an' thought the lie were
killed. An' now, fer thet lie, Sally be dade, an' I be
alone."

''Dan'l, I believe ye."

He quivered under her touch. It was enough. The
strong, self-sujfficient man was sobbing in silence. The
tears dropped through his fingers on her hearthstone, tears
of sorrow, embittered by fruitless regret. The widow
stepped quietly out and left him alone with his grief.

When she returned, Daniel was standing beside the bed,
looking down on the gay quilt she had been piecing.

''This be a right smart bit of work," he remarked.

^^Yes," she replied, ^'I have done a heap o' them quilts."
Then again there was a strained silence.

At last Daniel lifted his soft felt hat from the floor and
stood over her, turning it about in his fingers by the brim.
*'I reckon I betteh be goin'."

"Ye reckon so? Cain't ye set an' eat a bite 'fore ye

SALLY CLOUD'S MESSAGE 335

leave?" Her old face worked with kindly, sympathetic
feeling.

*'I don't guess I betteh. I hain't much fer talkin', not
now, an' Lury mount come in — she hev be'n up to my
place, they say — "

"She hev. She grievin' fer Dave."

"Tell 'er she no need to. Listen here, Miz Basle. I
be'n th'ough a hell o' strivin', an' triflin' an' waitin' fer
to git Dave freed hke he'd ought to be, but I cain't git
them as might free 'im hear reason. I hev worked all I
know, an' now I be come to the end. Gawd knows I be
beat. I be goin' up yon' to set whar Dave be a-settin' fer
the rest o' my life, an' Dave'U come free an' cl'ar."

Then the widow rose and placed a hand on either shoulder,
and held him thus, looking steadily in his eyes.

* * Ye done hit. I knowed ye done hit. Ye be a good man,
Dan'l M'Cune. Ye mount 'a' hid hit all yer life, but I
knowed ye'd do right by the boy. Ye'd neveh 'low 'im
b'ar yer guilt. Neveh ye say a word more. I know why
fer ye've waited all this time. Ye 'lowed to git ye both
cl'ar, but hit hain't fer humans to jedge the way o' the
Lord. All the lawyers undeh heaven cain't say 'Ye shall'
an' * Ye shan 't' to Gawd A'mighty — ner no smart man Hke
you be, neitheh."

"No. A man have to lay his soul b'ar to the truth an'
lie down an' wait. Wall, hit's mo' peaceful like. Good
day to ye. Ye be a good frien'."

She held out a shaking hand to this friend, whom she
alone had mistrusted, yet believed in. "Good-by, Dan'l.
I pray Gawd ye'll git a pardon, fer on'y Gawd know what
ye hev be'n th'ough, an' what-all temptation ye had."

336 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

She followed him out into the sweet sunshine and stood by
while he mounted his mule. "What ye 'low to do weth Bess
an' Josephine?"

*' I reckon I'll leave 'em weth Dave an' Lury. They'll be
right keered fer weth them."

For a moment he sat silent, looking down on her, then
with a smile and the old debonair manner, he rode away
with a wave of his hand. He took the trail above the
highway, and she stood watching his slender figure swaying
to the movement of the mule, mounting toward his eyrie,
in and out among the fragrant, flowering trees and the
budding pines waving their pale green Christmas candles,
and the masses of clustering laurel bloom.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE COVE IS DESERTED

Down in Woodville the spring was further advanced
than on the mountain. The laurel bloom was gone, and
the heavy greens of summer had replaced the tender coloring
of the earlier spring days. But as Dave, seated under the
hood of his wagon, hurried his mules up the broad, new road,
his heart bounded with joy, as each mile brought the beauty
of the fresh young season into view. Here the azalea
blossoms were slipping down their silken stamens and
dropping on the ground, and a mile or two higher they
were holding their gorgeous faces up to be kissed by the
Sim in their perfect beauty ; a little farther up, behold,
they were only just budding, and still higher, only giving
promise of later bloom. He was yet to see it all, — the
charm of the hills, — once more it was to be his.

He looped the reins around the handle of the brake and
walked buoyantly beside his mules, stroking them and
guiding them by sibilant calls and whistles. He answered
the thrushes' liquid cadences from the thickets and re-
sponded to the note of the wrens ; he whistled back to the red
birds in the pines and laughed at the scampering chipmunks
in the woods.

"Ah, you leetle scoun'rels, you! What ye runnin' fer?
Think I'd hurt ye?" The frogs croaked in a swampy

338 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

hollow between the hills among bulrushes and cat-tails.
''Hid'n', be ye? Wall, hide away, I don't keer." He
lifted his voice and sang camp-meeting songs, Kngering on
the clear, open vowels and lilting the cadences in a clear,
sweet tenor. A little hoarse he was at first, after his long
silence, but he lifted his head and filled his lungs with the
cool mountain air and sang on. *'T be so hoarse f 'om settin'
still thar, I cain't fairly holler, let alone sing." But he
sang the hoarseness down.

He was weakened by the long prison quiet and scorned
himself, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead and
climbed back into the wagon. ''I be puny as a sick kitten,'^
he muttered. ''I reckon Lury she'll say I be good fer
nothin'." But he smiled at the thought, for he knew better.
Then he laughed for the mere joy of laughing. He would
soon be strong again, and Lury was at the end of his journey,
waiting, yes, and she would have the license that he had
sent her ; she would have kept it for them.

Dave had found his mules in fairly good condition, at a
livery stable in Woodville, where Daniel, who had pur-
chased them, had placed them. He had sent Dave there
for them, and the young man felt only love and gratitude
toward Daniel, in spite of all the sorrow he had caused him.
The only unhappy thoughts he had now were those that
filled his heart to overflowing when he thought of the man
he had so learned to love, sitting brooding for the rest of
his days behind prison bars. When he thought of Daniel, he
ceased singing and shook his head sadly.

**Them jury men be cl'ar plumb fools to lock up a good
man fer riddin' the world of a bad one," he said, sagely
grave. "Th' law don't know nothin'." But the joyous

THE COVE IS DESERTED 339

spring all about him would not let him be sad, and soon he
was singing again.

A glad heart and hope ahead makes light travehng
and a quick journey, but evil thoughts and a guilty con-
science makes a lagging pace over a hard road. Whether
Ellen Furman had a guilty conscience or not, who may
know? Certain it was she traveled a hard road, driven
by fear. She had ridden the old mule down the day before
with bags slung across his back, supposedly containing
clean com shucks for filling beds at the spring cleaning ;
but cunningly hid in the midst might be found sundry
bottles and jugs of corn liquor, for which she received a
far better price than ever she got for her shucks.

Ellen was clever at disposing of their wares and usually re-
turned well paid for her trip. Having now the upper hand
of the men, for the possession of the household purse always
gives such power, she had become more forceful and dominat-
ing, and the men found it easier to submit, albeit with much
grumbling, than to resist. The cabin was no better kept,
and the food no better cooked, but Ellen had gained more
vigor both of carriage and of speech. She had learned that
Dave was to be released the next day, and she now fled in
haste from the Cove. She dared not be there when the
man she had purposely wronged, returned.

Jim was down on his knees, carefully hfting bricks from
the fireplace to get the money they had hidden there from
time to time. '^Ef ye'd beared to me, ye wouldn't 'a' had
Dave took," he was saying. He put his hand in the hole
and felt about, then lifted his head with a jerk and turned
an angry face toward Ellen, cursing deeply. He lifted one
of the bricks he had removed and held it as though he

340 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

would, hurl it at her head, but not being drunk at the time,
he stopped, reahzing the enormity of such an act.

*' That's right; jes' you drap hit. I done put thet
money whar ye c'n git hit when ye need hit. I reckon ef
ye quit cussin' an' le's we git started, ye'U show mo' sense.
Hev ye got them leetle pigs boxed? Then you an' Joe
load 'em on th' wagon, an' the chickens, too. I don't 'low
to leave them folks have sich as we hev worked hard to
raise, whilst they be'n loafin' and playin' the' be too fine
fer to bide here an' work fer ther livin'. Hain't ye got them
chickens ketched yit? Wall, you be the good-fer-nothing-
est, — git out thar an' ketch 'em. Now, don't you an' Joe
go an' load up weth licker. Ef you do, I'll take Buddy an'
drive off an' leave ye here to be shot up an' lef fer dead,
like Dave done lef Lee Bab. They hain't no luck lef on
this place. I swear I be glad to git away alive. Sally
Cloud be'n ha'nt'n' 'roun' here eve'y sence she drapped, and
all the luck be'n gone."

Incessantly talking in this strain while she worked, Ellen
threw together all she could pick up about the place and
loaded the things helter-skelter on the rickety old one-horse
wagon, while the men shufHed about, executing her orders,
until the old wagon would hold no more. She wanted to
take the bedstead, which was Lury's one great treasure,
and had gone so far as to tie up the feather ticking and
pillows in a great bundle of the quilts Sally Cloud had pieced
for her daughter, and the counterpanes she had woven.
These she loaded on the wagon before all el^e, but when
the men came to make room for the pigs and chickens,
this bundle was thrown on the ground and finally left
behind them in their haste. She uncorded the bedstead,

THE COVE IS DESERTED 341

nevertheless, and threw the rope in among the rest of the
goods, leaving the big mahogany frame in such condition
that it could not be used until it was re-corded.

Long before the sun had reached its meridian, the rickety
wagon with its uncouth load was well on its way toward
the State line, Ellen driving, seated in a chair as close to
the front board and the old mule's heels as it could go, while
Buddy perched perilously on the box which contained the
litter of pigs. The men straggled behind, and the old hog
was left in her pen, squealing for her brood. Joe Furman
humanely went back, after they were well started, and
threw what com they had not been able to carry into the
comer of the creature^s pen, saying he ''reckined hit'd keep
the ol' thing from perishin' ontwel she c'd rut 'er way out."
But he did not tell his sister-in-law why he turned back and
then came hurr}dng after them.

Thus Lury found things at the deserted home, when she
came slowly riding up the mountain a httle later in the
day. It was spring, and she had been seized with the idea
that she wished to see the Cove and the hillsides and blossom-
ing gorges. She had been filled with a strange wistfulness
and hunger of spirit, since Bob's impassioned plea for her
love had touched anew the cord which bound her to Dave.
The marriage license still lay in the old coffee-pot where the
widow Basle had placed it, but the gay Httle handkerchief
she had pinned in the bosom of her dress, as always. It
represented to her what might have been. The widow
had told no one of Daniel's visit or the expectation of Dave's
release, fearing there might yet be some sHp. The law
seemed to her an uncertain thing.

Lury had asked Elizabeth if she might have the whole

342 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

day to herself, and ride ojff alone up the mountain, and
Elizabeth, knowing that the day set for Dave's execution
was drawing near, realized the need of the girl and had
given her consent.

Slowly and warily Lury approached the Cove, crossing
the stream and pausing under the blossoming rhododendron
where Daniel so long ago had plucked the flower he had laid
on her dead mother's breast. She did not wish to see
any one there, but only to look at the little patches where
com used to be planted, and at the old, blossoming apple-
trees. How she used to love them, in those days when there
were so few things lovely about her ! Now she knew, from
what she had learned of gardening at school, that were those
old fruit trees trimmed and dug about, and the soil en-
riched, they would have value. There were a few pear
and plum trees, besides the great, black-heart cherry-trees.
Why, the place might be plowed and sowed with blue grass,
and the trees might be mulched, and others of different
sorts set out, and what a beautiful garden they might have !
How sweet the blossoms were ! How warmly the sun sifted
down over her, where she sat her horse under the overhang-
ing beech boughs, looking out at the little, fertile Cove.
Even the neglect of years had not wholly destroyed its
beauty.

Old memories crowded on her thick and fast, — sorrowful,
torturing, tragic memories, made up of fears and hates,
disorders, and cunning watchings and plans to circumvent.
Crowded side by side with these were poignant moments of
eager happiness, swiftly grasped, and hoped and waited for.
Memories of moments with her mother, when they two had
been alone together, and the men far away down the

THE COVE IS DESERTED 343

mountain, or at the still ; when they had laughed together,
and her mother had told her simple stories of her own child-
hood. Memories of times when she had sat out on the
fragrant hillside and watched down the road for Dave to
return from his trips into the low country, when she would
run to meet him, and cHmb up by his side, and make him
give her the reins. Memories of drifting over the hills
with her mother and Dave, going to preaching, when they
could manage to do so, and listening to the impassioned
voice of the preacher, and shivering at his graphic descrip-
tions of the devil and hell and the tortures awaiting sinners.
Memories of unholy joy, when she had successfully lied
herself out of difficulties and cursed volubly at those she
hated, when she took a sort of poetic, yet demoniac pleasure
in inventing terrible things to wish on their heads.

All these things were now in a dream world of her past.
They were gone from her, never to return, and yet these
strong, uncurbed emotions which had made up that past
still called to her and surged up in her, — great, elemental
forces, ready to drive her, as a rudderless ship is driven by
wild winds at sea. Yet she was not like a rudderless ship,
despite her tempestuous nature, for deep within her were
quahties of power, of all the best with which humanity is
armored.

She could love. Ah, how she could love ! She found
ecstatic happiness in adoration. How she reverenced
Elizabeth and her sister, and how joyous she was in her
gratitude to Peg. As from her babyhood she had loved and
protected her mother, and then the little brother for whom
now she would give her Hfe, if that were necessary, so were
nourished and cultivated in her those qualities which

344 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

make for greatness : aspiration, self-sacrifice, loyalty,
patience, love.

The training and gentle example of the sisters had begun
to correlate these qualities, giving them definite purpose
and scope. She was learning how to use her natural initia-
tive, and the trained mind was beginning to take the place of
erratic striving. Dave was always in her thoughts. Sym-
pathetic by nature, she was intensely so toward him, for
gratitude filled her heart as she thought of all the things he
had done in the past to help her and to bring her little joys.
He was her all now, and he was to be so no more. No
one could ever take Dave's place. Honey-Son could not
fill her life, for he was to go out into the world and become
great, even as mothers expect their sons to do. But Dave
and she were to have belonged to each other enduringly,
living for each other always. And now, that hope was gone
out of her life. Looking out on the little Cove, loving,
struggling with herself, and relinquishing, the tears rolled
down her cheeks unheeded. She was minded to return to
the school, but some impulse caused her to go on. Yet of
all things she did not wish to meet Ellen now. She only
wanted to look at the place, no matter what sorrowful
thoughts might be stirred within her, where she and Dave
had lived together and done kindly things for each other.

Slowly and reluctantly she rode around the great rock
which concealed the house from that point, and there she
paused, gazing in unbelief at its deserted and empty appear-
ance. A fireless hearth, doors and shutters flung wide
open, and a bundle of bedding lying among the weeds by the
door! She had left her dog behind, but as usual, when
she rode without him, he had run away and had followed

THE COVE IS DESERTED 345

her. Now he came dashing past her and ran into the house,
nosing and smelling here and there, to her terror, lest he
find and bring some one out to her. But why had they
fled, for flight it must have been. It could not be that they
had been gone long, for she knew Ellen had been in the
village and at the school, begging, only the day before.

It could not be that they had heard of a raid, for they
would not have deserted in this fashion for that, taking all
they could with them. She rode her horse down to the
spring and let him drink there. The dog came bounding
down beside them and drank also, then dashed away again,
off toward the still, making wide circles around the sheds
and back to the house. No one appeared. She dismounted
and led her horse slowly toward the door, pausing often,
but there was no sound, and the stillness awed her. Had
some terrible disaster come to them ? Then she was sorry,
for all of her bitterness toward them. As she gazed in at
the door, the evidences of haste in their departure struck
her, and she entered and stood beside the uncorded bed.

The time when she had seen her mother fall beside the
fireplace was with her again, and that moment came back
to her terribly distinct. She saw it all, Jim Furman, Ellen,
her mother, growing waxen white in Jim's arms as he picked
her up and laid her on the bed, and then her father's dis-
torted, drink-crazed face, as he turned on her when she
snatched the babe from the bed and ran. Oh, it was all
there again. She raised her arms above her head in agony,
then brought them down and covered her face with her
hands. All the orderly, beautiful Hfe she had known of
late made the past appear to her now by contrast more
sordid and horrible. She had learned, not by words, but by

346 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

actual contact with good, to measure the abyss which
stretches between good and evil, and that knowledge
made her know unerringly, later on, the path she must
walk.

^'Oh, Gawd, Gawd, make me know what to do. I
cain't live without Dave — Gawd make me willin'. He'p
me make this place like Maw'd love to see hit. Gawd,
he'p me."

CHAPTER XXXII

DAVE PLANS

A STEP outside the door among the weeds — a dog's
joyous bark — a shadow stretching across the sunlit space
to her feet — and strong arms were around Lury, and warm
lips pressed to hers. Her heart stopped beating for an
instant, and she caught her breath as if she had suddenly
been lifted above overwhelming waves that had beat on
her, and even as the arms of the drowning cling to one who
brings rescue, so her arms clung to David Turpin.

'*0h, Dave, Dave ! Ye be livin' ! '' was all she could say.
She felt herself drawn away from the dead, and that time
past and gone, and held fast in the arms of life itself, —
caught up in the full, throbbing joy of Hfe and love.

*'I be livin', Lury. I done come out o' the grave to ye."
Indeed it was to them both a resurrection. "Had ye give
me up, Lury?"

"I were jes' standin' here, askin' Gawd to make me
willin' fer His will to be, — but I couldn't make hit seem
Gawd's will fer ye to die, no way. I were thinkin' 'bout
ye, Dave, and when ye stepped on the path out yon', hit
seemed like ye had come to life out o' my heart, — I were
thinkin' about ye so."

"What ye reckon I be'n doin' all this time, Lury? Jes'
thinkin' 'bouts you, an' tryin' to make ready to be yer ol'

348 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

man, — if so be I were let live." He held her close as he
talked, and swayed a httle, rhythmically, as if the music of
joy within him throbbed a measured cadence. ^'Yas, I
were let live — I were let live, Lury."

"How come hit?"

"They Tarnt they had made a mistake, that's how come
hit."

"An^ Dave — you neveh done hit?"

Dave laughed happily. "An' you made sich a mistake,
too? Lury, ye stood thar on the stand, an' I heard ye
sw'ar ye know'd I neveh done hit — an' if ye thought I did,
ye damned yer soul fer me ? " His voice broke, and he held
her head clasped to his breast, stroking her hair with trem-
bling hand.

"I would 'a' damned my soul to hell fer ye, Dave; hit
were all I could do. I would 'a' laid thar and 'lowed that
thar whole jury to tromp oveh me fer to save ye, Dave,
I would."

Dave could not speak for a moment, for the choking of
his breath, as his heart throbbed and pounded. "She
would 'a' done hit. She would," he repeated.

"Yas, Dave, I would."

"An' thar I weren't worth hit. No man livin' on earth be
worth the like o' that."

"You be, Dave."

"Come out in the sun, whar the air's clean from all 'at
has been. You and me has words to say to each otheh."
So they went out in the sun, and found Dave's mule and
the horse Lury had ridden up the mountain, browsing
quietly together among the weeds.

Dave stroked the mule's side as they passed. "He do

DAVE PLANS 349

love comp'ny, that mule. He hollered fer his mate all
way up th' mountain. They hain't so much dififunt f'om
folks, be they?"

"I don't guess they be. What's come of Jim an' Ellen
an' Joe, ye reckon? Eve'y thing be tore up, an' all gone
to wonst ; I neveh heard o' sich as that."

Dave stood still, as if he had not before noticed his
surroundings, or anything but Lury. All else seemed in-
different to him. He did not let her away from his side,
but held her as they moved with his arm about her. Now,
as he took in at a glance all the evidences of haste and sudden
flight, a smile slowly dawned on his face, a twisted, grim, dis-
figuring smile that made Lury recoil.

*' Don't, Dave." He looked down in her face, and the
smile changed. ^' How about hit, Dave? What's come to
'em ? I'd hate hit fer 'em to come here now and see we-uns.
I feel hke her eyes on me now would smut my soul."

*'I reckon I know what's come to 'em. They hev beared
I be sot free, that's what's come to 'em." Lury shrank
from him, thrilled by the smothered anger in his tone.
''Thar, Lury, don't leave me. Stan' close. Ye've saved
me from sin this day."

''What did you come up here for, Dave? I thought hit
were to find me."

"Naw, Lury. I stopped first to th' Settlement to find
you, an' Miz Graves say you had rode up th' mountain fer
th' hull day. Then I come up here to cl'ar out a nest o'
skunks. I reckon they beared me holler an' shout, comin' up
the mountain, an' cl'ared therselves out."

''Oh, Dave, leave sich as that be."

"If I hadn't found you here, I'd 'a' foUered 'em cl'ar into

350 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

kingdom come an' a bit further, an' I reckon Ellen knowed
what was comin' to 'er."

^'Dave, now all is past, and you free, neveh you stain your
soul tryin' to git back on 'em. Leave 'em be."

''Yas, hit would be a stain, shore 'nough, to hev Ellen
Furman's blood on me. I'd rutheh hit'd be cleaner'n hers
what I stains my soul weth, an' she be a woman, too. I
don't guess I could shoot a woman. An' here you be so
peart an' putty, hit be a shame to speak yore name an' hern
in the same breath. They done us right well cl'ar'n' out
like they done, an' they won't neveh come back, neitheh."

Dave had grown voluble with his happiness. The dog
stood looking up at them, wagging his tail and giving short,
happy barks. He stooped and patted his head. **You be
happy too. Clip. You knows a heap."

"He foller me eve'ywhar I go. Ef I lock 'im up, he git
out an' foller."

" Clip an' me we be two of a kind. They done locked me
up, an' I git out an' foller. Hev ye got thet paper I sont
ye by Sim Arlin'ton ? Hev ye got hit, Lury ? "

"Miz Basle have hit keepin' fer ye."

"Why'd you eveh leave hit out'n yer han', Lury?"

''Hit's safe, Dave." Lury laughed happily.

"Le's we go back thar now an' git hit. I has use fer hit
this day. How about hit, Lury ? "

"Hit's yourn, Dave. Hit weren't no use to me." With
the mention of the license, Lury's thoughts turned to
practical matters. "Dave, will ye carry that bundle o'
things they have left into the house for me ? I reckon hit
may rain. What-all they have left hit there for I cain't see.
They took the bed-cord, an' left this out here, an' the hawg

DAVE PLANS 351

is squealin' in her pen like to perish. You reckon they
'lowed to come back fer the hawg?"

Dave hurried about, doing as she asked, while she closed
the house door and the shutters. Then he returned and
lifted her on her horse, buoyantly happy and still voluble.
^'Come back nothin'. They don't keer ef she perish o'
hunger. They done took her leetle pigs, an' she's a-
squealin' fer 'em. She got 'nough to eat fer now. I'll be
back to see to 'er an' do all."

Then he began to plan how he would leave her with the
widow until he had set things to rights about the place.
She was never going to live there in the old way. She
should have things as they ought to be. He would put
windows in the house and paint it, and she should have a
posy garden around the door. He would plow it for her,
and now was the time to plant the seed. She should plant
what she hked. So, as they rode down to the Settlement,
many things were talked over. She told him how she had
kept the money he had sent her for him, and what they
would buy with it, and he praised her and told her there
never was such another on the whole mountain, so peart
and good to look at.

He had refrained from telling her of Daniel McE wen's
part in all that had transpired in his own long imprison-
ment, and now in his freedom. He hated to think of Daniel
in prison, and in his heart he bore not the slightest resent-
ment. Daniel had completely won his love and his fealty.
But when at last Lury asked how they came to find out
their mistake, he reluctantly told her all he knew. Then
while she wept, he comforted her.

Then David told her of the attempt Daniel had made

352 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

toward reparation for what he had done. How he had
given them the clue to the gold mine and directions for
working it. Also how he had recommended that they live in
his cabin and go no more to the Cove. Then, while Lury
rode thoughtfully at his side, Dave told her how he meant
to run the still as it had never been run before. How
profitable it might be made, if it were done right. He
seemed to have no idea of changing his life in that respect,
as if the business had had nothing to do with the disaster
and degradation that had been. Still in his eyes the busi-
ness was honorable, and the law of no value, unjust and to
be set one side. His experience of unjust imprisonment had
done nothing to make him respect courts of justice. The
word had no meaning to him.

Nor did it seem to occur to him that he should ask
Lury's advice in the matter. She was to be his ol' woman.
He would always be good to her. He would do things
to please her and make her happy. It should be the aim of
his life to "do for Lury, and make over her." But it never
occurred to him that she should have any option in the
matter, nor any jurisdiction as to the course of their joint
lives ; nor that, as this place was after all hers, she should
say something about the management of it. Vaguely
she felt this, as he talked and she pondered. Things were
not to be as she had planned, when she sat her horse that
morning and looked over the old orchard, and thought of
the good and wholesome things she intended to do with it.
Then she had feared that she and Dave would never be
together. She was trying to adjust herself to life alone.
But it broke her heart to think why it must be alone,
and all the solace she had then was in those plans and how she

DAVE PLANS 353

would carry them out. Now they were all swept out of her
grasp, and by the one in all the world she would give her
very soul for. Mysteriously she suffered as she listened
to his talk, and yet she did not know why, in the very midst
of her overwhelming happiness, she should suffer.

That something was wrong she felt. She loved his
masterfulness and could lean upon it. She had been alone
in her life, and necessarily had had to plan and take the
initiative, and often she vaguely longed for stronger arms
and a stronger will to rest in, even as women do. Now they
had come to her and taken her and enveloped her, and
something was wrong. The birds around her sang wildly,
joyously, and when she looked up at Dave, she smiled, and
he smiled back at her, content and happy. So they rode
back to the home of the widow, and the license was brought
out, and they sat together on the doorstep and read it,
and laughed joyously to think how Dave had stated her
age more than it was, and then had had to wait for her
to reach that age before he could marry her, after all.

It was better so. She realized it now. How young and
ignorant she was then ! And still, how young and ignorant
she was ! but this she did not know. Honey-Son sat on
Dave's knee, and Dave laughed merrily when he learned
his name from the child's lips. ^'Dan'1-Cloud-Honey-Son-
Bab."

He laughed again as the thought grew on him. '^Lee
Bab's son named Dan'l Cloud. You be peart, Lury.'*

"I don't keer. He hev a right to a good name, an' he's
goin' to be brung up good, too."

"He be. We'll bring 'im up like he'd ought to be.
We'll school 'im." Dave certainly meant right but he was

354 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

going to run a moonshine still to do it. He had not the
slightest idea of the real danger to himself. The psycho-
logical evil of the influence on himself of always being in a
business involving secrecy and law-breaking was far indeed
from his comprehension. Yet, already it had begun its
work. When the widow asked him what he meant to do
now for a living, and why he did not live at the Settlement,
he made excuses and held his secret in his own heart,
knowing well she would oppose him as being in a dangerous
business. He glanced from time to time in Lury's face,
but she did not betray him.

Thus she lost the lesson and help she would have had
from the good old woman. Already her lot was thrown in
with Dave's, and already she was taking the woman's part
of shielding him and siding with him outwardly, if not in
her heart. She even began to contrive in her mind a way
to carry out her own plans, circumventing Dave's, innocently
uncomprehending the fact that in so doing she was begin-
ning a course of disloyalty to her husband. She began by
telling the widow how they would do the things she had
thought out and had learned in school, and Dave, listening,
thought them clever. He thought also that they would be
the best kind of a blind for his own business. No, Lury
could never alter his determination of going on with the
still by so excellent a way of aiding him. She did not
even know yet that she wanted to do that, yet there was
something about it that was not to her liking.

CHAPTER XXXIII

Daniel's gift

Daniel arrived in the place where he was allotted to
spend the rest of his days, and sat there thinking, as he told
the widow Basle he would, of Lury, of his old love, of the
long past and of the lonely, empty future. It seemed to
him that the daughter of his lost love should belong to him,
and that if he were doomed to live apart from her, he might
still have an interest in her life, and perhaps, from the
prison cell, he could watch over her welfare and make her
way smooth, and the thought brought him comfort.

During his isolated life he had made few friends in spite
of his natural geniality, but the few were loyal, and from
time to time one or another would visit him. Thus it
came about that Richard Hadley entered his cell one day
as he sat thinking of Lury and the way he might serve her.

^'Wall, I reckoned ye mount come some day, and I be
glad to see ye." Daniel rose and extended his hand. His
face had lost its tan, and his pallor and closely cropped hair
so changed his appearance that his caller was taken aback
and scarcely knew what to say for an instant. He per-
ceived his friend's embarrassment, and his old, derisive
smile played around his lips for a moment, as he lifted his
hand to his head as though he were putting back the lock
that used to sweep his brow. ^'Gov'nment hev be'n
makin' me right good-lookin', accordin' to ther taste, on'ly

356 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

they hev got these stripes runnin' th' wrong way to please
me/' he said, whimsically glancing down at his long lean
figure in its striped convict's suit.

^'I see. It's a beastly shame, McEwen."

** Hit's regular. Ef a man do what gits 'im here, he got
to take what's comin' to 'im. I see you lookin' well, sir."

*'I am. I came to see if there is anything we can do for
you. Sorry I couldn't get here any sooner."

*' Thank ye, thank ye. Soon or late be much the same
here. Hit's right friendly in ye to come any time. I were
jes' thinkin' 'at I'd like to see you of all men abouts now."

^^Good. Something I can do for you?"

*'I reckon th' be. I mount as well explain a leetle,
sence they mount be a reason later on fer ye to know, 'at
I hev one as had ought to 'a' belonged to me, to keer fer.
You knows betteh'n any one what my circumstances be,
fer I be'n bankin' weth ye, all I has. I'm feared she be
goin' to hev trouble 'bouts her place — the place she think
belong to her. I reckon, as things stand, hit don't rightly
belong to 'er, an' I want to git 'holt of hit an' fix things
so 't hit will be hern, rightfully and legally."

^' I see. Is there any one else to lay claim to it ? " Richard
Hadley paused a moment and then asked : ^'May I inquire
who she is?"

" Sartain, sartain." Daniel regarded his friend a moment
keenly, then continued : ^' She be the daughter of the woman
'at were stole from me — of her as I have spent my whole
life grievin' fer — an' lovin'. She be Lury Bab. I'm
feared the Furmans has some rights in the place whar she
an' Dave be livin', an' I want you to look up the title deeds
o' that place and hev th' boundaries fixed."

DANIEL'S GIFT 357

"Hit's a heap betteh she don't know she mount lose hit
ontwel all's done, fer hit'd disturb 'er mind an' contentment
some, an' weth yore help I kin set here an' watch oveh 'er,
an' see 'at she be done squar' by. I tole Dave he mount
have my place top o' ol' Abe, but seem like they think dif-
'unt. Th' be a heap o' back taxes on th' ol' Bab place to
pay up, I reckon. Ef you'll get eve'ything straight, and hev
yorese'f appinted guardeen to her leetle brother, so 't ye c'n
git th' hull property in yore name an' pay all debts, I'll thank
ye, and I'll pay all th' is to pay, an' then turn th' hull thing
oveh to her an' th' boy, legally, so 't she neveh will hev
trouble. I reckon ye c'n do this on th' quiet-like, cain't ye ? "

"I don't believe there's a paper or a deed to be found.
They have been such an ignorant lot, and Bab probably
had no papers, or if he had, very likely the Furmans have
them now. I take it if they thought they had any legal
claim to things there, they would be very glad to sell out
and make what they can out of it, for they never would
dare go back there and face Dave."

"That's my idee. As long as they think they mount
have rights in the place, they'd never leave 'er be. Ef ye
could leave 'em know they do hev rights thar, an' then buy
up them rights, I reckon they'd sell quick, ef fer no otheh
reason than to spite Lury an' Dave. I know the hull
crowd. They be alluz keen to do spite work. Bes' thing
be to leave 'em do hit. The Cove be a right smaht of a
place, an' good land, too, an' Lury'd grieve to lose hit."
How did Bab ever come to own it, anyway?"
He come by hit th'ough Sally Cloud. Her paw owned
hit, an' he moved away an' let hit, an' fer years hit
were worked by Bab's fatheh, an' they located th' still

358 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

thar; an' so, when he married Sally he jes' natch'ly took
all."

"Well, then I don't see but what it is Lury's, after all."
"I reckon so, but laws is quare. Her mother's prop'ty'd
go to Bab, an' his prop'ty'd go to his kin. Talk 'bouts
jestice! I hev I'arnt 'at law be one thing, an' jestice be
anotheh. To git jestice, a heap o' times we has to git
'round th' law. Thet's hu-come I be here. Legally I
belong here, but accordin' to jestice I belong up on 01'
Abe, watchin' th' eagles."

"Well, I'll see what I can do, and no doubt I'll succeed."
Thus Daniel, sitting in his prison, still had an interest in
life. Lury knew nothing of the difficulty likely to arise
against her peaceable occupation of the property which her
mother had brought to Lee Bab until Richard Hadley
rode up to her door one day, and placed in her hand the
papers which gave her uncontrolled right to the property.
Then, when she learned that Daniel McEwen had redeemed
it and saved it to her and her little brother, thus protecting
them from endless litigation and trouble, she wept. She
believed it was Daniel's way of making up for the long year
and a half of imprisonment which Dave had borne for him.
"I wish Dan'l M'Cune were settin' up yon' on his moun-
tain," she said sadly, holding the papers in her hand, but
not fully realizing their value to her and her husband.
Then she lifted her beautiful eyes and looked in Richard
Hadley's. "I reckon these have cost some money?" she
asked.

"Why, yes. He had to buy up the Furmans' interest
in the place. He knew the law would not give it to you,
but to Lee Bab's kinfolks."

DANIEL'S GIFT 359

''An' I hadn't no rights here?"

"Legally, only partial rights; it belonged to them after
Lee Bab's death."

''An' I done them a wrong?"

"Not knowingly. By rights, it should have been yours,
but legally it was not. It came to Lee Bab through your
mother. It should have gone to you and your brother, and
to no one else."

"An' they have been right paid fer hit?"

"They have. Not only paid right, but paid liberally
for all the legal right they could claim, so you need give
yourself no uneasiness on their account."

She stood a long moment thinking before she spoke
again. Then a faint red stole into her cheek, and her eyes
looked up at him wistfully. "You reckon Gawd 'low
maw to know how we gittin' this f'om her, Uke? Who
have paid the money fer this? Hit were Dan'l's money,
Hkely?"

"Yes, he paid the money for it." Richard felt the spell
of her peculiar beauty, a spiritual charm hard to define.
He sympathized with Bob Kitchel, and did not wonder that
he had been swung out of his old conventions by it, and
been willing to take her for better or worse. Now she had
become the wife of a moonshiner and a man who might
any day be sent on the chain gang for law-breaking. He
felt he ought to drop a word now while the chance was
open to him.

"Where's Dave to-day?"

"He be down the mountain, likely to Woodville."

"He goes pretty regularly, does he?"

She looked off in the old way, withdrawn, inscrutable.

36o A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

^'He works 'round home a heap. He rais'n' things on the
place."

"Yes, but he goes on with the still, I am told."

She looked up quickly, defiantly. Then the banker's
kindly smile disarmed her reserve, and the tears filled
her eyes. ''I cain't he'p hit," she said.

"It's not a good business. He ought to have taken
Daniel's advice."

"I do a heap o' thinkin', but — some day I reckon he'll
change. He's makin' good money, an' he say this 'n is
his, an' some day, Hkely, Dan'l M'Cune'll git his pardon,
an' thar the mine'll be like hit were when he lef hit."

"Dave is wrong, Lury. This is not his; it has been
made yours. It is now absolutely yours."

"You tell me all 'at belongs to a woman goes to her ol'
man."

"Well, while you live, it's yours."

"Dave have the money, an' he'll pay all they is to pay
fer this. Will ye thank Dan'l M'Cune fer hit? Thank
ye. Ye have been right good."

"Don't let Dave pay for it."

"Dave have the money. I cain't pay fer hit."

"Don't pay for it. Daniel McEwen has a right to do it,
and it makes him happy, — far happier than if you were
to pay him. Can't you let him have that pleasure?"

"I reckon so, — leastways he be like he were our own
kin, — an' betteh'n a heap o' kinfolks."

"That's right. Stick to that. Let him feel that you
and he are the same as kinfolks, and let him do it. It will
do him good."

"I will, ef Dave say so. Thank ye."

DANIEL'S GIFT 361

Richard Hadley rode away with many misgivings, and
looked back, as he turned to take the path around the
boulder which hid the house so effectually from the road
across the ford. Lury stood gazing after him, drooping a
little, and she smiled back at him and waved her hand to
him, but the smile was wistful. After he was gone, she
walked slowly and thoughtfully into the house and care-
fully read the papers.

She could not make much out of them, but she saw that
her name was there more than once, and her mother's,
and that now all belonged to her. Dave's name was not
there except where she was mentioned as his wife. She
was sorry. They ought not to have left Dave out, since
he was her ol' man. There it was: "Wife of David Tur-
pin," but it was her property and her brother's, and not his,
that she could see. With a little sense of shame, she laid
the papers away in a secret place, and when David returned,
she did not show them to him, but she told him about them.

Strange to say, he did not seem to care that the place
was hereafter hers and not his. That they had come so
near not having it at all was what impressed him most.
He muttered a curse when he learned that legally it had
belonged more to the Furmans than to them. He merely
accepted the usual understanding of marital rights as being
vested in the man, and told Lury he had been a dumb
fool not to have looked after the matter himself before
that.

*'I mount 'a' know'd hit were thern. An' ef they hadn't
been so plumb skeered, they mount 'a' knowed hit, too.
They mount 'a' turned we-uns out o' here long ago, ef they
weren't plumb fools."

362 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"Mr. Hadley say they have got all 'at were thern by
rights now, an' I be glad we're shet of 'em."

"I reckon I'd ought to make a trip to Raleigh an' see
Dan'l M'Cune fer this. I got money to pay him."

Now, at this, something clutched Lury's heart. She had
thought deeply since the banker left her, and she wanted it
to stay as it was. There were reasons why.

"Mr. Hadley say betteh leave hit be now, fer Dan'l
M'Cune be like he were kin to we-uns, and hit do him good
to do hit."

"I don't 'low no man to gin me prop'ty 'thout I pay
'im fer hit."

They sat in the doorway, and Dave's arm was around
her, for he loved to "make oveh her." He kissed her, and
she felt again the sense of shame ; and still, something told
her it was better to leave the matter as Daniel had left it.

"Mr. Hadley say hit'd be a pity an' a shame to take
Dan'l's happiness from him by not 'lowin' him do hit.
If eveh he git his pardon, we c'n pay him back, see?"
They had begun now to talk of a pardon for Daniel with
assurance. It was a thing mooted on the mountain-side,
and Richard Hadley had undertaken to represent the
mountain people in the matter. He had determined on
his own account to get it, when there was a chance to bring
self-interest to bear on the governor, as the surest way of
gaining the point. Yet things moved slowly. But the
time would be sure to come, with the revolution of the
political wheel, when a pardon must be granted to secure
the mountain vote. Such things had been known.

CHAPTER XXXIV

LOVE OR DUTY

Lury's talk with the banker had left her uneasy and
troubled. She had not felt secure since her marriage.
She thought often over the sermon of Preacher Price, and
what he had said about "putting the bottle to his neigh-
bor's lips." Surely this was what Dave was doing all the
time. He insisted it was the right of the men to have it,
and he had a right to sell it, and the law could not stop him.
Then he was always talking about the cave, with its store
of liquor and all the money it would bring them yet, even
if he never made a bit more and closed the still for good.

The more she thought it over, the more she realized
the enormity of their offense ethically. Dave's arguments
gradually seemed less and less conclusive. Had not all
her life long been one rebellion against her father's drunken-
ness? What if Dave should take to drinking! What if
Danny should grow up to be like his father ! Danny had
such a gay, joyous nature. He had no more sense of right
and wrong than the birds of the air. He went and came
as he pleased, and was only moved to obey her by an appeal
to his affection for her. No other motive seemed to touch
him. He would do as he would. He would follow Dave
to the still and insist on riding down the mountain with
him, and even Dave had no control over the child.

Lury complained that Dave spoiled him, yet so tenderly
she loved them both that they ruled her, a pair of despots.

364 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

It remained to be seen whether she would be able to over-
rule David, when she became convinced that she herself
must take action against him, or see him fall. It was not
his arrest she feared, but that he himself might go
wrong. Day after day she fought out the battle alone.
She longed to take the question to the sisters, or weep
out her troubles on the bosom of the widow Basle, but
she would not say a word against Dave even to the widow,
much less to those who had seemed never to approve of
her marrying Dave.

It was a matter she must deal with by herself, and as she
became more convinced of the iniquity of Dave's course,
even if he himself did not touch it, she grew more tender
of him and more eager to hold him close to her heart. She
felt herself weak as water, when she tried to take a stand
against him. Still, for all the strife within her, a larger
grasp of the whole question came to her. If it were terrible
to think of Danny's ever becoming a drunkard, what must
the reaHty be to others? And even if men had the right
to buy Hquor and drink, as Dave said they had, did that
make it right for him to provide it for them ?

There was Jenny Deal. She had married Sim Arlington.
She knew he would drink sometimes, but she thought he
would stop when he was married. He had promised her
he would ; but he was not stopping. He was rioting and
making his good old mother unhappy. He was often in
jail for disturbing the peace. He got his Hquor from Dave.
She knew he did. Jenny had even cHmbed away up to
the Cove to beg Lury not to let Dave sell Sim liquor, and
Dave swore he would not. Still Sim got it, and however
he came by it, it was Dave's liquor.

LOVE OR DUTY 365

One evening David came home elated and rollicking with
joy. He leaped from the wagon and came bounding in
where Lury bent over the fireplace, with Danny astride his
shoulder, driving him and shouting ''Gee haw." Lury
lifted a flushed face to him, and he dropped the boy and
caught her in his arms and kissed her.

^'My ol' woman," he said exuberantly. She was used
to these outbursts and only smiled indulgently as she
turned again to her cooking. He had been gone two days,
and she had been alone with her thoughts, and her eyes
had a wistful sadness in them as she moved about the room
from fireplace to table and back.

^'Take Danny out an' wash up, Dave ; I be ready fer ye
to eat." He thought her weary manner was because she
had been alone those two days, and he said nothing more,
but obeyed.

When he returned from the spring, he watched her cov-
ertly, as he laughingly described his trip. He had a reason
for his gayety. It always elated him when he had eluded
the officers by some clever trick. He rose triumphant to
the occasion and was always a little hurt if Lury did not
laugh with him. To-night she was unusually grave, but
very gentle and sweet. He had seen her mother go about
so in the old days, and the look touched his heart, but he
rebelled against it. Had he done anything to make her
look hke that? Not he. So he rollicked and laughed the
more and told a merry tale of how the sheriff in Plainsville
had got Danny off by himself to make him tell what they
carried in their wagon, and Danny would only say, to each
cunningly put question, ''Honey." And how, sure enough,
when they came to search, they found only honey in the

366 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

jugs, for he had found a bee-tree the night before, on his
way down, and had sold his full load of liquor the first day.
Then he had returned half-way up the mountain and had
robbed the tree, and filled the empty jugs with honey, and
had toted them back over the route where he knew the
officers were lying in wait for him, and had left the child
in the wagon while he made a pretense of sneaking one jug
into a house. And thus, after luring them on to follow
him, they found, to his delight and their own discomfiture,
that he had only taken a present of honey to the woman.

"I declar, hit putty nigh ruined 'em. Noth'n' make 'em
so mad as to foller me up an' find I be straight. They
s'arched an' they smelt all them jugs, an' they sniffed at the
corks, an' me stan'in' laughin' at 'em. I said: ^Look a
here, you fellers ; you smellin' at my clean jugs o' honey,
an' yore breaths so full o' licker ye cain' tell honey f'om
still slop. Ef ye fin' ary tast o' licker in one o' them jugs,
I'll make ye a present o' hit.' I had left them jugs in Rock
Creek half th' night, 'fore I put th' honey in 'em, whar the
water jes' natch'ly poured oveh 'em an' in 'em, and them
corks were all new, — hadn't be'n used fer nothin', — an'
thar I drove off, an' lef 'em thar, cl'ar plumb ruined."

He watched for approval in Lury's smile, but knew she
withheld it, although she came and slipped her arm about
his neck and rubbed her soft cheek against his.

"How about we havin' some o' that honey weth this
'er hot brade? I kep' one jug fer you, Hon' ; I jes' love
to git th' officers follerin' me, an' make out I be dodgin'
'em, an' thar I were layin' low fer 'em weth a load o' honey."

"Dave, I'm skeered they'll neveh stop ontwel they do
catch ye. I wisht ye were in some good work, Dave."

LOVE OR DUTY 367

"Aw, Lury, set an* eat, an' quit thinkin' on sech es thet.
I hain't goin' to 'low 'em ketch me. I think too much o'
you to 'low 'em git holt o' me. Ef they should ketch me,
I got money to bail out an' come back home to you. I
carry 'nough fer a fee next my skin, ev'y time I go down
mountain."

Now this statement surprised Lury. It only assured
her that there was the danger she feared, and that he knew
it. She was not comforted by his happy nonchalance.
After supper, she went out where he was working around
the stables, and stood watching and talking a little. He
never would allow her to do the out-of-doors work when he
was there, as many of the women did. He was proud also
of the fact that things were changed all about the place, as
he had said they should be. There were windows of glass
where once were only wooden shutters. The cabin had been
newly roofed and painted. He had made a garden for her
also, as he had promised, and flowers and vegetables were
growing, where before were rank weeds.

He Hked to have her follow him about thus, and all the
time he kept up his cheerful boasting of how he could keep
out of trouble and make good money every trip. Lury
was more silent than usual this evening, although she
laughed when he wanted her to, and smiled when he passed
her carrying feed to the stock, and went with him down to
the stream when he watered the mules, leading one of them,
while he led the other and held Danny on his back for a
ride.

"Look at him sittin' up thar. He look no bigger 'n a
skeeter. Don't kick the pore mule, son; ye mount hurt
'im er skeer 'im one," he said, as the small chap kicked his

368 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

little bare heels against the unheeding big mule's sides.
*'See that long ear o' his'n pint'n' back to'ds ye? He
plumb skeered at ye."

All this time Lury was trying to gather courage to oppose
Dave. When he was with her, she felt weak ; but when he
was away, she was made strong by her love for him. A
battle royal was going on in her own heart, and she was
growing afraid of herself, lest she should not have the force
and courage to win. As the dusk gathered around them,
and Danny was sleeping, and they sat together in their
doorway, Lury at last crept close to Dave, and drew his
head down on her breast and held it there, close and fast.

^'I be'n thinkin' a heap, Dave," she said.

^' I know ye hev, Hon. I reckon ye' betteh quit thinkin',
Lury. Hit's no good you settin' here an' thinkin' like
you do. I made a good pile o' money this trip, an' you
know what? I goin' to git ye a cook-stove, so 't ye won't
spile yer putty face stoopin' in th' heat cookin' fer yer ol'
man."

"Don't, Dave. Ye make hit hard fer me to tell ye what-
all I got to tell. I goin' to do some'p'n 'at'll make ye
awful mad, Dave."

"Now jes' hear at her talkin'. Thet's Lury talkin'.
How about it now, makin' Dave mad? Ye reckon ye
kin?"

"Dave, I want ye to quit stillin'. I wisht you'd go up
an' work thet gold mine Dan'l M'Cune give ye."

David raised his head and felt in his trousers pocket and
drew out a packet of money and laid it in her lap. "Hit's
all youm. You jes' think what I done yestiday an' to-day.
Fifty dollars took in one trip, an' hain't all paid in yit.

LOVE OR DUTY 369

Th' be mo' comin'. Why, Lury, I couldn' make all thet
workin' mine."

'^I hearn Dan'l be right rich/*

"Dan'l knowed how to lay by."

*^So do we, Dave. I learnt that long ago." She rolled
the money together without counting it and placed it back
in his pocket. *' You keep hit, Dave. I don't need hit, an'
time may come when you will." Her lips were set in the
thin, straight line, and her head was lifted. *'How much
have ye now, Dave ? "

"I don't guess I know, — hevn't counted lately. You
knows we used the money M'Cune give me fer th' mules
on the house here, an' I were 'lowin' to git a new worm fer
th' still, fer th' ol' one be'n cut up some."

''Dan'l M'Cune be'n that kind, givin' us Bess an' th*
cow. I wisht I could see 'im. I'd love to talk to 'im. I
reckon he'd feel right bad ef he know'd ye were runnin*
paw's ol' still. I know you'll be took yet, Dave, an' I
hate to set here thinkin' all day whilst ye be gone 'at maybe
ye'U not come back."

It was dusk, and Dave peered into Lury's face but could
not see the set look in her eyes. He slipped his arm around
her and drew her close. ''Dave'll always came back to ye,
Lury. Neveh you set an' think sich as that. I'll leave
Danny weth ye afteh this, even ef he do screech an' holler."

''I wisht ye would leave 'im. I don't like fer 'im to be
down along weth ye when ye be licker sellin' an' them
drinkin'. All them as drinks licker goes to th' bad, an'
seem Uke them as sells hit mount go to th' bad, too. Look
at Sim. He no good now."

''Lury, you think I'd break my promise to you?'* Dave's

370 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

voice was hurt, and he removed his arm. *'I haven't give
'er sold Sim one drap o' licker sence I toF ye I wouldn't."

"I know ye hain't, Dave. I know ye wouldn't, but you
totes hit down mountain."

** Well, — you want I sh'd git some one else to tote fer me?
I kin."

*'0h, Dave! Dave! I don't keer who totes hit. I'd
as leave ye 'd tote hit as make hit. I be'n thinkin', Dave."

*'Nex' time I go down mountain, I be goin' to tote you
weth me. I hain't goin' to 'low ye set here an' think. I
be right mean to ye,Lury, leavin' ye be here alone, thinkin'."
He took her again in his arms and comforted her tenderly.

"Hit isn't fer me I'm thinkin', Dave." She choked a
little and said no more. It was so impossible for her to
make him see it as she did, or to understand what had so
vaguely come to her. And yet now that she was living on
the old place where she and her mother had suffered and
striven blindly with evil, — now that she had begun to
have aspirations, and to know the truly lovely things of
life, even though her condition was immeasurably different
from the conditions of the past, — now that her imagination
had begun to picture what might be, the long vista of the
years opened before her, and it seemed as if she were looking
along two paths diverging into the future, gradually leaving
the happy moment of the present far behind, one plunging
into the same old life of degradation and horror, — how
horrible only she could know, — and the other rising into
the pure heights of the happiness she was now able to dream
about, because of her awakened and enlightened percep-
tions. Now — she knew the way she must inevitably take.

Dave must not soothe her into a feeling of security.

i

LOVE OR DUTY 371

There was no security as long as he continued in this
business. She must make him understand and see what
she saw ; or if she could not do this, she must take the right
road herself, even if she had to walk it alone in sorrow and
tears. If the place were hers, she would be to blame if
she were weak and allowed him to use it for wrong purposes,
even if he could not understand. She must love him so that
she could bear to hurt him. She wanted to go out and
demoUsh the still and pour all the liquor in those jugs into
the stream, and yet she knew that to force her way on him
would never be the same as if he did of himself the right
thing ; but something she must do. Oh, she must — she
must!

^'When be you goin* down mountain again, Dave?"

^'I don't 'low to go ontwel some o' them fellers down
thar quit smellin' a'ter Hcker in honey jugs," he laughed.

"They neveh will quit, Dave. Hit's agin the law, what
you doin'."

"Law no thin'. What do I keer fer th' law. Law kill
good folks er lock 'em up fer life, an' leave bad folks live
an' go free."

Now Lury thought she knew that this was so, and she
had nothing to say, and yet she was sure there was a fallacy
somewhere. There must be laws, and bad people must be
punished. She felt the futility of argument with Dave,
and she was not angry with him for differing with her,
and he was so strong and assured that it was a comfort
to lay her head on his breast and feel his arm around her.
She put up her hand and touched his cheek. The dusk was
close to them now, and the stars looked down on them.
The scent of locust blossoms sifted through the air, honey

372 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

sweet. Within the house Danny slept, and the air was so
still Lury could hear his soft breathing.

^'What you thinkin' now, Lury? I know ye thinkin'
something."

**I were thinkin' how happy I be weth you — jes' you
an' Danny. Ef anything come to you, Dave — any bad
thing — I — I'd die."

''Hain't any bad thing comin' to me. Quit thinkin' sech
es thet. Look a here, Lury. Th' hain't anything on
earth I wouldn't do fer you. I'll take keer o' myse'f fer
you more 'n I would fer myse'f."

"Dave — " A sudden idea came to her. ''Dave, would
you 'low me do anything I pleased? Would you love fer
me to? You say you 'd do a heap fer me — but would
you 'low me to do? Would ye, Dave?"

"I'd 'low you do anything on earth you please — ef only
ye'd take keer not to hurt Lury. Lury, she's my ol'
woman." He laughed happily and held her closer, and
she laughed also.

"Ye be good, Dave — ye be."

So for the time being Lury's fears were quieted. She
had his promise that she might do whatever she pleased,
and if there was no possibility of her bringing him to see
the iniquity of his business, there was the thing she could
do ; only it would take courage, and no doubt he would be
angry with her. The years that were past had begotten
in her a desperate fear of anger. How often she had seen
it — rage uncontrolled, terrible to meet ! How often she
had fled from it at her gentle mother's side, creeping out
of the house into the darkness as the storm gathered, and
hiding under the laurel on the hillside, lying all night on the

LOVE OR DUTY 373

pine needles curled in her mother's arms, listening to the
drunken riot of Bab and his helpers, and often of those
who had gathered with him to gamble and drink.

Dave was different. Yes, and yet — she had seen
him angry, but that was long ago. How could she, even
for his own good, do anything to anger him ? She shivered
at the thought.

*'Be ye cold, Lury ?" He rose and they went in, and he
closed the door behind them. The old house was a home
now, and Lury was happy in it, — safe and warm and
happy, but still with a brooding anxiety that would not let
her be at peace.

CHAPTER XXXV

dave's awakening

As good as his word, Dave did not leave Lury again for
several weeks. He stayed at home and cultivated his corn
and her little garden patches, and she worked among her
flowers and sang. Sometimes a neighbor came around
the great boulder to the house, and they gossiped, for there
were many mountain people scattered near and far who no
longer avoided the place, now that Lury and Dave had
transformed it into a veritable home.

"I be goin' down mountain, Dave," said Lury, coming out
where he worked, standing waist high among the growing
corn. "Do ye mind?"

"What ye goin' down mountain fer, whilst I be home?
You knows I be skeered to be lef here alone." He grinned,
and then they both laughed. "I'll fetch Bess fer ye.
What ye goin' f er ? " He tossed his hoe aside and crossed
over to her, and Lury stood by while he saddled the
black mule. "She be jes' as fat an' shiny as when Dan'l
keered fer her," said Dave with pride.

"She be," said Lury, with no less pride. "Miz Arl'nton
were here whilst you were mind'n' still yestidy." Lury
paused a moment ; she hated even to mention the still,
but she forced herself to do so. She had quite ceased to
argue with Dave about it, and she tried to mention it
naturally and as a matter of course. Yet her opposition

DAVE'S AWAKENING 375

to it remained unshaken. This he knew, and the unspoken
thought in the mind of each caused a certain restraint
whenever the word was spoken. "Miz Arl'nton say Miss
Peg be home. She come three or four days ago, an' I
hain't seen her for a year. I have lef a right good dinner
fer you an' Danny, hot in th' ashes, kivered up good.
You rake hit out an' eat, an' I'll be back to git supper right
smart."

*' I know ye will, Hon. Take keer o' Lury fer me, will ye,
Bess?" He swung her lightly on to the old, high side-
saddle and gave the mule's sleek hide a resounding slap.
^'What ye got in yer basket?"

"I put in some o' my posies an' leetle tricks to show Miss
Peg what we a-doin' up here." She laughed and then
flushed, and stooping down, she touched Dave's cheek
lightly and rode away, looking back at him, her lovely face
and wonderful eyes glowing from the recesses of her blue
sunbonnet.

Bob Kitchel would have thought all this beauty wasted
on the mountain man, but it was not. No man can stand
still. He must either grow or deteriorate as the days pass,
and Dave, being a healthy-minded, normal young man,
was not deteriorating, in spite of the business he had elected
to follow. The silence Lury had fallen into concerning it
was a wise silence. She had said enough to work in his
spirit like leaven, and he was stirred by the look in her
eyes when they gazed steadily into his, when he knew she
was thinking of him and loving him, and wishing with all
her heart that he would cease doing the thing she hated.

*' Wall, hit be a plumb shame, hit shore be, leavin' her here
mos' ev'y week two days at a time, bein' scared and worrited

376 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

oveh me, thinkin' I mount be ketched, 'er sont to jail. She
shore do think a heap o' me. What you think, Clip?"
The dog stood at his side, making short dashes after her, and
returning to leap up and coax for permission to follow.
*'You want to foller her? Wall, so do I, Clip. You go
on, good dawg. Foller her, ef ye want to," and the dog
dashed after her, passing her and splashing joyously through
the ford ahead of her.

*'Clip, I toF you to stay weth Dave an' Danny," she said
mildly, but he only replied with short, happy barks and ran
on.

Dave stopped hoeing the corn and went out to the still
and started up the fire under a great pot of fermented mash.
He had refrained from doing this before that week, because
of Lury, but since she was not there to be troubled by his
occupation, he set to work eagerly to get as much done as
possible before her return. Yet the leaven in his heart was
working, for he was not happy in the labor. He was silent
and looked grim. He returned to the house and carried
his dinner out to the still and ate it there, he and Danny.

The food was good and well cooked, not like the heavy,
sour, half-cooked bread he had often eaten there in discom-
fort, because he preferred to stay out of hearing of Ellen
Furman's whining voice. It was the first time he had gone
out to the still to eat since he and Lury were married. It
was the first time Lury had ridden away and left him at
home alone also. If she wished to ride to the Settlement, she
went with him, or rode down while he was away. He thought
it strange of her to go down this time, when he was staying
at home just to be with her and not leave her alone. Dave
shook his head dubiously as he sat there, replenishing the

DAVE'S AWAKENING 377

fire from time to time, keeping the mash from scorching
and the fire brisk.

And all the time as he watched the fire, and the fumes
of the boiling mash filled the air around him, the leaven
Lury had lovingly hid in his soul was working. He neither
whistled nor sang, and the smoke of burning pine and the
vapors from the caldron seemed redolent of memories and
visions of the past. As the memories thronged upon him, and
the visions shifted and hovered around the very spot where
he sat, and the hearth where Lury cooked his meals, and the
doorway where they two sat of evenings, the contrasts grew
sharper and bolder between that old time and the present.
He rose and strolled away to the caves, lingering to gaze at
the store of old liquor Lee Bab had made. But the mem-
ories would not be shaken off, and the vision still haunted
him.

His reasons, so plausible, for going on with this work,
seemed all at once to lose their power and to teem with evil
beginnings and evil endings. Bab's old still ! How they
used to sit around it and tell each other tales it was shame-
ful to hear ! How drunken they were ! How stupid and
ignorant ! Why, even in his prison, he had learned to know
that, as he never would had he never been sent there. He
would have gone on and on and married Lury, and they
would have become as those others were, — people set apart
from their fellows because of their ways, and hiding their
money after they had made it because they knew no decent
ways of using it, grovelling in that home like hogs and sleep-
ing in filthy, unmade beds, or crawling out on the corn-
shucks beside the hog-pen to sleep in quiet away from the
whining and quarreling and cursing. And Lury was think-

378 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

ing all these things and trying to keep him back from such
a fate. No wonder her eyes were wistful, and her sweet
lips quivered when she said : "Hit isn't fer me I'm thinkin',
Dave."

He went back to the still and sat under the shed, so
snugly hid among the rocks and behind the vines, and there
he neglected the fire, and the mash burned, and then the
flames went out and ashes gradually covered the glowing
coals. Danny had gone back to the house, contented and
happy, to play with two little hound pups Dave had given
him, until, quite wearied out, he fell asleep beside the door
in Lury's glowing bed of poppies, with the little dogs curled
in his arms. Once only unsightly weeds were in that place,
and the hogs made mud holes in which to wallow.

Dave walked restlessly back to the house and found the
child there, and again the change struck him poignantly.
"He a right putty leetle devil," he said. He paused in the
door and gazed within. The hearth had been rubbed with
white clay, clean and sweet enough to eat therefrom. The
old mahogany bed had been poHshed, and the counterpane
was white as snow and smoothly spread. Soft white cur-
tains waved to and fro in the windows ; the walls had been
whitened; and a brown jug of honeysuckle stood against
the blackened chimney, its white flowers and green vines
trailing down and filling the room with their sweet scent.
Dave went to the cupboard he had built for Lury beside the
chimney and pushed back the curtains hung before it.
There everything was as neat and clean as was the bed and
the hearth.

He reached up to the top shelf, and from behind an old
platter he drew a little painted box that had. belonged to

DAVE'S AWAKENING 379

Sally Cloud, where he knew Lury kept the money he had
given her from time to time. It was full. He counted it
and then drew from his pocket all he had, and rolled it
tightly and packed it in the box with the rest. *'Thar," he
said ; but it did not still his conscience to do this. Money
would not buy her. She did not want the money he made
in his way. And she sat at home, day after day, working,
keeping everything like this — all for him — thinking —
thinking — what was she thinking ?

Now what was she gone down for ? Was it really only to
see Peg ? She had said she was going to do something that
would make him mad. What could it be ? He turned from
the cupboard and looked at the bed and then at the fire-
place, and the tragedy of it all came over him anew. He
knew what she was thinking. She was dreading the future ;
she was remembering the past. She knew the cause of all
the tragedy, and she knew the same cause might bring it
again. One woman alone could not avert it by waiting
and praying, by covering up and denying. It was the evil
thing — the deadly thing — and he was going against her
and keeping on with the old business, the degrading, devil's
brew he was making and selling to get money — and be-
cause he hated the law. Why — why was he doing it ?

The old bitterness of his arrest on a false charge and the
hours of lying there in his cell, waiting for the death to which
he had been sentenced, and the thoughts he had struggled
with then, with curses and hatred in his heart, surged over
him. And even with them in his heart, he looked at the old
bed and the face of the woman who had been all in all to
him, mother — sister — friend — and guardian-angel in one
— who had suffered more, far more, than ever he had been

38o A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

made to suffer, appeared as he had last seen it, pale and still
and sweet, and cold as marble. The spirit that had suffered
and loved was gone, — where ? Waiting, somewhere.
Why had she suffered ? He knew.

With bowed head he walked out of the door and steadily
back to the still. There the fire was out, but the miserable
caldron of mash was still warm, and the smell of it and of
smouldering pine coals still hung in the air.

"I reckon I be'n thinkin', too," said Dave aloud, and the
sound of his own voice in that silent place, where there were
none to hear, roused him from his dream, and he laughed.
Then he lifted his head, and looked up to the top of the great
wall of rock that loomed above that spot where the store of
liquor was kept, and laughed again. Suddenly he was
glad. It seemed as if he had wakened from a bad dream,
and yet it was not a dream. It was only what had been, all
seen at once by an awakened soul.

^'Wall, oF still, I reckon you be done fer." He brought
a shovel and began to cast sand and earth into the fireplace
until it was filled. He packed it down with blows of the
shovel and smoothed it over. Then he covered the great
pot with boards. "Th' hawgs'll git this," he said. Then
he began to tear up the copper worm, ''Wall, I reckon this'll
save me hev'n to git a new one." He smiled and ruggedly
set to work. ''I be goin' to do hit right, whilst I be about
hit," he said, and beat the great hollow worm to a mass of
flattened metal. With rocks as great as he could lift, he
crushed it and tore it apart, and turned the heavy sheets
over and piled them one on another, and still beat them
down.

He worked with a sort of belligerent, joyous fury, like one

DAVE'S AWAKENING 381

who had been a slave, and suddenly set free, was tearing
up and destroying the tokens of his slavery. Then he
turned on the short chimney of mortar and stone and began
to batter it down. It was strongly built, and he worked
until the perspiration streamed down his face, but at last
it was done. He stood a moment gazing at the wreck he
had made, then laughed again.

"Yo're done fer now, oV Bab's still. I done fer ye."
He took up his shovel and swung it over his shoulder, and
rolling his over- alls above his knees, prepared to wade the
stream that flowed under the boulder which had for so many
years securely stood a barrier between Lee Bab and detec-
tion. As he forded the place, he thought that now, as there
was no longer any need for such secrecy, he would make a
bridge there and cultivate the hollow beyond, or do some-
thing with it, hardly knowing what, but reaUzing buoyantly
the freedom of spirit created in him from no longer having
anything to hide.

The sun was dropping below the hills, and the hollow was
in purple shadow, as he waded the ford. Danny came
running to him, and he lifted the child to his shoulder and
bore him in triumph to the house, the small dogs leaping
and scrambling after.

^' Say, Dave. I be hongry."

''Ye be? What ye done weth all that dinner ye et, —
aU thet pie Lury done made ye?"

^' Hit's gone."

"Gone? I reckon hit's gone. Mine be gone, too.
Come on, now ; you git th' fat sticks, an' we'll build th' fire
fer Lury gin she gits home. She'll make supper fer we-uns."
He put Danny down and carried in a great log for the back

382 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

of the fireplace, and arranged the sticks for lighting as
the child brought them to him. ^'That's right. Danny
knows how to he'p, don't ye, son? Now we'll carry Jose-
phine to water, an' git th' stall ready fer Bess, and gin the
mules ther corn, an' when sisteh come, she'll fin' we-all
settin' here waitin' fer 'er."

The little one trotted happily after Dave wherever he
went, as was his wont, and when all was done, they sat
together in the house doorway, until they saw her guiding
Bess around the boulder and across the yard. She rode
bare-headed, and her eyes shone Kke stars. When she
slipped down from the high saddle, she slid into Dave's
arms.

*'What you be'n up to, Dave? Ye look Hke ye be'n up
to some devilment. You kissin' me like ye thought I be'n
gone a year. You be'n up to somethin' ; I c'n see hit in
yer eyes."

^'Oh, I be'n workin' *roun' th' still, gitt'n' things done
whilst ye were gone, so't ye wouldn't grum'le at me." He
grinned, looking down at her, as her face fell. Then she
lifted her eyes to his and smiled proudly.

"I don't guess ye be'n at sich es that. Ye look like ye
seen somethin' good."

^^Wall, I be lookin' at you — sech a ol' woman as you
be — runnin' away whilst yer ol' man be home — Look
'roun' here. Cain't ye make oveh me a leetle?" He took
her by the arm and turned her about as she walked away
from him. ''Be ye tired?"

''No. I don't believe ye be'n stillin'. Ye don't act like
hit."

"Don't act like hit? Wall, you jes* wait till I put Bess

DAVE'S AWAKENING 383

up, an' I'll show ye ef I be'n stillin'. Hit's the biggest day's
work eveh I done 'roun' a still." He led the mule away,
and then returned and took her again by the arm, leading
her with him. ^' Don't go in the house thar ontwel I show
ye." She went with him in silence, bracing herself to say
what she ought to say, but not comprehending his strange
manner, unless he had made some great discovery.

^*I got to git yer supper, Dave."

"Aw, you come weth me hrst," he pled, and when they
came to the ford, he lifted her in his arms and carried her
through. "Neveh do to spile yer putty does," he said.
" Whyn't ye w'ar this putty dress fer Dave oncet in a while."

"I will, Dave. Don't take me out there. I — you
knows what I think."

" Yas, I know's what ye will think, too, when ye see what-
all yer ol' man be'n doin'." He set her feet on the smooth,
sliding rock, well out of the water. ''Take keer, ye mount
slip in. Hit's right slick." He caught her by the arm
again and walked her along eagerly. "Look a thar now,
will ye? Open yer eyes big; that's right. I 'low'd ye
would. Look what I done to th' ol' copper worm? Hit
were hard work doin' that, made me sweat. We'll sell hit
fer ol' copper, an' maybe hit'll bring a leetle."

Lury stood looking at the wreck and complete ruin of the
old still, speechless, white, and silent. Then she turned to
Dave and held out both her arms. "Come, Dave. Come.
I want to git my arms around ye. Dave, I love ye so."
And Dave walked into her arms and sat on the edge of the
still, holding her to his breast until she sobbed herself calm,
clinging to him, her arms locked tight about his neck.

"Thar now, hush, Lury. I thought you'd laugh when ye

384 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

seed this. I neveh reckoned on you bein' so sorry to see
the or still ruin't 'at ye'd cry this-a-way. Now you hush,
an' I'll build hit up again."

^'No ye won't, Dave. Ye be good. Ye be good, Dave.
I love ye, Dave."

"Wall, now you be quare, when I done tore up all I hev
to make ye a livin' weth."

*'I hated hit so, Dave — hid'n' an' sneakin' like we have
to in this 'er hell business. Dave, all the lyin' and the
cussin' and the badness be done forever."

"Done an' buried, Lury. See th' grave I done made fer
hit in th' holler whar the fire war?"

"Dave! I be so glad!"

"Lury, she be quare. When she be glad, she cry fit to
kill. An' when she be sorry, she jes' set an' smile an' smile
— like she don't keer fer nothin'."

"We don't have to care any more, Dave. We can walk
whar we please an' carry our hades like we have nothin'
to hide. I Hke sich es that."

"That's why I done hit. I set here thinkin', knowin'
ye'd be glad. I done ye right mean, goin' agin ye like I
done. My business be gone, but I reckon I c'n think o'
things to do. — Heap o' things to do."

That evening, after Danny was sleeping, they sat late
over the fire, talking of the past and what the future was to
be for them. Lury told Dave about Peg, and the school,
and how many things they were doing there. She said she
was going down every week and keep on learning things.

"What ef ye have quit stillin' ! I know a heap o' ways
we c'n do. Miss Peg, she's having the girls to the school
learn how to raise things, an' keep bees an' git honey to sell.

DAVE'S AWAKENING 385

She 'low'd we c'd do sich as that. I brought up a book all
about hit. You c'n make th' bee gums, an' I c'n look after
'em. I hain't skeered o' bees. You foolin' the officers
weth yer honey — hit made me think o' Miss Peg and her
bee rais'n'."

*'I know two more bee trees I c'n git, an' tote honey in
them jugs ev'y time I go down mountain. Thar's all the
licker in th' cave I c'n sell — 'bouts a thousand dollars be
hid'n there. Ef I sell all that, we'll set up here fine — like
I seen places oveh to'ds Woodville. I'll git red o' that store
o' licker first thing I do."

Lury sat a moment silent, her face set and her eyes look-
ing off into the future. All that liquor yet to be sold. All
to be distributed among people around and below them,
bringing evil into their homes, perhaps death. Her spirit
cried out against it. What could she do ? She sat listless,
remote from him, thinking her own thoughts as she had
done so often since they were married. Dave recognized
the mood and dreaded it.

^' Tired, be ye? I reckon so. Ye betteh git to bed an'
sleep."

''Hain't the' no way ye c'n git red o' that licker in th'
cave ? Cain't ye pour hit out in the branch, er something ? "

"Lury! Be ye crazy? That's — hit's yore inheri-
tance ! Hit's a heap o' money. Cain't th'ow that all
away. Ye betteh git to bed."

Then Lury raised her head and laughed. " You think I
goin' to pitch hit in th' branch to-night? No, Dave. I be
goin' to show ye somethin', an' then, ef ye want to th'ow hit
away, ye kin." She found the little basket she had carried
down on her arm in the morning, and sat beside him with it

386 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

on her knees. ''Look a-here, Dave." She hfted one small
article after another, which had been neatly packed in it.
''I has to sew all these. Miss Peg, she he'p'd me cut them
out. Hain't this sof an' white an' fine? What-all you
reckon this'll be ? "

Dave drew his chair closer to her and stooped over the
soft white things, his cheek against hers, and touched them
gently with his fingers, while she talked on. ''Paw have
be'n sent to jedgment, an' I be goin' to 'low his memory lie
quiet, but you have decided what-all to do weth th' still
paw left, an' I reckon I c'n leave you tend to the rest,
cain't I, Dave ? "

She said no more, and Dave, his cheek against hers, and
his hand lying on the soft white heap of dimity and muslin
in her lap, said softly in her ear the things she wanted to
hear him say.

"Our chil'en's inheritance is goin' to be clean, Lury.
Th' still be ruined an' buried this day, an' to-morrer morning
ev'y drap of thet hell brew'll be runnin' down th' branch,
an' you c'n fill them jugs an kaigs plumb full o' yer honey."
So they sat, her hand in his, over the soft white goods in
Lury's lap, his cheek against hers, the past behind them, and
the light of the long future in their eyes.

CHAPTER XXXVI

DANIEL COMES HOME

A YEAR had passed when Peg returned to the Settlement.
Barney did not care where they made their home, if only
he had his Peg with him. What did it matter, so long as
she found happiness in her daily life? As for him, he must
go hither and thither, anyway, while he made his own way.
Therefore, when she elected to build them a home on a
hilltop, overlooking the long reaches of the low country on
the one side, and the blue hills she so loved on the other,
he gladly consented.

So there Peg built her home and spent the inheritance left her
by her thrifty ancestors in helping and forwarding the work
of the school. She was not without her moments of grate-
fulness to them for this that the world called hers, but her
real joy was in seeing good grow out of it all, and the re-
demption of that little spot of the earth in which she had
chosen to establish her garden of girls.

All summer long the work of her building went on, and the
changing of the raw, unkempt hillside round about into
garden and grassy spaces and hedgerows and fountain, —
and the wild wood behind her into open, or deeply shaded
forest glades, where the dead and worthless things were
cleared away, and the wholesome, growing things were left
to take their own courses toward beauty, imcurbed and fully
developed.

388 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

In Peg's garden of girls the same pruning and clearing
away of dead and worthless things was going on, and the
same conservation of the loveliest and the best, and the
same open way made for beauty of all sorts to grow and
naturally develop.

Elizabeth Graves often said: "All these girls need is to
have the way to God's sunlight and the hilltops of life
cleared and made possible for them, and they will turn to it
as naturally as flowers turn to the sun."

She was mostly right, — at least she was right in her opti-
mism, — and the development of Lury Bab went far toward
proving her theory correct. All that had really been done
for Lury had been to make it possible for her to give un-
boundedly of her love. Through this, she had grown and
blossomed spiritually, and so, in the Almighty's own way,
following the highest yearnings of the heart and finding
them fruitful, she had also led the stumbling feet of David
Turpin out into the open spaces where only hope and aspi-
ration and love lay between him and the sky.

What those great-minded and simple sisters had done
for the Settlement, thus indirectly bringing about the
highest happiness for themselves and Peg, — Lury was
doing for her Httle spot on the mountain-side. It was more
than reading and writing and arithmetic that had been
learned by Lury and Dave. They still spoke in their un-
grammatical and purely mountain vernacular, but as
Daniel McEwen had said once to David : ''It's how a man
thinks 'at makes him good or bad," and he might well
have added that the deepest wisdom comes not always
with correct verbal expression.

Dave was as good as his word. The next day after de-

DANIEL COMES HOME 389

molishing the old still, he and Lury took their way out to
the caves, and there he brought Lury, one after the other,
those jugs of liquor which he had long looked upon as so
much coined gold. One by one she poured their contents
into the stream and set them back on the rock, empty.
She laughed to hear it gurgle out of the narrow-mouthed
jugs and chattered merrily to Dave as he sat on a fallen
log and watched her throw away their wealth, as counted
by dollars. "I like to hear hit go," she said. ''Hit killed
my maw, and hit nigh wore my soul out, waitin' an' fearin'
fer what might come to you, Dave, an' bein' skeered lest
Danny take to drink, an' — Dave — I be'n skeered lest
you mount tech hit yerse'f. I hev. Ev'y time you come
home, my heart jes' stood cl'ar plumb still when you'd
kiss me, fer fear I mount smell hit off 'n ye. An' — Dave —
when I neveh did, I used to go off by myse'f and git down
on my knees and thank Gawd ye were good. An' Dave —
when ye went down mountain weth hit, I uset to pray
Gawd ye mount keep good — ontwel one day I jes' thought
hit weren't keepin' good to make hit an' sell hit an' ruin
men an' make women git to be like Ellen Furman. I
declar I put' nigh come down here an' busted ev'ything up
the day I thought that out."

''Why didn't ye ? Hit'd 'a' sarved me right."

"No, hit wouldn't 'a' sarved ye right. Gawd neveh do
we-uns that-a-way. He leave us do right fer ourselves.
Dave, ef I had o' busted things up this-a-way, like I wanted
to, and like I put' near done, you know what?"

"I reckon I do know." He laughed shamefacedly.

"I reckon I know, too." She went over and sat beside
him. "I reckon hit 'd 'a' sarved me right, too."

390 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

. "What would IV done?"

"I don't reckon you'd 'a' cussed me out, like ye mount 'a'
done once, but you'd 'a' come out here an' built hit all up
again, and thar I'd 'a' be'n jes' like I were before, ashamed
o' our livin', and wishin' I were dead, 'fore — 'fore — "

"Ye be plumb right. But, Lury, I tell ye our chil'en
be goin' to have a clean inheritance's fer's we kin make
hit."

"Dave, le's we lay these jugs in th' branch an' leave the
water run th'ough 'em, and when we hev I'arn't good how
to do, we'll fill 'em plumb full o' honey, like you done that
day, — let's do that, Dave."

So together, like two children playing in the stream, they
placed those mountain-made jugs among the stones, where
they would be safe, and where the clear mountain water
would fill them and run over them, and then took their way
to the house and counted the money they had to depend
on until Dave could find other work to do, or raise enough
to sell for their daily needs.

They had no trouble, and it was not long before he learned
there were other ways of earning money, — free, happy
ways. He whistled about his work all day long. In spite
of his years of apprenticeship to evil, he was. not depraved.
His promise to Sally Cloud, so long kept, had saved him.
Peg recognized this when she rode up to see Lury. She
sent her gardener up to help them decide what to do with
their small patches of good soil, and when she came in
July, the old orchard was green with rye and purple with
vetch. The old sucker-grown apple-trees had been trimmed
and cleaned of disease and insects, and the big black-heart
cherry-trees were loaded with fruit.

DANIEL COMES HOME 391

She sent Dave down to the Settlement for one or two of
the girls there, and for jars in which to put their jam and
preserves, and he returned with a wagon-load of happy
faces, and Elizabeth with them. It was a gay company
that turned to and preserved those cherries, and the work
was well done. Such a happy event had never occurred
before at the Cove. In the old days, all who gathered there
came to gamble and riot and drink, and often the gatherings
ended in a shooting, or in debauchery revolting and shame-
ful. The women never came. Sally had lived her Hfe
there without women's help or sympathy. But now it
was different. Flowers and fruit and happy girls' faces,
singing and laughter, and after all were gone, — Dave —
and love. And the past? Only a dream, but alas, a
dream unforgetable.

The summer passed, and the autumn passed, and the
winter came. All went well with Lury and Dave, and
all went well at the school, but Daniel McEwen still sat
in his prison and lived over the days that were gone. He
did not confess it to Richard Hadley, but in his heart
he had hoped he might be pardoned. The hope had kept
him up and given him a spot of light toward which to look.
But as the lingering days passed, and the pardon did not
come, he lost hope, and the Hght gradually died out of his
face.

Peg and Barney motored down to the banker's home
one day in the fall, and Bob was there. At dinner the
fate of Daniel McEwen became the subject of conversa-
tion, and Barney and Bob exclaimed with surprise that
nothing had been accomplished toward securing a pardon
for him.

392 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

"What is the matter?" cried Peg. "Isn't there any
one interested in him enough to work for it? Then I
will. I'm interested in him. I should think — "

Richard Hadley spoke gravely. "So should I, Peg.
It isn't that no one cares, but there is a certain amount of
self-interest in everything of that sort that has to be taken
into account. The right of pardon is a thing a man in
power has to use with caution. It is something he can't
afford to throw away."

"But I should think if the governor knew that he was
innocent, he'd — "

"There's right where it is. He knows Daniel McEwen
is not innocent. He can't toss out pardons from a clear
sky to men who, by their own confession, are guilty, to
have his acts and motives taken up and used as grist, to
get him defeated by the party opposed to him at the next
election. It will take a regular campaign to pardon Daniel
McEwen. I've been personally to see the governor about
it. He said he could not do so, unless he could have reasons
that would stand investigation before the public. He was
afraid of being accused of abuse of power."

"Is he up for reelection?" said Barney.

"He will be."

"You can do something, Barney — I'm sure you can,"
said Peg. "You are not an Irishman for nothing. I
remember how Barney made Comp Ross clear a lot of
patent medicine drugs off his shelves, — made him jump
to do it."

Barney broke into a laugh. " I have cause to remember
that. I did do something of the sort once, but this needs
different handling. There is a way of doing it, though."

DANIEL COMES HOME 393

^^ We'll all work on it," said Bob. "1 would have done
something before, if I'd known there was any difficulty."

''There's always difficulty when it comes to dealing with
men who are actuated by self-interest," said Richard
Hadley. ''They make promises easily and slip out of
them like eels."

"We'll make him see that it's for his own good and
the success of his party that that man gets a pardon, and
that right quick," said Bob.

"There's nothing pending just now," said Barney.

"No, that's why I've dropped it for the present."

"Well, this is the time not to drop it. Uncle Dick. Make
him see that if he does it now, he will never be accused of
working for self-interest and assure him it will work up well
when the right time comes. It will make good campaign
talk if he does it for some great and benevolent reason, and
not just at the time when it will gain him votes. We can
convince the governor — you can. Uncle Dick, that it
will make the best kind of campaign talk."

"I think Daniel McEwen was the finest figure on the
mountain. We all did at the school. Can't you get up a
petition ? Til sign it. We all will," cried Peg.

Her husband smiled indulgently. '' You forget, dear.
Your signature means everything on a bank check but
nothing on a petition."

Peg caught her lower lip between her teeth, and was silent,
but her eyes and the flush on her cheek were eloquent.

"How long are you going to stay in this part of the
world. Bob?" asked his friend.

"As long as there is a thing for me to do, worth while,"
said Bob wearily.

394 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

''Well, I'm going to stay by for a time, too. We'll
work up a giant petition that will make the governor of
this State sit up and take notice. You and I will canvass
the mountain, not personally, but through those who have
influence with the people here. We know who they are,
and you can take care of those who come in range here at
the bank, Mr. Hadley. McEwen has friends all over the
mountains, and the same vote that put him in the legislature
will take him out of prison. All they need is to cooperate
and set the ball rolling."

The two young men went at the matter in earnest, and
Dave Turpin greeted them with joy, when they came to
him. He took the petition to his friends, and they to their
friends, and the news spread. From hand to hand the
paper went, and names were signed in pencil, or here and
there by a cross in the midst of the letters, but what matter ?
Every name placed there was the name of a voter, whether
the owner of it could spell it, or write it in his own hand
or not. Every one of those names would count as a power
for or against the man to whom the petition was presented.

The fall had merged into winter when at last the matter
was taken to the governor, and no one on the mountain
doubted its efhcacy. The great potentate took it in his
hand and glanced casually over the long line of names,
and then in Richard Hadley's face. The humorous lines
at the corners of the banker's eyes deepened, but he did
not smile, as the governor cleared his throat and smoothed
his cleanly shaven chin before speaking. Also, before
speaking, he crossed the floor to his secretary's desk and
laid the list on top of the other documents awaiting atten-
tion, saying in his ear :

DANIEL COMES HOME 395

"Just glance over these names and find out how many
of them are voters and what influence they have, — at
your leisure — at your leisure." Then he returned to
the banker and assured him that the matter would claim
his earliest and most careful attention, and that the interest
taken in the man by Mr. Hadley was enough to make
him consider granting a pardon, even without the petition.

Then other matters were discussed, and Richard Hadley
took his leave, wisely refraining from reminding the affable
governor that he had twice before approached him on that
very subject without the backing of such a list as he now
brought, and that not the slightest notice had been given
his request.

"Well, this is what government by the people means, I
suppose," he remarked to himself as he left the Presence.

But evidently the matter was taken under consideration,
as the governor promised, and for value received in the
way of personal influence later on, that splendid prerogative
of the power of extending mercy was sold by the man who
held the power, and the pardon was at last granted.

It was indeed well that it came when it did, and it came
none too soon. When hope sifted slowly like the running
sands in an hour-glass out of Daniel's heart, he began to
droop, apparently without cause, and his splendid strength
gave way before the thought of a futile life for the rest of
his days — a mere existence. He was slipping away be-
cause he did not care to stay. The friends who came to
take him from his prison found him pallid and weary, lying
on his cot, waiting for nothing and interested in nothing.
He had given up.

These friends were the banker, Bob Kitchel, and Barney

396 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

O 'Harrow. When last the two younger men saw Daniel,
he was standing in his own doorway, waving a courteous
farewell, as they motored away. They had brought their
little car through devious ways on a wager with him that yet
they would motor into his door-yard, and they had done so.

The wager had been paid in a dinner such as that he had
once given them after their first day's tramp with him, and
he had paid it with interest, rejoicing that they had won
and that he had the privilege of thus extending hospital-
ity to his own liking. He was a gallant figure then. Now he
did not even seem to care to stand erect. He took the news
they brought him listlessly. It was pitiable. Their eyes
filled, as they saw him lying there in his striped clothing.

His old humor did not desert him, however, when he was
at last seated in the car and saw the town receding from
him and the open spaces of the country stretching before
him. He turned to those friends and smiled his old smile.

^'I reckon I hev had 'bout all the city life I keer fer."

*'I reckon so, McEwen. We would have shortened
your stay long ago, but it took these two young men to
put a pry under that potentate at the capital before we
could secure his attention."

"Wall, most ev'y man has his price. I reckon he thought
he hed them to serve as could do more fer 'im 'an I could."

"It was a big political game of High-low- Jack, and he
was 'not on.' When we showed him by practical demon-
stration you were his best card, — that you swung the
whole mountain vote, and that without this pardon his
political career was ended, his signature went across that
paper with a grand, magnanimous sweep."

Daniel's back stiffened, and his head lifted, but he said

DANIEL COMES HOME 397

nothing more on the subject except to moralize a little.
''I hev Tarnt a leetle myse'f, settin' thar. One thing
be' 'at no matter how big a man know he be, he'll find 'at
th' Almighty be bigger'n he is. I quit thinkin' 'bouts a
pardon an' plumb give up. Hit looked like I'd betteh
think 'bouts straightenin' my 'counts fer th' nex' worl'.
Wall — Gawd know 'at I hed something to do — but He
hev gin me a leetle mo' time."

Arrived in Woodville, they found Dave there, leading
Bess. *'Lury say she want ye to take the mule back.
She want me to thank ye fer th' loan of her all this time.
She hev used her a right smart heap."

The meeting between Dave and Daniel was full of intense
but restrained feeling. They looked in each other's eyes,
and the look said more than words. Dave was shocked at
his old friend's appearance of age and weariness, but he
thought he covered the shock with smiles and indifferent
words. Daniel felt it and was touched, but he covered his
love for the young man with the same smiling nonchalance.

"I reckon Bess'U hate it, comin' back to a ol' man, 'stead
o' Lury. Howdy, Bess ? She be slick an' fine. I'm feared
ye done 'er too well. She'll be honin' fer you an' Lury.
'Les'n you be up to my ol' place, like I tol' ye to be."

''Naw," said Dave sheepishly. ^'You knows we be
up at th' Cove, — fer you done fer Lury what I'd ought to
'a' done, ef I hadn't be'n a plumb fool." Then he looked
up in Daniel's face with a smile. 'Xury an' me, we be'n
up thar to yore place oncet in a while, an' we hev made a
gyarden fer ye, an' ye'll fin' Josephine thar in th' lot, weth a
leetle heifer calf. I carried 'em both up early this mawnin'."

Now Daniel had nothing to say for a moment, while he

398 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

swallowed and smiled and looked at the younger man.
Finally he asked after Lury.

^'Lury, she right peart an' putty. She settin' up thar
swingin' in a rockin'-cheer, hold'n' the puttiest leetle gal
in 'er arms eveh you see. She tell me to say to ye 'at she'll
be up yon' to see ye right quick."

Daniel said nothing more, but stood with his arm across
Dave's shoulder, while his eyes glistened and his lips
twitched, until he could master them, and the old smile
played around them and twinkled in his eyes. Then he
slowly mounted, throwing his leg across the mule's back
stiffly.

''Wall, you tell Lury fer me 'at I'll try to stick on this
mule as fer as th' Settlement, an' thar I'll stop to see widder
Basle an' then go on up mountain, an' as soon as I c'n look
after Josephine an' git to feel myse'f agin, I'll come to 'er.
Tell 'er I'm honin' to see 'er putty eyes, will ye?"

''Let me take you up in the car, won't you?" said Bob
eagerly, seeing how weakly he drooped as he started off.
But Daniel refused and rode away alone. He preferred
to be alone. The long loneliness and silence of the prison
was on him, and he was oppressed by his strenuous emotions.
An eagerness for the hills had seized him, and he did not
stop at the Settlement as he had intended, but rode on and
on, drinking in the sweet air and the odors of the hills.

Once again the spring was marching up their slopes,
and he passed the gradations of bloom from their base to
their tops, as he had done season after season through
many succeeding years. As he neared the top, he swayed
and reeled in the saddle as he had done many a time in
the past, but now he swayed and clung through weakness,

DANIEL COMES HOME 399

for although they had stopped for refreshment at the hotel,
Daniel had touched no liquor. He had taken his last
drink and was glad it was so.

It was scarcely mid-day when Dave left Woodville,
riding one of his own mules. He knew how it would be,
and that Daniel might prefer to ride alone, and he hurried
back to Lury at the Cove. There he found her prepared to
ride on up to the top of Old Abe with him in the wagon.

''Dave, I be ready to stay over night. He mount want
us to stay." She stood by the wagon, holding her babe
in her arms and smiling at him through tears. "Mrs.
Basle came up whilst you were gone. She drove the
Deals' mule, an' a boy took hit back, an' she'll stay an'
keer fer Danny ontwel we get back. She come to tell me
what she'd ought to 'a' told me long ago, but on'y she
thought mebby Dan'l M'Cune mount want to tell hir
hisse'f. Dave, one time Dan'l loved my maw, but some-
body lied on 'im, an' she lef 'im, but he neveh quit lovin'
'er — not even when Lee Bab took 'er. I'll go up thar
an' lay leetle sis in his arms, — fer, Dave, — we have named
her a'ter maw. " Lury spoke in an awed voice.

Dave stood still in astonishment. "An' he neveh tol' me
a thing the hull endurin' time I were thar ! Gawd ! Lury,
I'm glad. I has a heap o' respect fer Dan'l M'Cune. Wall !
Hit 'counts fer — a — heap o' things." Dave hastened
about, getting his team "hooked up" to their canvas-
covered wagon, and they started.

When Daniel arrived at his cabin, he was too weary to
do more than throw himself on his bed and sleep. It was
growing late in the day when he woke and noted the things
that had been done to welcome him home. He sat up and

400 A GIRL OF THE BLUE RIDGE

gazed about him. Yes, surely there had been a woman^s
touch there. White curtains hung at his Httle windows.
The hearth had been cleaned with white clay, and the
mantel held a brown jug of flowers like Lury's own, and
their fragrance filled the room.

He rose and walked unsteadily about, and pulled back
the white cloth that had been hung in front of his shelves,
that used to stand open. There everything was placed in
order, as Lury placed her own dishes. A few pretty ones
had been added, and there was a platter of fried chicken, a
loaf of white bread, light and delicately brown, and a pat
of fresh butter, while in his brown pitcher was buttermilk.
He turned toward the hearth and found sweet, fragrant
corn-bread in a pan, covered with hot ashes.

''Wall, I reckon I has folks o' my own, an' I reckon, even
ef we do be sinners. Gawd A'mighty do rule the world."

Still he did not touch the savory things. His heart ached,
and he was lonely. He remembered a time when he had
looked forward to having one with him who would keep his
cabin thus. "Ef I had 'a' know'd. Gawd ! Ef I had 'a'
know'd. " He said the words over softly to himself and
touched the white counterpane as he passed on his way to
the door. Standing there, he lifted his eyes to the crag and
noted the eagles' nest. " Yas, thar they be," he said ; then
he saw the covered wagon creeping slowly up the steep as-
cent toward him. Lury's smiling face looked out from under
the great white hood, and as he saw them, his old strength
seemed to return to him. He threw up his head and walked
out to meet them like a king. He lifted Lury down in his
arms and held her tenderly and kissed her. He knew she
had been told and was glad.

DANIEL COMES HOME 401

"Seem like I has folks," he said.

*'I wanted you to see sis. She be named fer maw," said
Lury, and then suddenly her arms went about his neck,
and she burst into tears. ''I loved ye first time eveh I saw
ye," she said.

''Bide happy, child, bide happy. Hit's all right now,
Hon. Hit's all right now."

Dave came around and took the babe in his own arms.
"Hit's Lury's way. Ef she be right happy, she boun' to
cry, but ef things go wrong, she laugh an' make out she
don' keer. Women is quare, — an' here's leetle Sally, she's
another on 'em to grow up an' laugh when she'd oughter
cry, and cry when she'd oughter be a-laughin'." He lifted
the covering from the baby's head and held the little thing
up proudly for Daniel to see. Two great, wondering eyes
looked up into his. "Hain't she peart? Look now."

And Daniel looked, then took the little one from Dave's
arms and carried her into his house himself. Poignantly
Lury remembered the touch and curve of those long, slender
hands, as once they held and comforted her baby brother.
She could never forget.

Daniel seated himself beside the whitened hearth, still
holding the babe. "You take cheers an' set, an' make
yorese'fs at home. I found I had folks when I got up here,
and I'll admire to share my supper weth ye. Dave, I
hev I'amt a heap back yon', an' one thing be 'at we may go
th'ough a heap o' trouble, but hit's trouble o' our own
making mostly, an' afteh all's done, somehow good do
come out, an' Gawd do rule an' overrule. We-uns may
stir up a heap o' trouble fer ourse'fs, but Gawd A'mighty
do rule."

By the Author of ''A Girl of the Blue Ridge'*

THE EYE OF DREAD

By PAYNE ERSKINE
With Frontispiece. 12rao. $1.35 net

An extraordinary tale. — ]!few York Post.

Sure to appeal to readers who delight in chapters that
stir. — New York World.

There is a wholesomeness, a definite charm in the telling of
the story, that cannot fail to appeal. — Philadelphia Public-
Ledger.

The working out of the story is dramatic and attractive, and
the suspense is well enough sustained to make it good reading.
— Brooklyn Eagle.

Payne Erskine's characters have a fine vitahty and he has a
knack of dealing with young love which pleases both young and
old. The author is completely master of the period and has
genuine pleasure in creating the atmosphere. — Chicago Tribune.

A well-nigh flawless piece of fiction. . . . This new novel is
brilliant and versatile in characterization, accurate in the tran-
scription of human emotion and resourceful as to plot. . . . The
book teems with tense incidents, not the least interesting of which
is the termination of the double romance. It evinces careful
workmanship, — Chicago Record-Herald.

LITTLE, BROWN & CO., Publishers
34 Beacon Street, Boston

'*A masterful work of fiction^''

JOYFUL HEATHEEBY

By PAYNE ERSKINE

Author of "The Eye of Dread," "The Mountain Girl," etc.

Illustrated by M. Leone Bracker. $1.35 net.

Joyful Heatherby is the sweetest little maid that ever looked
out from the pages of a novel. — Philadelphia Record.

A love story with all the elements to suit either the young
dream, or the dream that once was young. — New York World.

One of the best books written in a long time . . . It is re-
freshing from beginning to end and full of life. — Brooklyn Eagle.

A dear little girl, true hearted and tender, is Joyful Heatherby
... A charming story, high in tone, sweet spirited, deftly wind-
ing three separate and distinct love-threads around a group of
cleverly depicted and effectively contrasting characters. —
Chicago Record-Herald.

Joyful is a fine example of unspoiled yet properly sophisticated
young womanhood . . . The author has written nothing so
indicative of a prominent place among our fictionists since she
first came upon us in "The Mountain Girl "and " When the
Gates Lift Up Their Heads." — St. Louis Globe-Democrat.

LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers
34 Beacon Street, Boston

A story of the South in the Seventies

WHEN THE GATES
LIFT UP THEIR HEADS

By PAYNE ERSKINE
Author of "The Mountain Girl," "Joyful Heatherby," etc.

Eighth Printing. li2mo. Cloth. $1.25 net.

The story is interesting, simple and convincing. . . . The full
appreciation of the cultivated Southerners is one of the most
commendable things about the book. — Boston Transcript.

A strong story. . . The skill displayed in the planning of the
story is admirable. The denouemcMt comes upon the reader as
almost a complete surprise. — St. Louis Globe-Democrat.

A strong, stirring, well-written story. . . . The fact that it
is one of the most informing novels of its kind detracts not in
the least from its power and attractiveness as a story. It can
be most heartily recommended. — Pittsburg Times.

A strong and interesting novel, wholly American in scene
and spirit, written with a purpose which is not revealed until the
end; and then in a series of dramatic and humanly convincing
scenes of tragedy and triumph. — Neio York Mail and Express.

The story is stirring and holds a fine surprise. . . . There
are certain scenes in the book which are not to be excelled in
characterization, and the new author is to be congratulated
upon the humor and pathos, the sympathy and sureness of
touch. — Chicago Evening Post.

LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publisher8
34 Beacon Street, Boston

Unquestionably the Great Love Story of the Year

THE MOUNTAIN GIRL

By PAYNE ERSKINE

Author of " Joyful Heatherby," " When the Gates Lift Up

Their Heads," etc.
Illustrated. 12mo. §1.25 net.

Breathes the air of the great woods and at the same time
tells a compelling love-story. — Springfield Union.

A delightful love-story, genuinely American in feeling and
treatment. The story is stirring, the heroine ideal.

— Chicago Tribune.

I am particularly delighted with its heroine, who is simple,
beautiful, and capable of infinite love and tenderness.

— James L Ford, in The Nero York Herald.

The mountain girl, Cassandra, is as fine a character in fiction
as we have met in many a long day. Altogether an unusually
refreshing novel and a delightfully told story. — Boston Herald.

We must credit to the author rare power as an artist in
depicting Cassandra, one of the strangest, most elusive, but
alluring heroines of latter-day fiction. — Philadelphia Record.

A book of great strength and charm and of absorbing interest
The plot is well worked out, the characters are finely discrimi-
nated and explain themselves, — the heroine being a new and
beautiful creation. — Harriet Prescott Spofford.

LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., Publishers
34 Beacok Street, Boston

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