A young woman leaned over the outer gate. The rain had ceased, and the wind came softly with a touch of spring. It would be clear on the morrow, the girl thought as she looked up from the shadows of the Cove to where the cloud-broken sunlight flashed and faded on the mountain tops. A clear spring day, and, as the warm wind swept by, her fair cheeks flushed with gladness for the coming spring.

The winter had been hard, and for the first time the Warrens had felt themselves poor. This girl's father had been killed a few months before, and she and her grandparents had had to fight through the cold weather alone. And now, as she waited for the cows, the touch of warmth in the wind brought to her mind a new problem—the planting. Some help would have to be hired, and where was the money? They had bacon, and apples, and potatoes that could be sold—if she could take them to the town on top the mountain. The color flamed into her face; she had never “peddled” in her life! Her grandfather was held fast by rheumatism, and her grandmother would far rather starve than go on such an errand.

Presently a cow-bell clanked, and down the mountain-side, in dignified procession, came the rough, long-legged, patient-eyed cows. The girl roused herself with a sigh, and, holding the big gate open, remembered one more article that could be sold—butter.

She fetched two wooden piggins, white with scouring, and some fodder, then brought the cows in, one at a time, to the inner lot. She moved with the deliberation of age, and milked with patient sedateness. This quietness was a class habit, but increased in this girl's case through her having lived always with old people; and now the heavy responsibilities that crowded upon her seemed to have banished all youthfulness.

The Warrens had always been well-to-do, making at home almost everything they needed. After his sons left him the old man had been quite able to carry on the place, and before his strength failed his eldest son had returned with his motherless baby, Hannah. So there had been little need for money until now, when, her father dead and her grandfather disabled, Hannah needed to hire help. She might have paid in kind, but everybody that she knew made all they needed. The only people she had ever heard of who bought everything and saved nothing, were these new people on the mountain, who were held throughout the country to be strangely “lackin'.” Old Mrs. Warren pronouncing them “darn fools, a-settin' round with books in their hands.”

The milking done, Hannah took the pails into the kitchen. With the same lack of haste she stirred the fire under the kettle, opened the oven to look at the corn bread, strained the milk, then taking up an axe went into the back yard. Her face grew graver as she looked at the wood pile; she would have to go for more to-morrow, and she sighed as she pulled a log into position for cutting.

There was an outlet from all this. She could marry her cousin Si Durket. She would rather cut wood all day! And the axe swung into the air with an ease and swiftness scarcely to be looked for from a woman.

No good would ever come to Si. She rested on the axe as she turned the log with her foot. Peddling would be better than Si; hiring out— starving—anything would be better. Yet, if something were not done very soon, she would have to marry him, or let the old people want. Mrs. Wilson, from the far side of the Cove, went up to the mountain to peddle—she could go with her. Mrs. Wilson was a creature much scorned by Mrs. Warren, still she knew the ways at the University, and could direct a beginner. It was worth thinking of. Gathering up the wood, she went into the house to her grandmother's room.

It was low, and the walls, finished up to the rafters with wood, were painted gray, spattered with white. A pine bedstead, with tall posts, and piled into a dumpling with feather beds, filled one corner. In another corner there stood a high chest of drawers, above which hung a spotted looking glass and some peacock feathers. A spinning-wheel, a small table full of dusty odds and ends, a large rocking-chair, covered with a patchwork quilt, and a few splint-bottomed chairs, finished the furnishing of the room. In the rocking-chair, close to the great fireplace, sat an old man, and an old woman stood near a window catching the last light on her work.

She had been a handsome woman once, and, like Hannah, was tall; but here the likeness ended. Mrs. Warren's face was sharp and hard, the girl's face was grave and strong; Mrs. Warren's eyes were keen, while Hannah's eyes were thoughtful, almost sad. Further, Mrs. Warren's temper and tongue were famous, while Hannah seemed still and gentle. Perhaps time was needed to reveal Hannah; perhaps the temper of her grandmother had made her esteem peace as the greatest good. Each son had had to take his wife away, and Hannah's father had only come back after his wife's death, when, seeing that his father needed him, he stayed. A gentle, patient man, he could put up with the temper his mother, whose maiden name had been Durket, was proud to call the “Durket sperret.” With regard to his child, he knew that no real harm would come to any creature absolutely dependent on his mother. “Her own” meant a great deal to Mrs. Warren. Her sons' wives she had looked on as aliens. The kitchen stove, introduced by one of these unworthies, had caused the final breaking up of the family. The young woman had declared the open fireplace to be old-fashioned, and her husband bought the stove. The “Durket sperret” could not stand this, and the young people had to go, but not the stove; Mrs. Warren kept that, and for the future vented much of her superfluous wrath on it.

As Hannah entered, Mrs. Warren turned sharply:

“I wonder you don't git tired a-playin' nigger, Hannah Warren,” was her greeting. The girl put down and arranged the wood before she answered:

“Thar is wuss things,” then stood looking down into the fire. Straight as a young poplar, with the grace and roundness of perfect strength and youth in every curve, Hannah, in her scant black frock, was dowered with a beauty rare in any class. A grave, clear-cut face, waving brown hair taken straight back and twisted in a knot, a full throat that showed exquisitely white where the little faded shawl fell away from it, and hands that, if hard and brown, were very shapely.

Her grandmother looked at her intently as she stood there, and grumbled a little under her breath.

“Ain't you none better, Gramper?” Hannah asked pityingly of the old man, bent nearly double in his chair.

“I'm some easier,” he answered patiently, “but I'm tore up a-steddyin' 'bout the crap.”

“The crap wouldn't count if Hannah had a shavin' o' sense,” the old woman struck in sharply.

“Supper's ready, Granny,” Hannah said, and left the room.

“You pesters Hannah moren human, Mertildy,” the old man suggested mildly; “an' she's a good gal.”

“I reckon I knows my own flesh an' blood, John Warren,” his wife retorted; “ an' but for you, I'd larn her some sense, or know why. Si Durket's my own brether's son, an' as good as Hannah Warren will ever git. He's got a plenty, an' is free-handed an' hearty, an' he'll do to look at too. He's a Durket through an' through.”

“All the same, Mertildy, Hannah don't favor Si.”

“Don't favor Si! You makes me weak, John Warren! Do a steer favor a yoke? but thet's all a steer or a yoke is made fur. Gals is the same; an' all yokes is jest alike as fur as I kin see.”

Mr. Warren shook his head, “You've missed the furrer, Mertildy,” he said; “ 'tain't the yoke, hit's the tother steer thet's the trouble. The yoke is fur all, one way or anether, an' we gits our necks sorely galded, thet's true; but hit's the tother steer thet mostly gits us, an' Hannah shan't be yoked ginst her will. You worn't, Mertildy.”

“I reckon the difference would abeen wore out by now, anyhow,” Mrs. Warren answered ungraciously, “an' I'd abeen jest as well pleased”; and she left the room.

For more than a year Si Durket had been courting his cousin Hannah. Hannah's father and grandfather had supported her in saving no, agreeing that a man who could strike his mother and curse his old father, was not to be desired; but Mrs. Warren championed Si vigorously. That a woman lived who could refuse a Durket, she would not believe. A Durket who would be rich when his father died, for there was much land and only two brothers to divide it; further, a Durket who had been to school. Mrs. Warren had a great contempt for education, nevertheless she urged Si's “larnin” as a point in his favor.

Another potent cause for Mrs. Warren's earnestness was that the wife of Si's brother Dave, a young woman from a town, had openly laughed at Si's choice of Hannah, a country girl who had never been out of Lost Cove a half dozen times in her life, and who was poor compared with some girls Si might have won.

These considerations did not sway Si, but he was keen enough to repeat this speech to his Aunt Warren, who in her rage declared that Hannah should marry Si, if only “to down thet sassy hussy, Minervy!” And Si, seeing how work and poverty were pressing the girl, felt his hopes rise.

Mr. Warren was troubled for Hannah in the present crisis, still he felt that any work was better than marrying a man she despised. Hard work made rest sweet, he thought, as he sat by the fire weary and disabled; made any food seem good, and left a peaceful satisfaction when the day was done, when one could smoke one's pipe and think of the long dark furrows, and the well-stacked wood-pile, and the cattle penned from harm, and think that, when the winter came, there would be a plenty and to spare. Ay, work was a good friend. But now his son was gone, and he could do nothing. It was hard on the girl.

“He knocked hisn's mammy—he's hard.” The musing ended aloud, and Hannah, coming in with his supper, heard him.

“I'll never tuck him,” she said, in her soft slow voice, as she put the cup and plate on a chair near the old man. “Si kin cuss, an' Granny kin blate, I'll tuck hit, but I'll never tuck Si.” She kneeled on the hearth with her hands fallen together in front of her. “An' 'bout the crap, Gramper, I 'llows I kin git thet Dock Wilson what's come to the Cove to he'p me do the plowin', an' Granny kin drap, an' I kin kivver.”

“Don't say nothin' to Granny 'bout drappin', chile,” the old man said, with patient experience in his voice, “hit 'll jest gie her anether handle to grind on.”

“Jest so,” Hannah responded; “but, Gramper, if Dock's like hisn's stepmammy he'll strike fur high wages.”

“Thet's true as true, an' thar ain't no money.”

“Thar's things to sell,” Hannah suggested; “I could tuck ole Bess, an' pack truck to the 'versity.”

“Peddle!” the old man said, in a lowered tone; “a Warren woman peddle?”

“Hit ain't no sin.”

“No, but no Warren woman ain't never peddled yit—never yit!”

“You said onest that I could go,” the girl persisted; “an' hits peddlin', or hirin out, or marryin' Si, Gramper.”

“That's true, gal; but I hates hit.”

“No moren I do, Gramper.” Then hearing a chair pushed back in the kitchen, she rose. “I'll hev to git wood to-morrow,” she added, “but I'll go on Friday. Don't say nothin' to Granny.”

Mr. Warren nodded, and Hannah, taking the cup and plate, reached the door just as her grandmother entered.

“The cawfee's 'bout out,” she said, “an' the sugar's right low too.”

“I knows hit, Granny.”

“An' I can't git on 'thout cawfee an' sugar.”

At the time this story opens, the railway station, known as Sewanee, consisted of a few shops, the post-office, and one or two small houses, built about a barren square. From this a broad road led to the “University,” and the other end of Sewanee. Up this road the butcher and shoemaker had planted some locust trees in front of their shops, and beyond them the confectioner had laid a stone pavement for the length of his lot, and planted some maple trees, that, in the autumn, burned like flames of fire. Beyond the confectioner's the road was in the woods for a short space, then more houses. About a half mile from the station this road ended in another road that crossed it at right angles, and up and down this the University town was built.

Between the houses, between the public buildings, wherever any space was left free from carpenters and stone masons, the forest marched up and claimed its own, while the houses looked as if they had been convinced of their obtrusiveness, and had crept as far back as possible, leaving their fences as protection to the forest, and not as the sign of a clearing.

Very still and bare the little place looked on the gray March morning, when, under Mrs. Wilson's guidance, Hannah made her entrance as a peddler. Down the road, beaten hard by the rain, and dotted here and there with clear little pools of water, Hannah led old Bess, bearing the long bags, in the ends of which were bestowed the apples and potatoes, the bucket of butter being fastened to the saddle.

They had not stopped at the station, for Mrs. Wilson said the people in the town paid better prices.

“They don't know no better than to tuck frostbit 'taters,” she explained, “an' they'll give most anything fur butter jest now. All the 'versity boys is come back, an' butter's awful sca'ce. To tell the truth,” pushing her long bonnet back, “thar ain't much o' anything to eat right now. What with layin' an' scratchin' through the winter fur a livin', the hens is wore out, an' chickens ain't in yit, an' these 'versity women is jest pestered to git sumpen fur the boys.”

Hannah listened in silence. She had her own ideas about trading, and besides had very scant respect for Mrs. Wilson, either mentally or morally. She knew that her things were good, but she was determined to ask only a fair price for them. It was bad to cheat people because they were simple or “in a push.” She was in a push herself, and felt sorry for them.

“An' ax a leetle moren you 'llows to git,” Mrs. Wilson went on, “kase they'll allers tuck some off. Thar air a few that jest pays what you says, or don't tuck none, an' I axes them a fa'r price.” They stopped at a gate as she finished, and she directed Hannah to “hitch the nag an' stiffen up.”

“I ain't feared,” Hannah answered, while she made old Bess fast, “but I ain't usen to peddlin', an' I don't like hit, nuther.”

Mrs. Wilson laughed. “Youuns Granny keeps on a-settin' you up till nothin' ain't good enough,” she said. “Lots o' folks as good as ary Warren hes been a peddlin' a many a year.”

It had been a successful day, and as Hannah rode through the falling shadows, with Mrs. Wilson mounted behind her, her heart felt light. She had the coffee and the sugar, besides two dollars toward the plowing, and three bushels of apples engaged, making five dollars—to her a fortune, And this success would mitigate the displeasure of her grandmother, unless talk from the Durkets reached her; that would stop everything.

But above all, she had looked into a new world, and her life seemed to have changed. All the fear of Sewanee was gone. The people up there were strange; that is, different from any people she had known, but she liked them. She was anxious to see that “Miss Agnes” again. She would take more potatoes to-morrow, and some meat; there was no telling how much she might make.

“Where are you off to, Max?” The young man addressed was adjusting a shabby gown with much precision.

“To Miss Welling's,” Max answered, as with the same care he put on his square cap.

“If I had such a fossil gown,” his companion went on from the bed where, though the day was young, he was lounging with a cigarette between his lips, “and such a crummy mortar-board, I'd not put them on with such solemnity and jurisdiction.’ ”

“If you could show such a cap and gown, Melville, you'd not be a ‘Squab’ ”; and taking up some books, Max left the room.

It was early, but formal visiting hours were ignored in the village of Sewanee, and people kept open house, and “dropped in” on each other when they liked. So Max dropped in and found Miss Welling sewing.

“I have brought the book I spoke of,” he began, without further greeting. “This poet ought to capture you, to convert you to himself, for he makes one long to live bravely.”

“Or die bravely,” Agnes suggested.

“To live is harder. Death cannot be dodged, so there is no use in being afraid; but many things in life can be dodged. I often wonder if education makes any difference in the way one meets death. Is it easier for these country people to let life go than for us?”

“They live like moles,” Agnes said, “in comparison we are squirrels; and I think they take a pride in dying. I think the ignorant die calmly because they do not know, and the educated because they do know.”

“What?”

“What? why—why, everything; which comprehensive everything is, after all, very limited. Still I believe in education. I know that educated people are happier and better.”

“Whew!” and Max pulled his mustache slowly. “If I were sure of that, I should this day begin a crusade with a ‘blue-backed’ spelling-book as my banner. And you,” leaning forward a little, “your duty is to begin at once to teach. If once we realize what is best to be done for our fellows, we must do it.”

The door opened and Hannah stood before them with a sack of apples across one shoulder. “Hardy,” she said, her face lighting up as she caught sight of Agnes; “har's youuns apples.”

“I am glad to see you,” and Agnes held out her hand. Max looked from one to the other curiously, then placed a chair near the fire for Hannah. “It is cold,” he said. Hannah looked at him a moment, then taking off her long bonnet, sat down on the edge of the chair.

“Yes, and she has come a long way,” Agnes answered for her, then turned away to call the servant. Max took up the bag and followed Agnes into the next room, and she going still further, he returned to his place. Hannah watched him until he came back, then looked at the fire, and Max watched her. It was a beautiful face as he saw it now with the firelight on it, and he spoke to her.

“What Cove do you come from?” he asked.

“Lost Cove.”

“Then you must be connected with Mr. John Warren, and with his son?”

“He's my Gramper,” she answered, in a surprised voice; “and hisn's son, Joshaway?”

“Yes; I met them out hunting last October.”

“Joshaway were my Par”—the voice faltered, and the eyes sought the fire. “He were killed in November.”

Successful as before, Hannah was happy, for, besides a little bag of flour, she had more money than she intended to show even to Mr. Warren. If he knew of this surplus he might reveal it in order to save her from hard words; and if Mrs. Warren knew, it would be stored away and she be left as helpless as before. She had made a long détour to reach the Wilsons' and engage Dock to plow, as she had the money to pay him. She would say four dollars, the rest she must save for other purposes.

Once more on the main road, she urged old Bess on. There was much excitement in her position, and she was anxious yet afraid. How would it be possible to see Mr. Warren alone first? She stopped the horse. “If I keeps on bein' afeard o' Granny,” she said aloud, “I'll do sumpen rale mean some day.” Old Bess was urged on again. “I'll go right in an' face her, crooked chance or straight chance.” She dropped the reins on the horse's neck, and took the old deer-skin purse from her pocket. It was quite full with her two days' gains, and she drew a long sigh. She took out all the money save the four dollars intended for Dock's wages, and tying it up in her glove, hid it in her bosom, then put the purse back in her pocket.

“Hit looks right sneakin', but I must save hit 'ginst Si.”

Reaching the gate, she unsaddled the horse with unusual celerity, and shouldering the saddle and the little bag of flour, went quickly into the house.

It had been a long and weary day to the old man. Hannah's errand was a bitter pill to Mrs. Warren. She had never done such a thing in her life, nor was it customary with women of her station. In those early days, “the man who would let his women-folks peddle was a poor sort of man.” But the concealment of the expedition had wounded Mrs. Warren also.

Often she had complained that she did not understand Hannah, for though she usually held herself very much aloof, Hannah would yet do work and associate with people that shocked Mrs. Warren, and the irritation caused by what she deemed the girl's peculiarities was a very constant thing.

“Dock Wilson!” Mrs. Wilson stood in the open door of her small log-house. Dock turned and looked from where he sat on the wood-pile whittling, but did not answer, and she raised her voice, “Dinner's done, an' I wish you'd come!”

Dock went on with the whittling, whistling softly. He was tall and fair, with a grave, kind face and his eyes were true. His stepmother, Lizer Wilson, ruled him “to the last notch,” people said, but Dock had his own code and went his quiet way, with few words or friends. He had not been in the Cove long. When old man Wilson was dying, he sent for this son; and since his father's death Dock had worked faithfully for his stepmother and her two boys.

In Mrs. Warren's eyes he was contemptible. “Any man that kin stan' Lizer Wilson must hev cotton insides,” she would say conclusively, and Hannah began to think of Dock with sympathy.

Monday was bright, and only cold enough to remind people that frost might still come to harass them. An exquisite morning, with that “sense of tears in mortal things” that seems ever to veil the glory of the spring.

Agnes Welling always declared that she liked Sewanee much better in winter than in the rush of summer gayety. Question her, and it would be found that by “winter” she meant from the end of August to the first of July. From the crisply cool days of September, when the first touch of crimson is on the tall black gums, and the blue gentian bells bloom by the clear, brown streams; when the white shell flowers, like fallen stars, look up from among the shadowy ferns, it is as a dream—a dream where the air is sweeter than life; where the sky melts into illimitable depths of blue, and the purple haze, like the shadow of light, spreads over all the land. Then, in the great, still forests, the leaves float down softly, tenderly to death; the nuts fall—the squirrels drop from limb to limb—the brilliant lizards bask in the last warm sun, and the partridges whir up and away from their hiding in the dry, brown leaves. Through the long white winter, when the trees bend with the weight of ice, and the snow hushes all to the silence of death—when the pulse of nature beats so slow, and only the cold winds cry and move. Through all the sweet waking of the flowers, and the fresh budding of the trees—through the glory of June to the glare of July—all this Agnes called “winter.” And leaning on the gate this Monday morning, she thought, “Only to live is enough.”

“A penny for your thoughts!” and Max Dudley joined her.

“I am mooning over the seasons, wondering which I like best.”

“Which is the saddest? Tell me that, and I will tell you which you like best. Young people, ignorant of sorrow, have usually a leaning toward the melancholy.”

Mrs. Warren's attack seemed to have taken all hope out of Hannah's life, for opposition to the old woman's will might mean death. She longed to go away and work, and send the money back, but she could not. For years her father and grandfather had lived lives of purest self-abnegation, and as they had borne so she must wait and bear; and some words her father used to say seemed now to have been the keynote of his life, “Hit's easier to hurt than to heal,” he would say, and leave the house to smoke his pipe outside. And now, as she rode through the glancing lights and shadows of the sweet spring day, she had a great longing to tell her father that she understood him now, and would follow in his footsteps. “I'll do jist what he done, kase if I kills Granny, all he done is gone fur nuthin', an' what he planted shell be gethered.” She had been taught by example, and the lesson had gone very deep.

Mrs. Warren had refused to talk the night before, and this morning had spoken only to find fault and to order the doctor. This would diminish Hannah's savings sorely, and there was an unacknowledged suspicion in Hannah's mind that the physician had been called on purpose to absorb this money. In this, however, she was mistaken, and this demand for medical attention was a pledge of safety. Mrs. Warren was far more afraid of having another fit than Hannah was of causing it. The thought of death coming in this sudden way terrified her, and she was pitifully eager to avoid it. All her life she had been superstitious about the number three, and now saw death in the third fit.

She had dressed herself and put things to rights as usual; then, taking her knitting, sat down near the window, watching, with miserable but silent anxiety, for Hannah. She was feverishly anxious that things should seem as at other times, and the deprecating tenderness of her husband was dreadful to her. “For the Lord's sake, John Warren, quit a-whinin'!” she cried nervously; “you needn't be afeared that I'm agoin' to hev any mo' fits. But Hannah's got mo' sperret 'an any Warren I ever seen. Hit's better to git mud on you by prancin' 'an by crawlin', but she ain't a-goin' to prance on me.”

Hannah found things so much as usual on her return that Sunday began to seem like a bad dream. “The doctor's a-comin',” she said; then, as Mrs. Warren neither looked up nor answered, she turned to leave the room.

“Ain't thar nothin' mo' to tell?” Mrs. Warren said sharply. She was anxious to be diverted, and angry because she knew that, in her absence, Hannah would have much to tell Mr. Warren. Hannah came back and knelt in front of the fire. “Miss Agnes were leanin' on the gate, an' Mr. Dudley,” she began; “an' I tole 'em I come fur the doctor kase you were sick, an' they were mighty sorry; an' Mr. Dudley says if thar were anything he could do, jest to let him know.”

“I'd be rayly proud to see Mr. Dudley,” Mr. Warren said, as Hannah paused; “when he talks I think I'm hearin' the paper read.”

“An' the doctor axed a-many a question,” she went on, “an' he prophesied thet you'd be up 'ginst I got home, an' you is.” The old woman listened eagerly; if the doctor could tell that much from questions, perhaps he could cure her entirely. She felt much happier, and answered Hannah's next question amiably.

“Yes, you kin make a few biscuit, an' make some rale strong cawfee; I reckon the doctor 'll tuck a swaller.”

From inertia solely, Mrs. Warren had fallen into the habit of staying at home, until at last she looked upon it as a virtue. From this she came to rail mercilessly on those whose habits were different, calling them “slip arounds” and “light heels,” and other unpleasant names that made her own going impossible, except in cases of necessity. But this journey was such a necessity, and Mrs. Warren enjoyed it in spite of its occasion, or, rather, because of its occasion, for nothing makes people so important as affliction. The Warrens and the Durkets stood on the same social level, and as the two aristocratic lines met in Mrs. John Warren, she was regarded as a very important person, indeed; and, assisted by her temper and tongue, she kept people greater than Lizer Wilson in much awe. Of course it would be noised abroad that Mrs. John Warren was coming, and this would insure a gathering of the “upper ten” from all the valleys. People would come even from the “Beech settlement.” The Budds would be there: not as rich as the Durkets, but more traveled, for they had been not only to Nashville and Chattanooga, but one member of the family had penetrated as far as Atlanta on the one side and Memphis on the other. Thus, although without the blood of the Durkets, the Budds had achieved a position that in some respects rivaled theirs. Then Dave Durket, Jr., had married Minerva Budd.

Mrs. Warren knew that she was going where she would be treated with some distinction, and was pleasantly excited. She shuddered once or twice when she remembered that Jane Harner had probably spread the report of Hannah's peddling, and as the exploit could not be denied, she must tell them that Hannah had gone to visit a friend in the University. It was true that Mrs. Warren had a contempt for Sewanee, and so far had ignored it; but the Sewanee people could not be despised save for their thriftlessness, born of love of books; for no one could prove that they were not as well born as any family in the valley. They behaved as if they were above their neighbors, but this mistake, she felt, came of that same pride of knowledge. Young Mrs. David Durket, Mrs. Warren's dearest foe, was a graduate of a country college, and thought herself learned, but she knew no Sewanee people, and if Mrs. Warren could emphasize the fact that Hannah had friends among these new people, who ate and drank books, it would be pain to Mrs. Dave. Further, she could say that one combining Durket and Warren blood could do what she pleased. She went so far as to acknowledge to herself that she had made a mistake in railing at the girl, and in not presenting this view of things to Si; for Mrs. Warren still clung to the thought of the Durket alliance. This visit could be turned to good account, if used properly, and enable her to rectify many things. She had never been able to prove that her brother had cheated her out of her share of the property, but she knew that it had happened only because of her absence. Her brother had taken the position that his father did not want the property divided, and that he, David Durket, would, in his turn, leave the land intact to one son. And Si thought, and the community thought, and Mrs. Warren was sure, that the heir would be Si; for the other son, David, was weak-minded.

But David had married a woman, Minerva Budd, who was far from weak-minded. She never resented the opinion that Si should be the heir; instead, she made much of Si; almost as much as she made of the old man, who never before had received such flattering attentions.

It was a long, rough ride across the mountains, and Mrs. Warren was tired before her horse began to bog along the red clay valley, and was thankful when at last she arrived.

Nothing seemed changed since her girlhood. The fences seemed the same, with about the same number of rotten and of missing rails. She seemed to see the same cows and horses— the same stumps. She could swear to the stumps—for who ever wasted time on a stump? The inclosures about the house were absolutely unchanged, only that the apple trees looked a little older. The branch was full, as always in the spring, and she could have declared that the geese had not changed even a feather.

Si came out and helped her down, looking supernaturally solemn. Mrs. Dave waited in the doorway. Her front hair painfully frizzed, long earrings in her ears, her stumpy fingers much beringed—and her jaws working patiently and doggedly on a piece of “chewing gum,” for, in spite of her travels and mental attainments, she had retained that barbarism.

When Hannah arrived, everybody who could be expected was at the Durkets'. Eating and drinking were going on briskly in the kitchen; and Jane Harner and her friend Mincy had become so confidential as to assist each other in filling the baskets under the back steps. Mrs. Warren greeted Hannah affably, Minerva gushingly, and Si, though flushed and excited by the morning's potations, was a little timid in his welcome. Minerva saw instantly that, as far as material went, Hannah's black frock surpassed her own, and, though strangely straight, it was not unbecoming to the tall, fair girl. She saw, too, that the brown hair rippled without any frizzing —that her skin was as smooth as ivory, and Minerva felt herself at a great disadvantage in the presence of this girl from “over the mountain.” Nor could she account for the way in which people treated Hannah. Even Jane Harner, who had told scornful tales of the peddling, waited on her obsequiously; and when they entered the room where Brother Billingsly waited to “preach the funeral” Minerva saw that Hannah drew all eyes as she sat close beside her grandmother. Mrs. Warren saw it, too.

Preacher Billingsly did not make the sermon long, but he drew it very strong. He wound up with, “He was a dootiful son to his aged parents, a lovin' brother to his only sister, a devoted husband to his departed wife, a true father to his children. An' when his call came, his sins and justice was his cry. ‘Justice—justice!’ he cried. An', now havin' done justice, he is at rest a-playin' on his golden harp, wavin' his silver wings, an' a-singin' hallelujah! Not for him do we weep, but for his sister an' his niece a-settin' here, for his sons an' daughter-in-law a-standin' here, for his brother-in-law over in the Cove. For these we weep. Yea, we shed tears, yea, we mourn an' beat our breasts; yea, we cry and plead for help for these bereaved ones. Help me to cry—help me—help me!” Immediately moans and groans began, and Minerva fell down in hysterics.

Then, one by one, the family approached and took farewell of the corpse, all kissing it except Hannah. With folded hands she stood a moment, then moved away, and Si swore a silent, mighty oath that some day he would “break that sperret.” The people filed slowly round the coffin and out the door into the yard. The top was laid on the coffin, and the coffin put into a farm wagon. Dave drove, with Preacher Billingsly beside him. Si and Dr. Slocum took their seats on the coffin. Then the procession moved: Mrs. Warren and Mrs. Slocum in Dr. Slocum's lopsided old buggy; Minerva and Hannah following in the Durkets' equally old vehicle, whose back curtain, the top being down, hung almost to the ground; Mrs. Billingsly and Mrs. Budd in Preacher Billingsly's buggy, which had many points in common with the others. After that people came as best they could on foot, on horseback, and in wagons, winding down the muddy lane to where, on the edge of the woods, on the first swell of the mountains, was the new graveyard of the Durkets.

The coffin was put on two boards laid across the open grave, the top removed, and amid groans and cries the strange ceremony of the “last far'well” began. Minerva, Mrs. Budd and Jane Harner yelled; Mrs. Slocum and Mrs. Billingsly groaned and rocked. Mrs. Warren, being afraid of excitement, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, and scolded Hannah under her breath. “You kin holler jest as good as Minervy Budd,” she said, “an' ain't a-doin' hit— hit's scannalous—jest scannalous!” But Hannah stood unmoved. The drawn, dead face looking so cold under the gray sky; the wind making strange noises in the bare trees as it swept down the mountain; the screams and cries —all brought back her father's funeral, that had been terrible to her. She only shivered a little when her grandmother spoke.

The coffin lid was screwed on, and during this operation Hannah saw Si retire to the wagon and seek comfort in his bottle. After this she watched him with some anxiety. She knew what would come next, and longed to draw her shawl up over her face, but she was afraid of what might happen if she did not watch, so she only pulled her long bonnet on a little farther, and watched Si.

The lowering of the coffin into the grave, and the beginning of a hymn by Preacher Billingsby, were the signal for a general row. Si jumped down on the coffin, yelling like a maniac. Minerva fell on Dr. Slocum in hysterics, while Dave and Mrs. Billingsly and Mrs. Budd mingled their tears and groans. On rolled the hymn, and in was shoveled the earth until Si stood ankle deep; then the Budd brothers pulled him out and laid him in the wagon dead drunk. At last it was over. The crowd dispersed, save the Slocums and Billingslys and Budds, who went back for another night at the Durkets'.

The next morning an early beginning was made. Mrs. Dave seemed to be in a state of suppressed excitement that made her silly, for at breakfast she asked Mrs. Warren how soon she would leave. It was a most unusual question. Mrs. Warren listened in contemptuous astonishment, then made answer to the company at large. “Minervy Budd had better larn her place.” Minerva giggled with what seemed pronounced insanity, and answered, “Too the best of my knowledge Durket farm is my place.” Si looked up angrily. “Mind youuns eye, Minervy”, he said. Minerva giggled again, but, Preacher Billingsly shaking his head, she said no more.

After breakfast Mrs. Warren desired to know how things were left. Si said that Preacher Billingsly would read the will, he having drawn it up. They gathered about the fire with the will. It was soon read, and left everything to his son, Silas Durket. Mrs. Warren nodded, saying, “Hit's bad Dave ain't got a rich gal.” Minerva smiled. Si looked expectant, but no one congratulated him, and Jane Harner in the background thought that things looked strange. Presently Brother Billingsly cleared his throat and began an exhortation on the vanity of riches. Mrs. Budd and her sons, Mrs. Slocum and Mrs. Billingsly, moved their chairs, making a sort of circle about Minerva and Dave. Mrs. Warren smoked. Si watched for a pause in which to go for another drink. Hannah longed to be gone. After a preamble, Brother Billingsly made the direct statement that Grandfather Durket had been unjust to his daughter, Sister Warren.

Mrs. Warren took her pipe from her lips and turned her face to the speaker, but Brother Billingsly was looking at Si. He went on to say that he had never held the old man responsible for the injustice; that he and many others had suspected that his son, Mr. David Durket, had compelled him to do this. On Sunday these suspicions had been verified, for Mr. Durket had confessed that he had used violence to compel his father to leave him the property, and that ever since he had been followed by his father's spirit, which could be proved by all who had witnessed his death.

Brother Billingsly paused to wipe his lips. Jane Harner drew nearer—Hannah leaned forward—Mrs. Warren's face grew stern—Si, rising, leaned against the mantelpiece with a terrible expression in his eyes, and Minerva's silly smile gave place to a look of apprehension. Brother Billingsly smoothed down his back hair, then proceeded with what seemed a narrative.

He had come over on Sunday, he said, to see Brother Durket concerning his spiritual condition. He had found Dr. Slocum, Mr. Reub and Sam Budd, and their mother. In the mercy of Providence it seemed to be arranged that these witnesses should be there. Before them all Brother Durket had confessed his sins, telling the means he had used to intimidate his old father and get all the property; that long ago he had repented, and now wanted justice done; that as his father had been treated so he had been treated, and driven by his son into making an unjust will; and that before it was too late, and while he was supported by these dear friends, who were not to reveal it, nor to leave him until he was buried—he would make a just will.

Reub Budd changed his position so as to be between Brother Billingsly and Si, and put his hand back under his coat.

Billingsly now produced a paper which he explained was a certified copy of the last will, which had been deposited with the Clerk of the County Court for safety. This will read that the tract of land known as Durket Farm was to be divided into two parts; the line to be drawn from the “big gum” that marked the limit on one side to the “mile-stone corner” which abutted on the public road; that this line leaving the buildings and the spring on one half, making it the most valuable half, his sons must draw lots for it. All stock and tools must be divided by arbitration. That he had not left anything to his sister, as she seemed satisfied and as her granddaughter, Hannah, marrying Si, would get her share.

There was a deadly pause, and Hannah, moving her chair, seemed to touch a spring. Everyone sprang up, and Mrs. Warren, dashing her pipe into the fire, said hoarsely: “Hit's a damned lie, Joe Billingsly—a lie, an' you know hit!”

“A lie!—a lie!” Si screamed, and raised a chair; but Reub Budd covered him with a pistol, and the chair fell with a crash. Reub's action seemed to quiet things, and let Brother Billingsly's voice be heard insisting that they were Christians and this a Christian will, and the sooner the lots were drawn the better. This suggestion relieved the tension. Si realized that half the farm was gone; still, he might draw the most valuable part, and if he could stay in the old house and kick the Budds out, he would not feel that he had fallen so far. He longed to begin the kicking, and agreed to draw lots immediately. Two broom straws stuck in cracks of the wall would be the method and Jane Harner be the tool, she bein' uninterested. She was not allowed to approach the company, and received her orders from Dr. Slocum, who said, in a loud voice:

“Break two straws from the broom—one long and one short; stick them in two cracks, one each side the fireplace in Brother Durket's room; then go out and slam the front door after you, and wait in the yard.” Jane, looking, half out of her wits, went her way, breaking up more than one straw on the journey. The awfulness of going alone into the room where the “hant” had rocked in the chairs, and where all day yesterday the corpse had lain—and the more mundane terror of having a hand in the division of the Durket property shook her being to its foundations, for the Durkets were fierce and reckless. Hurriedly she stuck the straws in cracks so far apart that if one projected a little more it could not be detected. Then she scurried out, giving the door a great jerk. What a hollow, reverberating, awful sound it was!

Si started with an oath. Why had he let them put the straws in his father's room! It was there he had struck his mother—it was there he had intimidated his old father. He shivered as he remembered. How could he have any luck in there? All seemed spellbound until Dave rose. “I'm feared,” he said. This broke the spell, and they moved toward the door in a body. Along the narrow hall they jostled, none wanting to be first or last, and at the open door of the dead man's room they paused in silence. Then Dave said, “I'm feared”—and Minerva pushed him in. Si pushed his way through the group and, following the reluctant David, marched up to the fireplace. He paused; he could not touch the straws; he asked Dave, “Which hand?” and Dave, being left-handed, held up that member, causing his wife to snarl: “Don't he know thet han's unlucky—don't he know nothin'?”

Si knew it, and turned quickly to the right. He put his fingers on the straw, but he did not draw it out until Dave did. One second Si stood still.

“Measure—measure!” came from the group in the doorway. Dave held up his straw, with a smile on his idiot face. It was at least three times as long as Si's!

Reub Budd strode into the room. From one to the other Si glanced, covered with Reub's pistol, then turned. He dashed his heavy heel against a window, driving out frame and glass. One wrench of the wreck with his hand, and he sprang through into the yard and was gone.

“If you had seen Si lip outer thet winder, Gramper, you'd a-been feared he'd kill hisself.” Hannah was telling the story of the will, for Mrs. Warren had stated only the bare facts. She had watched Si's violent exit, then had ordered the horses. She had not said one word of farewell, nor had she spoken during the ride home. Arriving, she had given Mr. Warren an outline, had changed her dress, then sat knitting until supper, as silent as the dead.

The maltreatment of her father, and the defrauding of herself by her brother, were bad, but could be borne, because in her estimation they had aggrandized the Durkets. But that this evil should work for an enemy was intolerable.

When Hannah finished, Mr. Warren shook his head. “Si aint a-goin to kill hisself,” he said, “ner do nothin' to nobody what kin hurt him, 'ceppen when he's drunk. Big talkin' don't make big doin'; hit's these still-tongue folks what's dangerous. An' now I know why Dave Durket ain't hed no luck. Mertildy's daddy were a hard man, but I never 'llowed Dave'd beat him when he got too weak to do nothin'. The Lord 'll wipe the Durkets out if they ain't keerful. I've seen a-many a name go out for the lack o' the Lord's blessin'. Peaceful folks what tries to do right don't make much stirrin', mebbe, but they spreads an' multiplies. But when folks gits biggitty an' tucks all they can git, then if you'll watch you'll see 'em fadin' outer the land. An' folks says mournful ‘Thet's the last one’—they never 'llows thet God done hit kase the folks wornt wuth nothin' by hisn's count. If folks is fine, folks 'llows they oughter live.”

“Minervy's mighty biggitty,” Hannah said.

“But them Budds is mighty keerful; they allers cropes tell they're sure they kin walk. Now they've done crope inter Durket's farm, I reckon they 'll start to stomp. But thar's no luck ner blessin' thar, an' I'm glad we ain't never hed a stick ner a straw frum thar.”

Hannah looked up. “Si ain't got much now,” she said; “won't Granny let me 'lone?”

“Thar ain't no tellin', Honey; Si's a Durket yit. Mertildy is a-steddyin' 'bout sumpen, a-settin' thar so still; but soon she can't hold hit, an' then I'll know. I never pesters her tell she gits done a-steddyin'; then I 'grees tell I works her round. But sayin' no at fust settles her fur ever-and-ever, an' she'll grind tell she gits what she wants. She gits sorry, too, but she'll die 'fore she'll sesso. Po' Mertildy! I wonder whar Si is?” looking up as Mrs. Warren entered.

“I ain't pestered 'bout Si,” she answered quickly,“ an' if money an' Lawyer Blogs kin get them Budds outer Si's house, they'd better start; for I'll hev my rights now, sure.”

“You didn't surely git youuns shar', Mertildy, but we hev plenty.”

“John Warren,” looking at her husband severely, “you knows I ain't greedy ner gredgin'; but young Dave is a fool, an' no pusson gainsays hit; an' as fur Minervy Budd,” slapping her hands together, “if I jest could box her ears oncest, she'd not chaw none fur a-while. Gosh!” and taking a piece of corn-cob and a knife from her pocket, she began to hollow out a pipe-bowl. “An' them two fools shent hev the ole place.”

“Ain't you got no pipe, Mertildy?”

“Pipe? I were that mad when Joe Billingsly —I ain't agoin' to call him ‘preacher’ ner brether, nuther—when he were a-readin' thet paper thet I busted my pipe 'ginst the chimbly back. Gosh! I wish I hed a-busted hit 'ginst Joe Billingsly's head. I wisht I hed! An' when I 'members how I jawed Hannah,” looking down at the girl who kneeled in front of the fire, “kase she wouldn't holler at the buryin', I'm mad. If I'd a-knowed what my brether Dave hed wrote in thet paper, I'd never hev gone nighst the buryin', much less hollered.” Screwing a piece of cane into the hole she had made for the pipe-stem, “But I will say thet Hannah Warren never put me to shame 'ceppen as a moaner, an' now I'm glad 'bout thet. An' when I seen Hannah a-stannin' 'longsider Minervy Budd, I says to Betty Slocum, says I, 'If hit ain't fur all the worl' liker horse an' a mule,' says I. But Betty knowed thet the mule were a-goin' in the horse's stable, an' she never said nothin'. But I'll git my shar' if I hes to gie hit to ole Blogs.”

“Gie Durket land to a Blogs?” her husband said, in surprise.

“I'd ruther the Blogs hev hit as the Budds.”

“But the Budds ain't got hit—hit b'longs to the Durkets yit; an' if you tuck hit, hit'll be Warren land or Blogs land one; but leff hit, an' hit's Durket land yit. An' if Si'll do what I say, he'll build him a nice house. If I 'members, thar's a good grove o' trees on Si's side o' the place.”

It had been a desperate night, the rain coming down in straight, relentless streams, and the soft, cloudy morning did not promise much for clearing. Hannah looked after the young creatures to see that none had been drowned; looked hopelessly at the fields, and thought anxiously of the big spring. This was a strange formation in the side of the mountain. A steep path climbed up to it, then climbed down again into a great basin of rock where lay the pool. It had no inlet or outlet—an underground lake, and tradition said that it had no bottom.

This morning when Hannah went for water she climbed up as usual, and, as the path was slippery, made a long step to put her over the top of the basin. The day before she had to go down several feet to dip up the water—to-day she grasped the rock to regain her balance; for the water brimmed up to the top. She stood still in anxious astonishment. She had never seen it so high. She had heard her grandfather say that, once or twice, it had come over; the creek had backed up at the same time from the end of the Cove, the outlet not being large enough, and together they had flooded the little valley. Would there be a flood now? There was not much hope in the soft, gray sky; and she filled her buckets quickly. She must get the pigs and calves to a safe place. She must get Dock to help her. It was early, and her grandmother was just stirring when she went to tell the news. “Lord, Lord!” she heard her grandfather say, then groan as he realized his helplessness. She kindled the kitchen fire, and put on the kettle, then, mounting old Bess barebacked, she rode off to the Wilsons'. Lizer stood in the door of the house, and Dock was at the wood-pile.

“Dock!” she called “Dock, come quick!” and, dropping the axe, Dock ran. Lizer came forward, too, but Hannah had already turned, and, with Dock trotting alongside, was on the way home.

“The spring's clean up to the top,” she explained, “an' yisterday I went down an' seen that the creek was a-backin' up, an' I wants to git the stock to the mountain. Hit'll be awful. Dock.”

It was a dismal scene the next morning. The house was an island, and all things that could float—small coops, chips, brush—were bobbing up and down against the fences, and tapping like persistent ghosts against the house. The fowls that had gone to roost in the loft of the stable were making a great noise, and Hannah laughed as she heard them. “I'll git Dock to ride out an' feed 'em.” As she spoke she heard a cheerful “Git up, Bess,” and a splashing as Dock rode up to the piazza.

The flood seemed to throw Mrs. Warren into a pleasant excitement. She pottered about sweeping out the chips, looking at the hens, and measuring the rise of the water, until Si's voice called from the highroad. Hannah's heart sank. She was not summoned, however, but when she took Mr. Warren's dinner in she saw that there was trouble. She nodded to Si, but he paid no heed, and he and Mrs. Warren went to dinner in silence.

“Si's been done powerful mean,” Mr. Warren said, “they've gin him the po'res' heff o' ever'thing. The Budds done hit, They app'inted Reub Budd to choose fur Dave, an' Slocum for Si. Si says Slocum hed mostly first ch'ice, but tuck the wust every time. Si says Minervy hed Slocum paid. Thar is onjestice been done, an' trouble 'll come. Heaper Si's lan' is in thet ole graveyard, an' he says he's gwine to plow hit up kase thar's Budds an' Slocums buried thar.”

Hannah looked at her grandfather in horror. “Who'd eat thet corn, Gramper? dead folk's corn!”

“Hit's awful; but Si's sot on doin' hit. Surely these is the last days, Hannah, an' folks ain't got no feelin's fur nothin'—no insides o' any kind leff.”

“Hev you hearn, Hannah?” Mrs. Warren asked when she and Si returned from the kitchen, “how they've cheated Si?”

“Yes, Granny, hit's bad. But them Budds don't look straight.”

“If I jest live long enough,” Si said, “I'll sp'ile Minervy. Thar's lots of ways to do hit. I'll ruin any pusson what goes aginst me—” looking straight in Hannah's eyes.

Mrs. Warren would not speak to Hannah the next morning, and ignored the preparations for going to Sewanee. She saw no bundle, only the butter and eggs that always went for coffee and sugar; and she drew the rash conclusion that Hannah had repented. When all was ready, Hannah led the horse to the big gate. Mr. Warren stood there, waiting.

“You're comin' back to-day?” he asked wistfully.

“Yes, Gramper,” then looking down, “Ax Granny what she said to me.”

“I hearn; but furgit an' furgive, or mebbe God 'll furgit an' not furgive.”

“You only hearn some, Gramper.” Then she rode away.

Once more she found Agnes and Max Dudley at the gate.

“Where have you been all this time?” Agnes asked.

The life at Sewanee was a revelation to Hannah.

“You never seen the like, Gramper,” Hannah said, on her first visit home. “They eats the soup, then all them dishes hev to be tuck offen the table; then they hes meat, an' taters, an' sich; then all them dishes hev to be tuck offen the table; then they has raw greens, an' all them dishes hev to be tuck offen the table; then I gits a silver trowel an' scrape that table to get the crumbs offen hit; then they hes sweet mixtry's they calls 'zert; an' cawfee. An' when hits done thar ain't one o' them, 'Fesser Wellin', ner Miss Agnes, ner her leetle nevvy, hev eat a good meal—they picks.”

“Hit seems to me like hit's a heap o' foolishness,” Mrs. Warren said, “an' I don't see whar you gits time fur youuns dinner.”

Hannah flushed hotly. “Oh, I gits time; I eats in the pantry.”

Often after this, Si met the school party. He had ascertained the days on which they went out; and that during the week Hannah and Miss Welling went alone, but that many times Max Dudley walked out to meet them. On Sunday Dudley and Cartright always went. Much of Si's information came from Lizer Wilson, who had told him also of Dudley's escorting Hannah down the mountain. And Si had seen Dudley give his umbrella to Hannah once. A sudden summer shower, and the girl was unprotected at the station. Max handed her his umbrella and joined Cartright.

Cartright had smiled, saying: “She is very handsome, but fancy giving one's umbrella to a servant.”

“She is a woman, and, in many ways, an unprotected one,” Max answered.

“And so you draw attention to her?”

Behind her back Agnes' friends were laughing at her and blaming her; varying their remarks with wonderings as to whether she would marry Cartright or Dudley. Cartwright had money, but Dudley agreed with her in all her fads, especially as to these country people and— her own maid! Meanwhile, Cartright kept Miss Welling in something of a temper about Dudley. Hannah had not had her holiday yet, and for some time had had no word. She was vaguely uneasy, when late one afternoon Dock came to the back door looking very miserable. “Kin I see you, Hannah?”

Hannah came out hastily. “Is Gramper sick, Dock?”

“No, nothin' don't ail nobody; I jest come to git the word 'bout you. Is you well; is all a-goin' well; is you satisfy, Hannah?”

“Yes, Dock,” the misery on his face creeping into her heart. “An' what ails you?”

“Nothin'—nothin.' Jest youuns Granny couldn't sleep last night kase an owl come thar and hollered all night long. I couldn't sleep nuther, an' I jest come to make sure 'bout you; thet's all. Far'well.” He went away, and Hannah's heart sank. Something was wrong and Dock could not help her. Things were quiet after this, but somehow Hannah could not please her mistress. Could Miss Agnes be sick? Then one morning Dock came to say that Hannah was wanted at home, and Mr. Warren would come for her that afternoon. And Dock could explain nothing and escaped as soon as possible.

Very slowly Hannah went to find Agnes; very slowly, for she was weak and cold and trembling. She paused in the dining room to gain composure, and heard voices in the drawing room. It was the high, sharp voice of Mrs. Skinner. “Indeed, for her own sake I would not keep her a moment longer,” she said. “Good or bad, I should send her home. I have always thought her much too handsome for a servant.” Then the voices were lost in the hall as Agnes conducted her visitor to the door.

Only one end of the loft had been made habitable, but on its improvement someone had spent great energy. The bed was neatly made, and by it was the bit of rag carpet that had been in Hannah's room, downstairs. There was no way of making a fire, for the chimneys went through in solid columns; but a bolt had been put on the trap-door that shut the loft from the lower world and air; and the largest cracks in the roof were stuffed carefully with straw. A shelf had been put near the window, and on it was Hannah's little looking-glass. On a box in one corner stood a tin basin and a piece of yellow soap; a rough-dried towel hung from a nail in the roof, and a bucket of fresh water was near.

“Dock done hit,” she said; “if he turned his head away or no, Dock done hit”; and, at this first sign of sympathy, the tears sprang to her eyes. Tears were not for her now, and, brushing them aside, she untied her bundles. She took out her finest apron and best kerchief and, after rearranging her hair, put them on. She was quite conscious of the improvement in her wardrobe and in herself, and was determined to appear at her best. She needed every possible help now.

If her grandfather had stood by her; if her grandmother had not shown her contempt by putting her in the loft—shown it to Dock and Si, and so to the countryside—she might have left her cause to others and broken down; but this treatment, as of one absolutely unworthy, roused her. The experience of a lifetime had swept over her since morning. She had to fight, and she descended to her grandmother's room as if she were an honored guest. She even went so far as to smile as she crossed the lobby, thinking, “Hit's the Durket sperret.”

She did not heed that, after the first glance on her entrance, her grandmother turned her head away, but walked to the fire, and, drawing a chair forward, sat down. Mr. Warren stared. How changed, how grand she was; what had happened? And he looked across at his wife doubtfully.

But there was no doubt in Hannah's manner as she smoothed her white apron, and folded her hands, as she had seen Agnes do; then began quietly to speak words that froze Mr. Warren's blood, almost.

“Granny,” looking at the old woman, “couldn't you have stopped Si's lies? You knew hit was lies, kase you knew me. Hit don't look natteral for you to let 'em do me this bad to skeer me into tuckin' Si, an' you a-knowin' that I ain't skeery?”

Mrs. Warren was knitting, but at the girl's first words her hands began to tremble, then she dropped them and her work in her lap, but did not turn or speak.

“You said some hard words to me afore I went away,” Hannah went on, “words thet no decent gal hed no 'casion to hear; but I never 'llowed you'd let outside folks talk 'bout youuns own flesh and blood. An' I never 'llowed thet you b'lieved hit till you put me up loft.”

Mrs. Warren trembled. Had the last day come that she should be dared like this! She was boiling with fury, but she remembered the third fit, and controlled herself. Her hands were gripped together—her eyes were flashing —her lips were quivering, but when she spoke her voice was quiet.

“I would have stopped it, Hannah Warren, if I hed hearn hit start; but hit were all through the country 'fore I hearn hit. An' I knowed p'int-blank that a-many a ole debt o' mine were patched on to hit, an' I were a-bein' paid off. An' I put you up loft kase hit's good enough for you. An' I hev cussed you, yes, an' all the Warrens; an' I hev cussed Si—yes, cussed him with a blight an' a blain, an' the sufferin' o' death 'thout death!” and rising she left the room.

There was silence until Mr. Warren spoke. “Si's a-stoppin' har,” he said.

“Si!”

“That's hit; youuns Granny kep' him har fur you.”

Hannah rose. Through the window she saw Si coming; then Dock spoke to him, and he turned toward the kitchen.

“Minervy an' Dave's nigh ruined,” Mr. Warren went on, “an' Si hev done hit. He tole hit when he were drunk.”

“An' Si thinks to ruin me.”

“An' he hev done thet—” Mr. Warren rejoined, “through all the country he hev done thet. Jim Blount tole me so, an' Bill Cole tole me so, an' Lizer Wilson an' Jane Harner tole me so. Yes, hit's done done!” clasping his hands as he looked into the fire. “My Joshaway's gal's ruined! I let you talk youuns Granny down, but thar ain't no stoppin' the world, gal, lessen you gits married. An' thar ain't no man but what 'll stop befo' he'll stoop to Hannah Warren—my Joshaway's gal!”

Hannah stood with one hand on the mantelpiece and listened. It was true. She had felt it that morning in Agnes' manner—in the ride through the village, where everyone stared, and no one spoke—felt it in Dock's averted face—in her grandfather's despair—in the very atmosphere —this disgrace so unmerited—so dreadful.

“Si makes a mighty good offer,” Mr. Warren went on; “he says he'll settle hisn's farm on you, if I'll settle this place on youuns chilluns. I tole him I'd done settled hit on you a'ready; an' he 'llowed thet Dave's shar'd come in to you, too, kase Dave hedn't no chilluns, an' hedn't no right to leff the land outen the fambly. Hit looks to me like hit'd be the upbuildin' o' both famblies. An' Si”—looking away from the unwavering eyes of the girl—“Si, drinkin' like he does, ain't a-goin to live much longer.”

There was a pause; then Hannah turned toward the door. “To tuck a man an' watch to see him die o' drink is wussern all that hes been said 'bout me.”

“Hannah!” The despair in the cry stopped her with her hand on the latch. “I've been a-bearin' so much!” raising his clasped hands. “Thar were the talk 'bout you an' Dock—the talk youuns Granny tole you—then come the talk 'bout you an' Dudley. An' every day I hearn hit a-grindin', an' a-grindin', tell I knowed thar worn't no wusser hell. An' when the talk settled an' I poured hit off, the dregs was jest this a-way: Dock wouldn't never dar' to ax you —an' Dudley ain't a-goin' to steddy 'bout you— an' Si jest come in 'twixt the two,” putting his hands over his face; “an' I 'llowed hit would not be sicher a long trial; an' a-many a woman hev stood sich. Oh, God forgive me!”

Hannah crossed the room swiftly, and kneeled by the old man's chair. “Gramper, I kin live the lies down—or go.”

“If you goes the lies will grow like weeds of a rainy summer; an' I can't live 'em down—hit 'll kill me.” Hannah rose. She had no answer for these bitter truths.

At supper she talked a little to Dock, for neither Mrs. Warren nor Si would speak, and Mr. Warren refused all food. Her help in all work being declined, she went outside where the cows were. When Dock came to turn them out he said as he passed, “ 'Pend on me, Hannah, an' don't be skeered into nothin'. I couldn't kill Lizer, she's a woman, but I kin kill Si!” Then Mrs. Warren calling Hannah, he hurried away.

“You called me Granny?” Hannah asked when she reached the old woman. Then she saw that Si stood just within the doorway. Mr. Warren sat bent over the fire. “You called?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Warren answered, “but I ain't a-wantin' you. Si is the fool.”

“I'm axin' fur the last time, Hannah,” and Si half closed his light eyes as he looked at her. “An' mighty few would ax you now.”

“Mighty few, Si,” Hannah answered, “but I won't be beholden to none.”

“What 'll you do? Hope an' pray fur Dudley?” The scorn of the girl's eyes made him look away. Mrs. Warren's clasped hands grew rigid, and the old man lifted up his bowed head. Almost he could have killed the villain!

“Whatever I hopes an' prays fur,” Hannah said quietly, “thar is this fur you to 'member, Si Durket. I kin be druv down to the lowest, but never druv down to tuckin' you—never!” and she smiled as she saw that Lizer Wilson had come in and had heard. “An' I hope you'll tell hit, Lizer Wilson,” she added.

Mrs. Warren started, and reeled a little, then went to her place by the fire. Si looked at the door, but Hannah stood there. She saw his wish, and smiled. “You've hed enough?” she said. “Your jedgment is jest a-startin'; soon this won't seem like nothin'. 'Twont be long 'fore all youuns wickedness comes home—not long”; then she went to her loft.

Dinner was over, and Lizer Wilson was heating irons in Mrs. Warren's room, where the old man sat over the fire. Mrs. Warren was busy in the kitchen—Dock in the yard, while Hannah, not being allowed to help, had wandered off. She had gone to the spring, and sat on the edge of the basin. On one side, through the thick growth of slim young poplars and maples, she could see the valley and fields, and the mountains that shut all in. On the other she looked down to the mysterious pool. It was dark and still, and people said it had no bottom. At Sewanee she had heard this idea laughed at.

Sewanee! she bowed her head on her hands. Her grandmother did not want her; need she stay here? The talk would grow in the valleys, but at Sewanee it would soon die, then Miss Agnes could marry Mr. Dudley, and all would be well. She would be left desolate—but she was only one. Trampled in the dust—left for dead! who cared?

A noise startled her, and she rose quickly, to find Dock standing before her. “Does Granny want me?” she asked.

Dock stood silent, with one hand grasping a young maple until it shivered and dropped its scarlet leaves about him; while the girl watched and trembled as the young maple did. At last Dock raised his head, and his eyes were full of pain and fire.

“Lizer says thet you need not a-been so biggity last night to Si, kase Si only done what he done kase youuns Granny axed him to do hit to save the two famblies. An' there worn't no other man would tuck youuns now.” A fresh shower of scarlet leaves fluttered down about him. “I didn't knock her, kase I ain't never knocked a woman yit. I told her she were a-lyin', an' she knowed hit, an' I were one man thet would lay down an' be chopped to pieces fur you—body an' soul. An' hit's true, Hannah”; and his eyes were filled with a light that would have glorified any face on earth. “Hit's God's truth; but I never would have told hit, 'ceppen fur everybody a-turning 'gainst you. I ain't nobody, an' I knows hit, an' I don't 'llow thet you hev come down to me—thar ain't no sich foolishness in me. But all is a talkin', Hannah—” shaking his head sadly—“an' I kin give you a honest name, an' I kin work fur you, and shoot fur you—an' I would. An' no pusson would dar' to tuck Hannah Wilson's name 'twixt tongue an' teeth to spit hit out, kase I'd kill 'em. An' if you wants to go 'way, I'll go, an' if you wants to stay, I'll stay. An' I'll never cast nothin' in youuns teeth, ner sot up to be no ekal o' yourn. Don't gimme no word now,” he added, swaying the little maple tree back and forth, “but keep it in youuns mind fur sumpen to hold on to.” Then he went away.

Nothing could have shown Hannah the depth of her fall as completely as this offer did. Nothing could have proved as cruelly the hopelessness of her position. That Dock Wilson should dare such a proposition! She sat down again, casting her apron over her head, and rocking herself back and forth. The strength of the man's love had not touched her yet. Hannah Wilson! He had coupled the names. Hannah Wilson! what better than Lizer Wilson? To Agnes Welling and her friends, all were “Covites” together. Was there a true difference? Between herself and Agnes Welling there was a wide difference, but between herself and Dock? And between Dock and the much admired Si Durket? This last difference was plain enough, and Dock's kind face, glorified by his love, rose up before her. Soul and body he would die for her—he would work and fight for her, and never think she had descended to his level! She remembered how he had worked for her and watched over her in the spring—asking no return.

The swaying motion ceased, and her apron fell from over her face. Now he offered to stand between her and the world; and he knew that Si, who made the talk, would keep it alive.

What was the difference between her and Dock? Somehow or other he seemed above her now. Marry Dock, then Miss Agnes would know that the talk was not true, and would marry Mr. Dudley. With the thought of Sewanee there came a vision of her leaden-lined future.

Suddenly the sound of the horn came to her. She looked at the sun; it was not supper-time; what could it mean? Again the sound, and this time more sharp, and someone was waving to her down in the field. Quickly she went, and saw her grandfather beckoning. Before she reached him she heard the words, “Mr. Dudley's to the house—” and her heart seemed to stop. Had Agnes sent for her to come back, and give the talk the lie? She laid hold on the old man's arm to steady herself. The joy shook her as no pain had done.

“Mr. Dudley!”

“Thet's hit. He's come to tuck you away, chile, an' stop the talk. Mertildy's in a mighty takin', an' Lizer Wilson looks like she's been frost-bit. Lord, gal, you are done saved, and nobody 'll dar' to talk no mo'. An' thar'll not be no mo' kitchen fur you to Sewanee.”

“Gramper!” she staggered a little, stopping him with a sudden gasp. “What is you a-sayin'?”

The old man hurried her on, and his voice was a little less tremulous as he repeated his words.

“Come fur me?” the girl whispered. “Mr. Dudley!” and she flung up her hands as one who is mortally wounded. How low—how low she had fallen! She clung to a post of the back piazza, unable to go farther. Dudley came for her—then all thought the worst of her. And Agnes!

“Come on, gal, come on. Mr. Dudley's a-waitin' fur you; an' youuns Granny's a-waitin'. I reckon she's right sorry she put you up loft. An' Lizer Wilson is a-scorchin' all the clothes she's a-tryin' to iron—don't you smell 'em? An' yander she is a-peepin' at you.”

It was cold, but Melville waited patiently at the top of the mountain for Dudley. He would not go farther, for fear of missing him in the dusk, and he had much to tell him. It was a long way he had come to meet his friend, but what he had to say was not for others to hear, and the long walk back would give Dudley time to recover himself.

Presently he heard him coming, and Melville shrank from the task he had set himself. How could he tell Dudley! But Max was upon him by this, and started, as if from a dream. “What has happened?” he asked, and laid his hand on Melville's shoulder.

“I was anxious,” Melville faltered. “What has happened to you?”

“Nothing. The girl refused me. A princess could not have done it more grandly; and the old grandmother died in a fit. But what ails you?”

“Cartright—”

“Well, Cartright?” and leaning against a tree, Dudley took off his cap and passed his hand wearily across his brow and eyes. The scenes in the Cove had tired him more than he had realized until now, and now he felt almost too weary to go farther. “What about Cartright? He knew where I was gone; has he posted me for a fool?”

“Worse than that.”

Dudley started forward, taking hold of Melville. “What has he dared to say!”

“About you? Nothing. It is—it is Miss Welling.” The grasp on Melville's shoulder became almost unbearable. “Oh, Dudley, Cartright is engaged to Miss Welling! Asked her at noon—announced it at once, and Mrs. Skinner says that Professor Welling is ‘immensely pleased.’ I told you Cartright was working for his own ends; and I thought that you would like to have a walk after hearing. So I slipped away; nobody knows I am come.”

There was a moment's silence, then Dudley turned homeward, walking slowly.