A SON OF THE HILLS

BY

HARRIET T. COMSTOCK

AUTHOR OF
JOYCE OF THE NORTH WOODS,
JANET OF THE DUNES, ETC.

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS : NEW YORK

Copyright, 1913, by
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY

All rights reserved, including that of
translation into foreign languages,
including the Scandinavian

CONTENTS

A Son of the Hills

CHAPTER I

Lost Hollow lies close at the foot of the mountain which gives it its name. The height of neither is great, geographically considered; the peak is perhaps eighteen hundred feet above sea level: The Hollow, a thousand, and from that down to The Forge there is a gradual descent by several trails and one road, a very deplorable one, known as The Appointed Way, but abbreviated into—The Way.

There are a few wretched cabins in Lost Hollow, detached and dreary; between The Hollow and The Forge are some farms showing more or less cultivation, and there is the Walden Place, known before the war—they still speak of that event among the southern hills as if Sheridan had ridden through in the morning and might be expected back at night—as the Great House.

Among the crevasses of the mountains there are Blind Tigers, or Speak Easies—as the stills are called—and, although there is little trading done with the whiskey outside the country side, there is much mischief achieved among the natives who have no pleasure of relaxation except such as is evolved from the delirium brought about by intoxication.

The time of this story is not to-day nor is it very many yesterdays ago; it was just before young Sandy Morley had his final "call" and obeyed it; just after the Cup-of-Cold-Water Lady came to Trouble Neck—three miles from The Hollow—and while she was still distrusted and feared.

Away back in the days of the Revolution the people of the hills were of the best. All of them who could serve their country then, did it nobly and well. Some of them signed the Declaration of Independence and then returned to their homes with the dignity and courage of men in whose veins flowed aristocratic blood as well as that of adventurous freemen. There they waited for the recognition they expected and deserved. But the new-born republic was too busy and breathless to seek them out or pause to listen to their voices, which were softer, less insistent than others nearer by. In those far past times the Morleys and the Hertfords were equals and the Walden Place deserved its name of the Great House. The Appointed Way was the Big Road, and was kept in good order by well-fed and contented slaves who had not then dreamed of freedom.

The final acceptance of the hill people's fate came like a deadening shock to the men and women of the Lost Mountain district—they were forgotten in the new dispensation; in the readjustment they were overlooked! The Hertfords left the hills with uplifted and indignant heads—they had the courage of their convictions and meant to take what little was left to them and demand recognition elsewhere—they had always been rovers. Besides, just at that time Lansing Hertford and Sandford Morley, sworn friends and close comrades, had had that secret misunderstanding that was only whispered about then, and it made it easier for Hertford to turn his back upon his home lands and leave them to the gradual decay to which they were already doomed. The Waldens had retained enough of this world's goods to enable them to descend the social scale slower than their neighbours. Inch by inch they debated the ground, and it was only after the Civil War that Fate gripped them noticeably. Up to that time they had been able to hide, from the none too discriminating natives, the true state of affairs.

The Morleys and the Tabers, the Townleys and the Moores, once they recognized the true significance of what had happened, made no struggle; uttered no defiance. They slunk farther back into the hills; they shrank from observation and depended more and more upon themselves. They intermarried and reaped the results with sullen indifference. Their hopes and longings sank into voiceless silence. Now and then Inheritance, in one form or another, flared forth, but before it could form itself into expression it was stilled and forbidden, by circumstances, to assert itself.

Sad, depressed Lost Hollow! Over it loomed darkly the mountain whose peak was so often shrouded in clouds. The people loved the hills and the shadows; they glided like wan ghosts up and down The Way or took to the more sheltered trails. When they were sober they were gentle, harmless folk, but when whiskey overpowered them the men became dully brutal, the women wretchedly slavish, and the children what one might expect such sad little creatures to become! Lacking in intellect, misshapen and timid, they rustled among the underbrush like frightened animals; peered forth like uncanny gnomes, and ate and slept how and as they could.

After the Civil War these people became "poor whites" and were ground between the nether millstone of their more prosperous neighbours and that of the blacks, until they sank to the lowest level. Their voices were hushed and forgotten; their former estate blotted out in their present degradation, and just then Sandy Morley and Cynthia Walden were born and some high and just God seemed to strengthen their childish voices; vouchsafe to them a vision and give their Inheritance charge over them.

Marriage form was not largely in vogue among the Lost Hollow people; it was too expensive and unnecessary. The rector of the small church at The Forge looked upon the hill people as altogether beyond and below the need of any attention of his, and was genuinely surprised and annoyed when one of them called upon him for service. He had not come to The Forge from an ardour to save souls; he had been placed there because he had not been wanted elsewhere, and he was rebellious and bitter. Occasionally he was summoned to the mountain fastnesses for a burial or wedding, but he showed his disapproval of such interferences with his dignified rights, and was not imposed upon often. But Martin Morley, Sandy's father, had married Sandy's mother. She was a Forge girl who believed in Martin and loved him, so he took her boldly to the parsonage, paid for the service the rector performed, and went his way.

There was one happy year following in the Morley cabin under Lost Mountain. Martin worked as he never had before; the hut was mended without and made homelike within. The little wife sang at her tasks and inspired Martin to a degree of fervour that brought him to the conclusion that he must get away! Get away from the poverty and squalor of The Hollow; get away farther than The Forge—far, far away!

"After the baby comes!" the little wife whispered, "we'll take it to a better, sunnier place and—give it a chance!"

The baby came on a bad, stormy night. Sandford Morley they called him. The Forge doctor, travelling up The Way, stopped at the Morley cabin for a bite of supper and found how things were. Sally Taber was in command, and Martin, frightened and awed, crouched by the chimney corner in the living-room, while his girl-wife (she was much younger than he) made her desperate fight.

"There's only a broken head or two up at Teale's Blind Tiger," the doctor said grimly; "they can wait, I reckon, while I steer this youngster into port." The doctor had come from the coast on account of his lungs and his speech still held the flavour of the sea.

Sandy Morley made a difficult mooring with more vigour and determination than one would have expected, but the cost was great. All night the battle waged. The doctor, with coat off and haggard face, fought with the little mother inch by inch, but at sunrise, just two hours after Sandy lustily announced his arrival, she let go the hand of her husband who knelt by her hard, narrow bed, and whispered in the dialect of her hills, "Youcum!"—which meant that Morley must come to her some where, some how, some time, for she no longer could bide with him.

After that Martin stayed on in the cabin with the baby. One woman after another lent her aid in an hour of need, but on the whole Sandy and his father made it out together as best they could. The little, clinging fingers held Martin back for a time—the boy had his mother's fine, clear eyes and when he looked at Martin something commanded the man to stand firm. In those days Martin found comfort in religion and became a power at the camp meetings; his prayers were renowned far and near, but the evil clutched him in an unguarded hour and one bleak, dreary springtime he met the Woman Mary and—let go! That was when Sandy was seven. He brought Mary to the cabin and almost shamefacedly explained, to the wondering boy, his act.

"Son, she's come to take care of us—mind your ways, lad."

Sandy gave Mary's handsome smiling face one quick look, then fled down the hill, across the bottom pasture and Branch, up on the farther side to the woods—his sanctury and haven, and there, lifting his eyes and little clenched fists, he moaned over and over:

"Curse her! curse her! I hate her!"

He had never hated before; never cursed, but at that moment he cursed that which he hated.

It was early spring then, and under the tall, dark trees the dogwood bushes were in full bloom. Sandy was touched, always, by beauty, and in his excited state he thought in that desperate hour that the dogwood blossoms were like stars under a stormy cloud. Heaven seemed reaching down to him, and closing him in—his thoughts were tinged by Martin's religious outbursts and the native superstition of the hills. It was then and there that the child first knew he must go away! The call was distinct and compelling—he must go away! And from that hour he made preparation. At first the effort was small and pitiful. He began to gather whatever Nature provided freely, and turn it into money. With shrewd perception he realized he must overcome his deadly shyness and carry his wares farther than The Hollow if he wished to achieve that upon which he was bent. The Hollow people were poor; The Forge people would give food and clothing for berries and sassafras roots; but Sandy demanded money or that which could be exchanged for money, and so he travelled far with his basket of fragrant berries or shining nuts and in time he found himself at the Waldens' back door facing a tall black woman, in turban and kerchief, with the child Cynthia beside her.

"Do you-all want to buy eight quarts of wild strawberries?" he asked in that low fine voice of his.

"Buy?" demanded Lily Ivy scornfully. "Miss Cyn, honey, go fotch Miss Ann and tell her one ob dem Morleys is here axing us-all to buy his berries, and him in shreds and tatters!"

Presently Cynthia returned with her aunt. Miss Walden was then sixty, but she looked seventy-five at least; she was a stern, detached woman who dealt with things individually and as she could—she never sought to comprehend that which was not writ large and clear. She was not a dull nor an ignorant woman, but she had been carried on the sluggish current of life with small effort or resistance. She did her task and made no demands.

"So you're Morley's boy?" she asked curiously; she had still the interest of the great lady for her dependents. The Morleys had become long since "poor whites," but Ann Walden knew their traditions. The family had slunk into hiding ever since Martin had taken the Woman Mary into his cabin, and Miss Walden was surprised and aroused to find one of them coming to the surface at her back door with so unusual a request as Cynthia had repeated.

"Yes, ma'am;" Sandy replied, his strange eyes fixed upon the calm old face.

"And what do you want?"

"I want to sell eight quarts of strawberries, ma'am. They are five cents a quart; that's what they are giving down to The Forge."

"Then why don't you take them to The Forge?"

"The heat, ma'am, will wilt them. They are right fresh now—I thought I'd give you-all the first chance."

"And you want money for the berries—and you in rags and starved, I warrant?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Ann Walden grew more interested.

"Would you—take eggs for them?" she asked; "eggs are bringing twenty cents a dozen now."

"Yes, ma'am."

"How do I know you are honest? How do I know the basket isn't stuffed with leaves in the bottom? What's your name?"

"Sandy, ma'am. And please, ma'am, you can measure the berries."

"Ivy, bring the quart measure, and the earthen bowl."

When the implements were brought, Miss Walden took things in her own hands, while Ivy, with the disdain of the old family black servant for the poor white, stood by like an avenging Fate. The child Cynthia was all a-tremble. She was young, lovely, and vital. Youth took up arms for youth, and watched the outcome with jealous and anxious eyes.

"One, two, three——" the rich, fragrant fruit fell into the bowl with luscious, soft thuds; the red juice oozed out like fresh blood.

"Five, six, seven—eight, and——"

"A lot left over, Aunt Ann, counting dents in the measure and all."

It was Cynthia who spoke, and her big, gray eyes were dancing in triumph.

"More'n eight quarts, Aunt Ann."

"Umph!" ejaculated Ivy.

"Give the boy two dozen eggs and three over," commanded Miss Walden. "Take them to Tod Greeley at the post office and tell him they are Walden eggs."

After Sandy had departed Ivy aired her views.

"I reckon we-all better make jam of dem berries right soon. I clar I allers 'spect to find a yaller streak in dem Morleys."

Cynthia was leaning against the kitchen table, her eyes shining and her breath coming a bit quickly.

"Perhaps," she said, with the slow smile which curled the corners of her mouth so deliciously, "perhaps the yellow streak in Sandy Morley is—gold!"

That was the beginning of Sandy's first great inspiration. Again and again he went to the Walden place with his wares and exchanged them for things that could be readily turned into money. Then Cynthia, from out her own generous loveliness, offered to pass over the instruction Ann Walden imparted to her, to the boy; he had before that told her of his ambition and determination to go away, and her vivid imagination was stirred.

"It's not only money," Cynthia had astutely warned him—"not only money you must have, Sandy, but learning; no one can take that away from you!"

With a fine air of the benefactress, Cynthia Walden took Sandy Morley's dense ignorance in charge. It was quite in keeping with the girl's idea of things as they ought to be, that she should thus illumine and guide the boy's path.

She was charmingly firm but delightfully playful. She was a hard mistress but a lovely child, and the youth that was starving in her met Sandy on a level, untouched by conventions or traditions. Presently a palpitating sense of power and possession came to her. The creature who was at first but the recipient of her charity and nobility displayed traits that compelled respect and admiration. Sandy easily outstripped her after a time. His questions put her on her mettle. He never overstepped the bounds that she in her pretty childish fancy set, but he reached across them with pleading adoration and hungry mind. He seemed to urge her to get for him what he could not get for himself. And so, with the freedom of knowledge, Sandy, still keeping to his place, began to assume proportions and importance quite thrilling. Then it was that Cynthia Walden, with keenness and foresight, made her claims upon the boy.

With a pretty show of condescending kindness she clutched him to her with invisible ties. For her he must do thus and so! He must become a great—oh! a very great—man and give her all the credit! If he went away—when he went away—he must never, never, never forget her or what she had done for him! In short, he must be her abject slave and pay homage to her all the days of his life!

Sandy was quite willing to comply with all these demands; they were made in a spirit so sweet and winsome, and they were so obviously simple and just, that he rose to the call with grateful response, but with that strange something in reserve that Cynthia could not then understand or classify. It was as though Sandy had said to her: "Your slave? Yes, but no fetters or chains, thank you!"

Soon after Mary came to live in the Morley cabin Sandy was relegated to an old outhouse for sleeping quarters. The child had been horribly frightened at first, but, as the quarrels and disturbances grew in power between Martin and the woman, he was grateful for the quiet and detachment of his bed-chamber. A child was born to Mary and Martin during the year following the change in the family, but Sandy looked upon his half-sister with little interest. That the boy was not driven entirely from the home place was due to the fact that through him came the only money available. Martin exchanged his spasmodic labour for clothing or food, but Sandy brought cash. Mary thought he gave her all, and because of that he was tolerated.

Sandy did not, however, give the woman all, or even half, of what he earned. He gave her one third; the rest was placed in a tin box and hidden under a rock in the woods beyond the Branch. The boy never counted the money, he could not put himself to that test of discouragement or elation. The time was not yet, and it was significant of him that he plodded along, doing the best that was in him, until the call came; the last final call to leave all and go forth.

Once, during the years between seven and fourteen, Sandy had had an awakening and a warning. Then it was that his half-sister, Molly, became a distinct and potent factor in his life; one with which he must reckon. Going to the rock on a certain evening to bury his share of the day's profit he wearily raised the stone, deposited the money and turned to go home, when he encountered Molly peering at him with elfish and menacing eyes from behind a bush.

"What you doing there, yo' Sandy?" she asked half coaxingly, half threateningly.

"Nothing."

"I seen you—a-hiding something. I'm going to look!" She made a movement forward.

"Hyar! you Molly!" Sandy clung to her. "If you raise that stone 'twill be the last of you. I've got a horned toad there and—a poison sarpint."

"Then I'll—I'll tell Dad." Molly shrank back, though not wholly convinced. It was time for compromise, and Sandy, with a sickening fear, recognized it and blindly fell upon the one thing that could have swayed the girl.

"I'm a-training and taming them," he lied desperately, "and when they are ready we-all can make money out of them, but if you tell—Dad will kill 'em! I tell you, Molly, if you don't say a single thing I'll—I'll give you a cent every week. A cent to buy candy with!"

The promise was given, and from that day Sandy paid his blood money, hoping that greed would hold the child to her bargain, but with always a feeling of insecurity. He changed his box to another rock, but a certain uncanniness about Molly gained a power over him and he never felt safe.

Things went rapidly from bad to worse in the Morley cabin. Martin forgot his prayers and ambitions; he grew subservient to Mary and never strove against her, even when her wrath and temper were directed toward him and Sandy. Discredited and disliked by his neighbours, flouted by the woman who had used him for her own gain, the man became a detestable and pitiable creature. Sandy endured the blows and ratings that became his portion, in the family disturbances, with proud silence. He was making ready and until the hour of his departure came he must bear his part.

It was during the probation and preparatory period that Marcia Lowe, the Cup-of-Cold-Water Lady, came up The Way one golden afternoon and stopped her horse before the post office, General Store and County Club of The Hollow, and, leaning out from the ramshackle buggy, gave a rather high, nasal call to whoever might be within.

CHAPTER II

Tod Greeley, the postmaster, was sitting on his cracker box contemplatively eying the rusty stove enthroned upon its sawdust platform, in the middle of the store. Every man in The Hollow had his own particular chair or box when the circle, known as the County Club, formed for recreation or business. No one presumed to occupy another's place: Tod Greeley's pedestal was a cracker box and its sides were well battered from the blows his heels gave it when emotions ran high or his sentiments differed from his neighbour's. Greeley was not a Hollow man; he had been selected by Providence, as he himself would have said, to perform a service for his country: namely, that of postmaster, storekeeper, and arbiter of things in general. He was a tall, lean man of forty, good looking, indolent, and with some force of character which was mainly evinced by his power of keeping his temper when he was facing a critical situation. While not of The Hollow, he was still with The Hollow on principle.

When Marcia Lowe paused before the store and emitted her call, which flavoured of friendliness and the North, Greeley was vacantly looking into space, hugging his bony knees, and listening to an indignant fly buzzing on the dirty glass of the back window, protesting against any exit being barred to its egress.

It was three o'clock of a late July day and, while the sun was hot, the breeze gave promise of a cool night.

"Ooh! ooh!"

Just at first Greeley thought the fly had adopted a more militant tone.

"Oooh—ooh!"

Greeley pulled himself together, mentally and physically, and stalked to the porch; there he encountered the very frank, smiling face of a rather attractive youngish woman who greeted him cordially with a high-pitched but sweet:

"Good afternoon."

"Good evening, ma'am," Tod returned.

"I just came up from The Forge; your roads are really scandalous, but the scenery is beautiful. I want to see if there is any place near here where I can get board? I've come to stay for a while, anyway; probably for years, at least."

The young person seemed so eager to share her confidence that Greeley was on his guard at once. He did not approve of the stills back among the hills, but he did not feel called upon to assist any government spy in her work, no matter how attractive and subtle the spy was.

It was two years now since a certain consumptive-looking young man had caused the upheaval of a private enterprise back of The Hollow and made so much unpleasantness, but Norman Teale had served his term in prison and had got on his feet once more, and Greeley had a momentary touch of sympathy for the Speak-Easy magnates as he glanced up at this new style of spy.

"Nobody stays on in The Hollow lest he has to," he said cautiously, "and as for boarding-places, there never was such a thing here, I reckon. I certainly don't expect they would take any one in at the Walden place, not if they-all was starving. Miss Ann Walden is quality from way back. The Morleys couldn't entertain, and what's true of the Morleys is true of all the others."

"Couldn't you folks take me?"

At this Greeley collapsed on the one chair of the porch, and actually gasped.

"I ain't got what you might call folks," he managed to say, "unless you call a brace of dogs, folks."

"Oh! I beg your pardon." Miss Lowe flushed and gave a nervous laugh. "You see I just must manage to find a home here, and—and I've heard so much of Southern chivalry and hospitality I rather hoped some one would take me in until I could look around. The place at The Forge, where I've been for two nights is—impossible, and the darkies have their hands stretched out for tips until I feel like a palmist, and a bankrupt one at that!"

A merry laugh rang out and in spite of himself and his grave doubts Greeley relaxed.

"If you don't mind doing for yourself," he ventured, "there's a cabin over to Trouble Neck that you might get."

"Do for myself?" Miss Lowe cried energetically. "I'd just favour that plan, I can tell you! I could get all the furniture I need at The Forge, I am sure. The name of the place isn't exactly cheering, but then I've waded through trouble and got on top all my life long. Who owns the cabin over at Trouble Neck?"

Property rights in and around The Hollow were rarely discussed; it was a delicate question, but what was not actually held down by another generally was conceded to a certain Smith Crothers and to his credit Tod Greeley now put the Trouble Neck cabin.

"Oh! He's the man who owns the factory a few miles from The Forge? I drove past it yesterday at noon time. I thought it was an orphan asylum at first. I never saw such babies put to work before. It's monstrous and the law ought to shut down on your Smith Crothers!"

At this Greeley had a distinct sensation of pain in the region known as the pit of his stomach. That Smith Crothers should fall under any law had never been dreamed of by mortal man or woman in Greeley's presence before. The right of free whiskey was one thing; the right of a man to utilize the children of the district was another!

"He ain't my Smith Crothers!" Greeley inanely returned, feeling in a dazed way that he did not want to put in any claim for Crothers with those apparently innocent eyes upon him.

"Well, I'll try to buy the Trouble Neck place from Smith Crothers at once. You see I've been very sick; they said I'd lost my health, but I know I've only misplaced it."

Again the cheerful laugh set Greeley's nerves tingling.

"They-all say that when they-all come up here."

Greeley felt in honour bound to give the young woman a hint as to his reading of her and her mission.

"It's a good spot, then, for weak lungs?"

"None better," Tod nodded sagely, "but they don't last long."

"What? The weak lungs? That's splendid! And now would you mind giving my horse a drink? Isn't it funny what nice horses they manage to evolve in the South on food that would end a cart-horse's existence up North? But such vehicles! Do look at this buggy! And no springs to mention. My! but my back will ache to-morrow."

By this time Greeley had procured a pail of water and was courteously holding it to the nose of the very grateful horse.

"I wonder," Miss Lowe casually remarked, as she let the reins fall in lap and looked about, "if you happen to have known a Theodore Starr who once lived here?"

"I've heard of him," Tod returned; "I ain't a Hollow man. I only came here on business six years ago, but the memory of Starr sort of clings like it was a good thing to keep alive."

"How beautifully you put it!"

Greeley was thinking how well the government had stocked this dangerous spy with facts, and so he did not observe the tears in her eyes.

"There was a little church he built himself—is it still standing? You may not have heard, but he had a very simple little religion quite his own. He thought the people up here were more in need of help than foreign folks, but no regular sect would—would handle him. So he came up a road he used to call The Appointed Way and just settled down and learned to love all—the people and the work!"

Greeley was so utterly amazed that the hands which held the pail shook with excitement.

"That road what you came up is called The Way—short for Appointed Way. Yon is the little church."

Marcia Lowe raised up and through the thicket behind her she saw the deserted structure, which still bore the outlines of a church.

"Why, it's all boarded up!" she exclaimed. "Who owns it now?"

The exacting nature of the stranger's questions was unsettling to Greeley. She seemed determined to tag and classify all the real estate in the county.

"No one ain't damaged the building," he said drawlingly; "some of the folks think it is han'ted. I reckon Smith Crothers owns it."

"That man owns too much!" Marcia Lowe gave again her penetrating laugh. "And I should think the place would be haunted. Just think of boarding Uncle Theodore up! He who loved sunshine and air and sweetness so much!"

At this Greeley dropped the pail to the ground, and the indignant horse reared angrily. This was carrying things too far, and the man's eyes flashed.

"Uncle?" he gasped sternly.

"Yes, Uncle Theodore Starr. He was my mother's brother. I have no one to keep me away now—and I loved him so when I was a little child. They say I am much like him—but then you never saw him. Lately I've been real homesick for him. He seemed to be calling me from the hills. I'm going to get your Smith Crothers to let me open up the little church. I want the sunshine to get in and—and Uncle Theodore to—get out! I'm going to find where they buried him, and make that a beautiful place too. You see I've a good deal to do up here! Besides," and now the cheerful face beamed radiantly on the gaping postmaster, "I'm like Uncle Starr in more ways than one. He learned to mend men's souls and I have learned to mend their bodies—it's much the same, you know—when you love it. I'm—well, I'm an M. D., a medical doctor—Doctor Marcia Lowe!"

At this Greeley dropped on the bottom step of the porch, wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his hand, and emitted one word.

"Gawd!" He was not a profane man, but the audacity of this stranger who was about to settle down among them for purposes best known to herself, and them who sent her, quite overcame him. Marcia Lowe gave a hearty laugh and gathered the reins.

"I suppose you never heard of such a thing up here?" she asked amusedly, "but they are getting commoner down where I hail from. It's all very foolish—the restrictions about a woman, you know. She can nurse a body up to the doors of death, but it's taken a good while to bring people around to seeing that she can mend a body as well, just as well as a man. You will let me stay among you anyway, I am sure. I do not want to physic you. It is so much more interesting to live close and help along. Good-bye, Mr. Greeley—you see your name is over the door! I am, do not forget"—the woman's eyes twinkled mischievously—"Doctor Marcia Lowe of Torrance, Mass. Good-bye! You have been very kind and helpful. I feel that you and I will be good friends. Get-up, pony!"

She flapped the reins in the most unprofessional manner, and the horse turned to The Appointed Way with briskness that bespoke his impatience and a desire for more familiar scenes.

With curious eyes Greeley watched the ramshackle buggy bounce up and down over the rutty road; he saw the small, slight figure bob about uncomfortably on the uneven seat, and when the conveyance was lost behind the trees he went inside with a sure sense that something was going to happen in The Hollow.

Once again within his own domain he sought his cracker box as if it were his sanctuary. The fly was still protesting against the dirty window, and the stillness, except for the buzzing, was unbroken.

Presently, from out the nowhere apparently, old Andrew Townley came in and shuffled across the floor to the armchair by the stove. Then Mason Hope appeared, hands in pockets and lank hair falling on his shoulders. Norman Teale came next, with Tansey Moore in tow.

"Howdy, Tod?" was the universal greeting as the County Club took its place. The chair of Smith Crothers, and two or three overturned potato baskets—seats of the junior members of the club—were empty. It was beneath the dignity of any man present to question what had just occurred, but every son of them had witnessed it and in due time would touch upon the subject.

The stove, summer and winter, focussed their wandering eyes and acted as a stimulus to their dormant faculties. From long practice and inheritance every man could aim and hit the sawdust under the stove when he expectorated. Even old Andrew Townley had never been known to fail.

"There be some right good horses down to The Forge," Tansey Moore ventured after a while.

"It's a blamed risky thing, though," said Mason Hope, "to let a—lady drive 'em. I've allus noticed that a woman is more sot on gittin' where she wants to git—than to considering how to git there. It's mighty risky to trust horseflesh to a female. They seem to reckon all horses is machines."

"I've seen men as didn't know a hoss from a steam engine," Norman Teale broke in, glancing sharply at Moore. "Times is when a hoss has to be sacrificed to man—but I reckon The Forge folks was taking some risks when they-all hired out a team to a stranger."

"That stranger," said Greeley, hitting the nail on the head with a violence that brought his audience to an upright position, "ain't nothing short of, to my mind, than"—he glanced at Teale—"well, she ain't, and that's my opinion! She comes loaded with facts up to her teeth. Knows all the names, and says she's going to settle down over to Trouble Neck and—live along with us-all quite a spell. Weak lungs and all, but she's a right new brand."

"Hell!" ejaculated Teale, springing to his feet. "If the government has got so low that it has to trifle with ladies—it's in a bad way. I reckon I better git a-moving. Any mail, Tod? I take it right friendly that you give me this hint. A lady may be hard to handle in some ways, but we-all can at least know where she is—that's something."

After the departure of Teale the club fell into moody gloom. It was always upsetting to have outside interference with their affairs. Even if Teale wasn't arrested the whiskey would be limited for a time, and that was a drawback to manly rights.

Andrew Townley fell into an audible doze; he was the oldest inhabitant and a respected citizen. He was given to periods of senile dementia preceded or followed by flashes of almost superhuman intelligence. There were times when, arousing suddenly from sleep, he would bring some startling memory with him that would electrify his hearers. He was an institution and a relic—every one revered him and looked to his simple comfort. Suddenly now, as the dense silence enveloped the club, old Andrew awoke and remarked vividly:

"I was a-dreaming of Theodore Starr!"

"Now what in thunder!" cried Tod Greeley, who had purposely refrained from mentioning some part of his late visitor's conversation,—"what made you think of—Theodore Starr?"

"I reckon," whined the trembling old voice, "that it was 'long o' Liza Hope. I was a-passing by and I heard her calling on God-a'mighty to stand by her in her hour. Theodore Starr was mighty pitiful of women in their hours."

Mason Hope felt called upon, at this, to explain and apologize. He did so with the patient air of one detached and disdainful.

"Liza do make a powerful scene when she is called to pass through her trial. This is her ninth, and I done urged her to act sensible, but when I saw how it was going with her, I just left her to reason it out along her own lines. Sally Taber is sitting 'long of her ready to help when the time comes. I done all I could." Tansey Moore nodded significantly. He had an unreasonable wife of his own, and he had no sympathy with women in their "hours."

"Theodore Starr, he done say," Townley was becoming lachrymose, "that women got mighty nigh to God when they reached up to Him in their trial and offered life for a life. He done say if God didn't forgive a woman every earthly thing for such suffering, he was no good God. He done say that to me onct."

"That be plain blasphemy," Tansey Moore remarked. "I reckon he was a right poor parson. The religion he doctored with was all soothin' syrup and mighty diluted at that, where women was concerned. I never trusted that Yankee."

"The women, children, and old folks counted some on him in his day." Greeley was getting interested in this heretofore myth. Moore nodded his head suspiciously.

"They sho' did, and a mess they made of it. Did you ever hear 'bout his mix-up with the Walden girls?"

Greeley never had and, as the last Walden "girl" was a woman of sixty and over, he looked puzzled.

"Miss Ann, her as is now, was considerable older than Theodore Starr, but she shined up to him and let him lead her about considerable—some said him and her was—engaged to marry. Then there was the Walden girl as isn't now, her they called Queenie. She was a right pert little thing what growed into a woman like a Jonas gourd, sudden and startling! That was the summer that young Lansing Hertford came back to the old home place of his forebears to look about—there was a general mess of things up to Stoneledge those days, and all I know is that Starr he went up into the hills to nurse a fever plague and there he died. Lansing Hertford went off like a shot—but them Hertfords allus lit out like they was chased—never could stand loneliness and lack of luxury. Queenie, she done died the winter following that summer; died of lung trouble off to some hospital way off somewhere, and Miss Ann she settled down—an old woman from that time on! You can't get her to speak Starr's name. You never could. Us-all tried. When things got too hard for Miss Ann she done adopt little Miss Cyn—that chile has considerable brightened up Miss Ann, but Lord! she never was the same after that summer, and I hold, and allus shall, that Starr wasn't what we-all thought him at first. A man don't go dying off in the hills for folks what hadn't any call upon him, lest he has a reason for doing so."

Moore loved to talk. Some one always has to be the orator of a club, and Tansey, self-elected, filled this position in the circle around the old stove. Greeley was bored. Past history did not concern him and Moore's opinions he ignored. He had not been listening closely, for his thoughts would, in spite of him, follow the ramshackle buggy down The Way.

"She had a right pleasant look and manner," he pondered. "I reckon she'll get some fun out of her job, no matter what that job is."