III.

The energy of a persecutor for conscience’ sake is a robust endowment. Untrammeled by the sense of any personal shortcomings, by doubts, or extenuations, or denials; devoid of compassion or sympathy; insistent, blind, unreasoning, it affords unique opportunity for the display of consistency.

Teck Jepson, as he strode along the red clay road toward the purple slopes, to meet a dun-colored mist rolling down from the black cloud, bore a strong heart within him, and the testimony of a conscience essentially his own. He encountered rebuke, or remonstrance from those trudging on in company by the stalwart declaration, “Ez the Lord bade me, so I did act!” His manner implied a fierce elation, and his tall massive figure, his free strong gait, his erect head, were conspicuous in the midst of his more slouching companions. He flung the sonorous phrase over his shoulder, heedless whether it were answered or how, and often the interlocutor was silenced by this assumption of a subtly delegated authority. But there sometimes ensued excited argument among the portion of the congregation that chanced to go his way. In it he took no part; now and again he lifted his voice in the final chant of the meeting, “Grace is mine; I hev got my sheer!” joining the refrain, as it was sung afar off amongst groups wending northward or southward. Sometimes only a white-covered wagon was visible in the distance on some high slope, rounding a precipitous curve at the verge, and then disappearing in the dense foliage; and again the presence of the dispersing worshipers was merely intimated by the song rising faint and far from the deep coverts of the mountain, mournfully ringing from crag to crag, and now and then accentuated by a crash of thunder.

Often the comments of his companions assumed the third person, so imperatively did his manner imply the withdrawal of his attention:—

“I say, ‘Ez the Lord bid him’! Shucks! The Lord ain’t studyin’ ’bout Teck Jepson,” declared Joe Bassett, one of the horsemen who had watched the scene from the defile. “The Lord hev fairly furgot the critter war ever created,” he continued, thus arrogating also intimations from above. “An’ hyar’s Teck jes’ a-settin’ back an’ purtendin’ ter be gifted with wisdom from on high!”

He swung his feet in a disparaging manner in and out of his stirrup-irons, and rolled about in the saddle with an air burlesquing exaggerated importance. He was a tall, good-looking fellow, with a bronzed face and “sandy” hair and beard.

But when Parson Donnard rode by, the respect for Teck Jepson’s views was enhanced by the reminder of the pastor’s acquiescence. He cast his excited light gray eye upon Jepson. The young man glanced up,—not with the manner of seeking countenance or needing support; it was with the confident expectation of approval that he said, “Ez the Lord bade me, so I did act.”

“Follow the voice of the Lord, brother,” responded the parson’s deep bass tones, and so he rode on.

He had an ascetic visage, with a hollow temple, a thin hooked nose, a long, firm upper lip that closed with a fixed expression upon the lower, which was equally as thin and straight. He was keen on doctrinal points, and had severely elective theories as to admission through the golden gates. In fact, heaven would be somewhat deserted and sorry as a final resort, if Parson Donnard’s passport were essential. He drove a hard bargain in salvation, and there were those of his flock who feebly sought to resign themselves to damnation, so imminent did it seem under his ministration. He rode a big gray mule, that lifted him high above his people, amongst whom he deftly threaded in and out. His progress was unlike that of the ox-wagons; the burly teams, with their swinging gait to and fro, preëmpted the narrow spaces of the red clay road, and caused the passing pedestrians to betake themselves to the heavily gullied slopes on either side. Numbers of dogs, partakers in all mountain excursions, trotted demurely along under the wagon-beds, or followed close at their masters’ heels. More than once a terrible forked blue flash of lightning rent the clouds, with a simultaneous detonation, significant and sinister. Some tree on the heights had been struck, but only the horses were restive. The women sat, unmarking, crowding the wagons; here and there one, young and slender, rode behind her cavalier on horseback. The rain fell in large, heavy drops, then ceased, and the primitive procession wended its way, under the black clouds, toward the great steeps. It had gradually scattered, dwindled, and the horsemen were far in advance of the others, when Teck Jepson turned into the ragged little bridle-path that led up the mountain. He could distinguish, as he stood here alone, far along the curves of the road, figures whose guise was in some way familiar to him, and thus to be recognized. They suggested to him pilgrims and strangers journeying through life in forlorn and mournful ways. The mountains towered above. A great bird, buffeted by the rising wind, was fain to drift with it across the black sky. The river’s reflection of a flash of lightning, writhing through the valley, betokened the presence of the watercourse among the timber; and suddenly the clouds began visibly to descend, shred by the wind, and here and there slanting into myriads of lines of rain. A hesitating drop fell upon the wide brim of his hat, and then the world was lost in the tumultuous down-pour. Naught could be seen but its serried, dun-colored fibres, save when the lightning flashed through, revealing vague shapes of looming mountain, or rock, or forest. In one of these illuminations, Teck Jepson, walking blindly on, came to a place that he knew. He turned aside, and climbed up a rugged slope toward a great sandstone cliff which jutted out so far that the space beneath must be dry, he thought, while the wind held to its mood. He kept along the sides of the sheer sandstone walls for a time, helping himself by the outspread boughs of the laurel or a pendent vine, till suddenly a great rift in the rock was at hand. He could see the jagged edge of the crag beetling high above; could hear amidst the stormy dash of the rain the slow patter of the drops, falling by twos and threes from the eaves-like ledges. A tall bull-weed, that swung, purple and burly, among the rocks, was dry, and as he turned into the great niche, chill and white and sheltered, he became aware that others had sought the refuge before him. In the depths within a child was standing, and a young girl sat upon a ledge, a great dog beside her, her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand, her eyes fixed on the surging storm without. His cursory glance made sure only that she was a stranger. He hardly noted her start of surprise, her intent gaze suddenly fixed upon him, her murmured response to his succinct salutation, “Howdy!” He sank down on a bowlder that lay near the entrance, leaning back against the ledge above, his elbow on it, and supporting his head in his hand. He, too, looked out at the rain surging before the entrance, enveloping all the world in its dim and misty veil; the bull-weed swayed; the drops that fell on the edge of the stone flooring, as it were, of the niche rebounded slightly, shimmered with a steely glitter, and fell once more. The roar, the aggregated accentuation of every separate drop, was a distinct sound, easily distinguishable from the swirling frenzy of the wind, or the mutter of the thunder, or the turmoil of the noisy rills summoned into existence by the conformation of the slopes. He was as still as if he were carved in stone; a massive figure, not devoid of a certain grace, despite the rude garb of jeans, the high boots drawn over his knee, the drooping curves of his broad hat. The girl had not again glanced toward him, but remained motionless, her chin in her hand, her elbow on her knee, absorbed in her own thoughts. The manners of the ancient hound were less reflective. He sat upright on the ledge, looking out at the chill descent of the rain, elusively commingling with the mist, now and again swayed hither and thither by the pervasive gusts; and as he looked he shivered in every limb, and yawned shrilly and loudly. The inarticulate tones reverberated from the roof of the contracted space, and were repeated unmusically from wall to wall. Teck Jepson glanced up at the disaffected animal, who found this detention so dull, as the dog once more yawned to an unprecedented extent, stretching himself to his extremest length, and rasping his long claws on the stones.

“Hush up!” cried Jepson, in momentary inadvertence.

But the old hound, glad of conversation on any terms, wagged his tail good-humoredly, and came down off the ledge to lick the stranger’s hand. The girl’s face bore a shade of displeasure, although she made no sign that she had heard. Jepson’s eyes fell upon her again. He sat gazing at her, a slow surprise kindling in his face. She took no heed, but looked out at the null mists and the monotonous rain with eyes that seemed as if they never could be dimmed by aught on earth, so pensively lustrous, so crystal-clear, they were. They had long dark lashes, and were of a rich brown color, a tint that was repeated in her curling hair, and suggested to his homely experience the gloss and tone of a chestnut fresh from the burr. Her hair waved backward with a deep undulation, which he called a “cow-lick,” from a brow smooth and white and broad. She had no color in her cheeks, but her lips were deeply crimson and delicately cut, and there was a fine free line drawn from the lower one, defining the chin and her slender throat. Her dark blue homespun dress draped a tall, lithe figure, and the full skirt afforded sufficient amplitude for the old dog to ensconce himself upon its folds and lie wheezingly down, looking out once more at the rainfall, and then closing his eyes in a sort of blinking resignation. Before long he nodded, his lips languishing from their habitual position; his expression would have seemed a clever caricature of himself, if it were intentional. Still she supported her chin in her hand, slightly bending forward, her elbow resting on her knee, her foot, in its little low-cut shoe with its leather lacing, on the stone below. And still Jepson gazed.

“I dunno ez I ever seen ye afore,” he observed presently.

Her eyes turned slowly, as she gravely surveyed him.

“I hev seen ye, a-many-a-time,—at preachin’,” she admitted naively, “at the church-house, and at camp, too.”

Her voice was keyed low, and it had a soft and hesitating accent, as if she were solicitous for the impression conveyed.

“Waal, I don’t see nuthin’ at meetin’,” he observed, with prideful piety. “I be all tuk up with the Word.”

“I’m a perfesser,” she hastily stipulated, sitting upright and looking animatedly at him. “I hev been perfessin’ a right smart time; but—I ain’t—leastwise”—she hesitated,—“the sperit ain’t never hendered me from seein’ some ez air a-goin’ on, though I ain’t gin over ter lookin’ ’bout, nuther.”

“Ye ain’t hed much pourin’ out o’ the sperit, then,” he remarked ungraciously.

“Mebbe not,” she admitted. Then with a sudden thought, “I jes’ tell ye, though, thar’d be a mighty fallin’ off in religion ef the saints couldn’t consort tergether somewhar, an’ see one ’nother, an’ talk an’ laff, arter the preachin’ ’s over. Heap o’ fun goes on at camp, too.”

“Them ez enjyes tharse’fs at camp won’t ’low ’twar sech ticklin’ fun whenst they gits ter blisterin’ in hell, I’ll be bound,” he declared, with pious relish.

She replied uneasily, “Mebbe not.” Then she looked off a little drearily into the rain; for he had a coercively convincing manner, and perhaps she was reviewing with gloomy forebodings the fun she had had at camp-meeting.

It was hardly mercy that prompted him to change the subject or any disposition to mitigate the terrors of future retribution as revealed to him. But he was a young man, and his mundane tendencies were none the less strong because unrecognized.

“That thar yer dog?” he asked trivially.

She responded with brightening interest to the more familiar theme.

“Naw,” she said; “he’s jes’ a sorter—a sorter frien’ o’ mine.” She laughed a little,—a fascinating, elusive gleam upon her grave face, like the flitting presence of a sunbeam in a solemn and solitary place.

“Neighbor’s dog?” demanded Jepson.

“Naw.” Once more the smile rippled across her red lips, showing her even white teeth. “His owner lives toler’ble fur, over ter Chilhowee; but this hyar dog kem a-visitin’ along o’ him, an’ he kem right off’n, an’ the dog got purty well treated, till now the dog—comical old critter,” she laughed, with her hand on the hound’s head—“kems thar ez ef we war expectin’ of him, an’ sets up by the fire like folks. I never seen the beat!”

There was a sudden gleam in Jepson’s eyes; the blue iris had a lighter tint. His lip curled.

“His owner got purty well treated,” he said, with perverse and intentional misunderstanding.

“The dog!” She was fluttered in her haste to correct him. “The dog got purty well treated.”

“Ef he kem so all-fired often,” he observed, “the owner mus’ hev kem a-courtin’.” Then he looked quickly at her.

She flushed to her temples; her eyes were alight with anger; she seemed on the verge of an outburst. Checking herself, she said demurely, “_I_ never thunk so, for one. His owner air eighty year old.”

Teck Jepson had seldom known the twinge of ridicule. He looked away convinced that she was secretly laughing in triumph at his discomfiture because of this adroit turn of the conversation. But when he again glanced at her she had relapsed into her former attitude, her chin in her hand, her foot on the stone, looking out silently and dreamily. Her aspect was little that of a doughty opponent in a war of words, and he took heart of grace.

“That’s fust rate fur a perfessin’ member,” he declared. He did not fail to observe that she winced. “I’ll b’lieve that whenst I see that thar frequent vis’tor’s white scalp, an’ no sooner.”

For a moment it seemed as if she might laugh again. Then she turned upon him with genuine anger, not less serious that it was sudden:—

“I ain’t able ter see what gin ye a call ter meddle in it. The frequent vis’tor ain’t wantin’ ter be baptized, an’ ain’t a-ondertakin’ ter go ter heaven along o’ you-uns or enny other survigrous saint. Ef he kin git the folks he wants ter ’sociate with in this worl’, the Lord’ll hev ter poke him up with a mighty sharp stick ter make him keer ennythin’ ’bout the nex’ worl’. That’s the state o’ the frequent vis’tor. Whenst I see ye kemin’ in this place, whar me an’ my little sister, Is’bel, hed got fust ter keep dry, I’d hev made ye stan outside, ef I’d know’d ye hed no mo’ manners than ter ax me who kems a-courtin’ an’ who don’t. I ’lowed, though, from the way ye cavorted down yander ter the baptizin’, ez ye war powerful perlite an’ pious, bein’ sech a Christian, an’ yer mind warn’t set on courtin’. Talkin’ ’bout courtin’ ter folks ye never see afore!”

“I’ll be bound I know jes’ who ye air,—yer dad an’ all yer folks,” he declared, in hasty self-justification. “’Tain’t ez ef ye’d met up with a stranger,—somebody from North Ca’liny, or the Lord knows whar. I mus’ hev seen ye agin an’ agin, ’ceptin’ I jes’ don’t take much notice o’ young folks,” he added, in a staid, middle-aged manner. “Is’bel,”—he leaned forward and addressed the child, a tousled headed, barefooted, wiry little lass of ten or twelve, who had been listening silently and staring at him,—“what’s yer dad’s name?”

“Eli Strobe,” piped out Isabel.

“Thar, now!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Eli Strobe’s cousin married my half-brother, an’ I hev got ez much right ter talk ’bout courtin’ ez enny frequent vis’tor.”

This conclusive logic seemed to daunt the girl. She offered no further reproof, and there was a sort of diffidence in her defeated mien,—the more as he continued: “I be mighty keerless o’ who air in this worl’; my interus’ air in them ez hev gone afore. ’Pears ter me thar ain’t none lef’ like ’em—none like Samson, an’ Daniel, an G’liath.”

A vague solemnity dawned upon her face, at the mention of these names. She sat listening in brooding silence, her crystal-clear eyes on his face as he talked.

“I wisht I hed lived in them days, herdin’ sheep, or suthin’,” he added.

“Ye’d be dead now,” she remonstrated.

“Air ye one o’ them ez cling ter this mortial life?” he demanded, in rebuke. “It’s jes’ a span, a breath, a mist fur the wind ter scatter.”

“Waal, it be powerful comfort’ble whilst it lasts,” she argued.

He glanced at her and shook his head, and then relapsed into silence. The continuous rain was now glimpsed through the mist, and again sounded dully from out the invisibilities of the vapors. Its monody accented the increasing chill of the air. A broad flicker of lightning, diffused through all the fine gray lines, showed the distant looming mountains and cliffs without, and illumined her pensive face.

“Yes, sir,” he declared, shifting his position, his stalwart figure tense and alert, “none like ’em now. I couldn’t holp thinkin’, whenst I war a witness in the court down yander in Glaston, what pore shakes that thar jedge war compared ter Sol’mon. Sol’mon, now, would hev put Jake Baintree through,—he’d hev fund out a way ter fix his guilt on the sinner. ’Member the time,” he cried vivaciously, “Sol’mon hed ter jedge ’twixt them two wimmin ez claimed one baby?”

She nodded doubtfully. The event was not to her in the nature of a reminiscence.

“Lord!” he exclaimed excitedly. “I war afeard fur about three minits ez that thar leetle critter would git cut in half! I never war so all-fired skeered.”

He fell into silence, revolving in his mind the animation of the scene,—the splendid hall in which the kingly judge pronounced sentence, the crowds of soldiers and priests, the tumult of applause at this vindication of his wisdom, this brilliant exploit of his administrative genius.

How the spectacle allured the mountaineer! How vacant the modern voids!

Once more he stirred and sighed.

“Yer dad’s runnin’ agin fur constable,” he said, a trifle wistfully; to such interests, forsooth, he must turn.

There came a shade of anxiety into her face.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, the title a tribute to his arrogations of seniority and to his piety, of a strange quality though she felt it to be. She took one of the ears of the old hound in her fingers and pleated it, as she looked consciously away. The sleeping dog, vaguely discommoded, now and again lifted his head with a vigorous shake, and then dropped it.

The face of Isabel suddenly seemed less youthful. It too bore that anxiety so troublous and pathetic in women and children when they can only suffer, and cannot help. “They think Eli ain’t goin’ ter be ’lected agin,” he said sagely to himself. “Suthin’ ’s bruk.”

“Waal, Eli’s a mighty good man,” he observed aloud, his kindlier impulses uppermost. “He’s apt ter do his best, an’ that’s all the fur we kin go in this life. He stayed up on the mounting along o’ we-uns one night, not long ago, an’ he bruk the lonesomeness astonishin’.”

The face of the elder sister was suddenly irradiated; a triumph was in her eyes all tenderly shining.

“Dad air a mos’ survigrous talker, sure,” she assented warmly. “Dad air powerful good comp’ny. ’Tain’t often dad ain’t got suthin’ ter say. I tell ye, it air wuth while ter stop an’ cock yer ears, whenst dad begins ter talk. Dad air ekal ter enny pa’son, ef the truth war knowed, ain’t he, Is’bel?”

Isabel seemed almost profane in the eager precipitancy of her assent. But it was only “Laws-a-massy, yes!” that she said with so emphatic an accent. The child’s face had flushed beneath its freckles. She sat upright, bending steadily on Jepson her concentrated gaze, its intensity redoubled in effect by the very close juxtaposition of her small, piercing dark eyes.

“That’s a fac’.” Teck joined the laudations, their ebullition of enthusiasm proving infectious. “Eli’s a smart man, an’ a good man, too.”

“So good ter us chillen!” cried the elder girl, her eyes alight,—“me an’ Is’bel; ain’t he, Is’bel?”

“Laws-a-massy, yes!” Isabel once more seemed to swiftly take her oath upon it.

“Why, ef ennything goes wrong thar at home,—the cow gits inter the corn, or the gate swags off’n the henges,—an’ dad gits ter ragin’ ’bout’n it, they hev jes’ got ter say, ‘’Twas Is’bel an’ Marcelly lef’ the bars down,’ or ‘The gals war a-swingin’ on the gate.’ An’ like ez not we hedn’t been a-nigh thar. An’ dad, he jes’ cools down ez quick. ‘’Twar them leetle darters, war it? Waal,’” imitating Strobe’s slow bovine glance, “‘’tain’t goin’ ter ’sturb _me_!’ But ef it hed been ennybody else, though!” The elder sister shook her head in a way that promised amplest retribution, and laughed again.

“Yer name’s Marcelly, air it?” Teck Jepson said ponderingly.

“Done fund that out, hev ye?” she exclaimed. Then, with a swift transition back to the paternal perfections, she continued, “Dad’s a tremenjious scholar,—kin read an’ write s’prisin’. Dad’s been ter school, I tell ye, an’ what he larnt thar warn’t how ter ketch grasshoppers. Dad’s the bes’ shot in Brumsaidge Cove. Nobody kin shoot agin dad, though, bein’ constable,”—her voice fell with the sedateness of her logic,—“he ain’t gin over ter shootin’-matches, like he war. An’ dad kin arrest _ennybody_,” she declared sweepingly, “bein’ constable. The sher’ff ain’t got no mo’ power over folks, sca’cely.”

“An’ dad ’lows the sher’ff be made out’n dough, besides,” said Isabel suddenly. “Dad say a biscuit hev got ez much backbone ez that thar sher’ff.”

Her sister flashed a warning glance at her. Then Marcella’s own bright face fell. “I reckon that’s one reason he hev got a better chance o’ bein’ ’lected agin than dad hev. Some folks ’low ez dad hev set too much store by the law,” she observed, lowering her voice, and allured into a confidential mood by Jepson’s apparent appreciation of “dad.” “Some say ez dad hev whetted the law’s scythe powerful sharp, whilst his own hev been lef’ ter rust. He hev been mo’ tuk up with seein’ arter the law, than gittin’ ’lected agin, an’—an’”—she hesitated—“folks air agin him, an’ bound ter git him beat.”

Isabel fixed an eager electioneering gaze on Jepson’s face. “Do you-uns vote down in Brumsaidge?” she interrogated him.

“I kin vote fur him—ef I wants ter,” he said, a trifle waggishly. “But I ain’t a-goin’ ter let ye buy my vote, so ye needn’t try.”

“I dunno ez I be a-tradin’,” said Isabel shortly.

“Is’bel, hush up!” exclaimed the repressive elder sister, glancing apprehensively at Jepson to note the effect of the child’s curt speech.

But as he lounged upon the ledges of the rock, his head supported on his hand, he was looking with languid good-humor at Isabel, and had evidently taken no offense.

“Dad say it be powerful aggervatin’ ter run fur office,” resumed Marcella. “He say he don’t mind sarvin’ the people,—that’s mighty easy, fur the law be laid down plain, an’ he sets a heap o’ store by the law; but it’s a powerful differ ter please this man an’ not git that one set catawampus, an’ mos’ of ’em air goin’ ter be middlin’ mad, no matter what he does or don’t do. An’ he say sometimes he feels, whenst he be axin’ ’em ter vote fur him, like flyin’ roun’ an’ kickin’ ’em all right an’ lef’, an’ goin’ home fur good.”

“Waal, I ain’t never seen no candidate fur office do sech ez that yit, an’ I’d be powerful glad ef I war ’lowed ter live till I did see it,” he retorted, the sensibilities of the suffrage with which he was endowed becoming roused at the suggestion.

She looked at him a trifle deprecatingly; then, with that daring impulse which often furnishes a false step with stumbling sequelæ, she pursued the subject: “Granny ’lows it fairly sets her teeth on aidge ter hear me a-honin’ an’ a-moanin’ ’bout the ’lection, an’ dad’s chances, an’ voters, an’ the office, an’ sech. An’ she say ’tain’t nowise perlite an’ sensible for wimmin-folks ter spen’ thar time in sech ez they ain’t got no business in. I can’t holp dad nor hender. But I jes’ feel like ez ef I could take a rifle an’ stan’ at the polls, an’ shoot down them ez don’t vote fur dad!” Her eyes flashed, albeit she looked half laughing at him. “T’other night thar war a man at our house ez don’t b’long somehows ter dad’s party.”

“Which party?” demanded Jepson, smiling.

“Dunno. Dad’s. An’ this man, he said: ‘I be powerful sorry I can’t vote fur ye, Eli, kase ye air on the t’other side.’ An’ dad he say, ez slow an’ onconsarned, ‘Don’t vote fur me, ef ye’d ruther not. It ain’t goin’ ter kill me ter git beat.’ An’ I jes’ spoke up, an’ I say, ‘Naw, it air goin’ ter _kill me_!’”

“Ye look toler’ble live yit,” commented Teck Jepson.

“Granny ’lowed she war so ’shamed o’ me, she could hev made soup out’n me, or minch meat, ez onconsarned ez ef I’d been a Shanghai.”

“What did Eli say?”

“Oh, nuthin’. Dad ’lows ez everything I do air right an’ jes’ so—me an’ Is’bel, don’t he, Is’bel?”

“Laws-a-massy, yes,” Isabel affirmed, without hesitation.

The rain was gradually subsiding. One could see beyond the jagged roof of the niche, far across the valley, the gray lines sparsely falling with a free motion and an effect of vast lengths, reaching as they did to the zenith. The dreary mists were gathering themselves together to coalesce in some uncomprehended symmetry of vaporous form, and in silent march were betaking themselves thence with reluctant and exiled mien. Dissimilar, as of a different texture and an alien origin, was the vague gray haze, hardly discernible, rising from the dank earth, and suspended only a few feet above. Suddenly the sun smote it, and how it glistened, now amethystine, now pearly, now a gilded gauze! The wooded mountain-side was splendidly green again, attesting that the rich, ripe August was still straying along the slopes. A sense of renewal, revivification, was in the silver-shotted misty intervals. The moist leaves, glossy and emerald, stirred in the air. Every blade of grass about the portal of the grotto wore globular gauds, as the raindrops caught the light where they swung. A quail called and called down the wet, briery tangles,—sweet vibrant tones! And all at once, that splendid apotheosis of color, that supreme triumph of light, the rainbow, was set in the clouds. How far it reached,—how far!—from sombre Chilhowee to the Great Smoky Mountains,—and the vast landscape beneath was spanned by the glowing arch. And now it was dimmed, as the light fluctuated, and again it glowed in pristine brilliancy and softness; for albeit the rain still fell, the sun shone.

Teck Jepson watched the change with meditative eyes. The old dog took note of it, too, yawning with an expansive expression, and coming down off the ledges, dragging one slow foot after the other. He sat down on the wet grass, heedless of the drops that fell upon him, and gazed gravely about as if he appreciated the scenery.

“Look at old Watch, now,” commented Isabel. “Arter takin’ so much trouble ter keep hisself dry an’ out’n the storm, he air goin’ ter git ez wet ez ef he hed been in the thick of it. Ain’t that jes’ percisely like a dog!”

“Waal, Watch ain’t got no call ter be like nuthin’ else.” Marcella spoke absently, hardly heeding what she said, only mechanically defending her canine friend. She was leaning back amongst the vines that hung down dry and even a trifle dusty within the rift, and trembled above her head and rested on her shoulder. Her eyes seemed to share the pensive brilliance of the hour, so full of a dreaming light, so softly shadowed by the melancholy droop of the long lashes, they were, as she looked, unseeing, into the illuminated sun set, through the soft falling of the glittering rain. The spirited pose of her delicate head on its slender throat was hardly less marked, in this moment of languor, than when held alert and upright. All her lithe and slender figure was relaxed, as she leaned back in the bower that the vines wove for her, and toyed with a tendril in her hand.

Jepson gazed long and silently at her, as she sat there, wondering again that he should never before have seen her. He felt now as if they had often met, and he became sensible of the repetitious impression in a sort of doubting amazement. Her characteristics he seemed to have long ago conned. He was prepared for every turn of her alert head, every sudden uplifting of her definite arrogant eyebrows above those soft eyes. He even felt a fostering familiar regard for the wish nearest her heart, and in the fullness of a warm partisan impulse he abruptly spoke:—

“I’ll tell ye right now what’s doin’ Eli mo’ harm with the voters o’ the deestric’ ’n ennythin’ else. It’s this hyar everlastin’ upholdin’ o’ Jake Baintree.”

“It’s the law’s upholdin’ Jake Baintree!” said Marcella quickly.

The dream-light had fled from her face; she looked at him with a shifting spark deep in her clear eyes, betokening a disquieted spirit and a touch of anger.

He changed his attitude, and glanced out over the landscape. “I never expect ter spend my time argufyin’ with enny gal-folks,” he said in an offhand way, and with a laughing sneer. “But ye kin set it down, ef ye air minded ter. Yer dad’s cavortin’ roun’ an’ upholdin’ Jake Baintree, kase this leetle old yearthly jedge down yander didn’t hev sense enough or law enough ter fix his sin on him, air a-goin’ ter defeat Eli,—besides all else folks hev got agin him. Ye mark my words.”

“Waal, I dunno but they hed ez soon take the jedge’s say-so ez yourn.”

She resembled her father, when she gave herself to argument; the slow, calculating glance that she bent upon Jepson, as she turned her head, was singularly like the look she sometimes mimicked.

“I ain’t a-settin’ up my say-so agin the jedge’s,” he responded, quickly. “It’s the fac’s. He can’t git around ’em. An’ Eli can’t git around ’em. An’ the folks in the _dee_stric’ can’t git around ’em. The storm will burst some day, though. The Lord will repay.”

There was an anxious flush on her usually pale face. Her eyes were bright and restless. The irritation of not being able to reconcile her father’s opinions with the prospect of success was smouldering in her manner, and suddenly flamed out in words.

“From all I hev seen, ye air likely ter take the Lord’s jobs off’n his hands. He needn’t bother ’bout repayin’ nobody in Brumsaidge, whar sech a headin’ man ez ye air be a-loose. Ye’ll repay. Ye wouldn’t let Jake Baintree git baptized, kase ye ’low he killed a man ez the jury say he didn’t kill, an ’kase ye fund somebody’s old clothes hid somewhar. Mebbe he’ll never git ter the baptizin’ p’int agin. He can’t get the sperit whenst he wants it; he can’t whistle it back like a dog that follows him.”

“Ef he ever hed the sperit no man kin harm him. Did he gin Sam’l Keale time ter think on salvation? Ez the Lord bade me, so I did act,” he protested.

She relapsed into silence.

“Jake Baintree be plumb cur’ous,” said Isabel, knitting her brows, and laughing,—a constrained demonstration that had no mirth in it. She had wearied of the discussion, which she scarcely understood, and resorted with a freshened zest to gossip.

“How be he cur’ous?” demanded Jepson.

“Waal,” said Isabel, twisting the corner of her apron in and out of her fingers, “he _looks_ cur’ous. An’ he sets an’ stare-gazes an’ stare-gazes the fire. An’ he kin read an’ write. He larnt in jail. An’ his folks dunno what ter make o’ him, nohow. He don’t talk none, sca’cely. They ’low he war jes’ a boy whenst he went away, an’ now he be a plumb differ, ez ef he war somebody else. Mebbe he air somebody else.” Isabel paused, with a contortion of the countenance, showing all her jagged teeth, as if she sought to express in some facial way the extreme curiousness of Jake Baintree.

“How do ye know so much about him?” demanded Jepson, surprised.

“Marcelly, she useter go thar a heap, an’ I jes’ up an’ go with Marcelly. Marcelly, she useter tote ’em things, whenst they war so powerful pore an’ tormented how ter git along,—roastin’-ears an’ ’taters,—and holped ’em weave some. She war holpin’ ’em weave whenst he kem home.”

A sudden repulsion seized Teck Jepson. “_He_ ain’t the frequent vis’tor?” he exclaimed.

Marcella drew back, with an abrupt cry. “Jake Baintree!” she said in horror.

There was a moment of embarrassment. He had his regrets that he had spoken, and she had hers that she had answered. With a woman’s tact, she would have passed it by. But he made a blundering, clumsy attempt to better the situation, and asked, with a feint of mirth, “Who be that thar frequent vis’tor, ennyhows?”

“Ye kin hev that fur a riddle,” she said, with a chilly accent. She glanced loftily past him, as she rose. “Kem ’long, Is’bel; it’s quit rainin’, an’ we hed better be a-startin’.”

She stood for a moment, tall, fair, erect, under the rugged arch, which was massively imposed upon the clearing sky. A red suffusion of light was over the valley. The mountains were darkling and purple. An inexpressible sense of freshness blended with the eventide languors. All the woods were vibrant with the ceaseless chirr of the cicada, and the antiphonal chanting of frogs rose and fell by the water-side. Pensiveness pervaded the hour, and melancholy. Far-away cattle, homeward bound, were lowing and clanking their mellow bells. And the misty air ministered to the sun’s splendors, and bore its elongated rays far into space in gorgeous amplifications. The ground was dank, and Isabel’s bare feet pattered along with a noisy sound, and she was beset with forebodings.

“I’ll be bound the foot-bredge over the ruver air nigh under water by this time, an’ I ain’t one o’ the swimmin’ kind,” Isabel observed with callow pertness. “I warn’t raised ter be a frawg.”

Jepson had hesitated behind the two girls. Isabel’s words seemed to suggest his opportunity. “I mought ez well g’long home with you-uns ez no,” he remarked. “’Tain’t out’n my way none ter the Settlemint, an’ I’ll holp ye over the log.”

They trudged along silently through the forest, with its ceaseless pulsations of sound: Isabel in the van, the other two walking side by side, and the dog of the “frequent visitor” following. Sometimes the shadows fell on Marcella’s fair face, sometimes the roseate glow of the west; and Jepson found a fascination undreamed of before in noting their fluctuations. Her expression betokened little favor toward him,—less, perhaps, than he realized. He had never sought the approval of others, and disapproval he was not quick to discern, since he had no self-disparagement to keep his fears alert.

Long before they reached the river they heard the water roaring, but the unhewn log that served as foot-bridge, thrown from bank to bank, was not yet submerged, and the two girls walked swiftly and lightly across, with no need of assistance. Suddenly the woods gave way, and Broomsedge Cove lay before them, vague in the closing dusk. Half a dozen log cabins were scattered at long intervals, for this was “the Settlemint,”—their red lights growing distinct since the day had so waned. The sky was crimson above, and seemed to touch the gaunt, black, towering mountains that circled close about the sequestered nook. A star was gleaming near the horizon. Voices rose fitfully and fell to silence, and all was mute save for the nocturnal song of the woods, and presently a few strokes of an axe at some wood-pile, that set the echoes all a-hewing.

They paused beside a rail fence inclosing one of the cabins, where the flare of firelight flickered out into the passage between the two rooms. Marcella’s face had become only a vague suggestion, white in the closing dusk, as they stood together a moment at the gate. For she had spoken at last, offering the customary invitation to come in and stay to supper.

“I mus’ be a-travelin’ up the mounting,” he drawled in response. Then he hesitated. “This air the fust time I ever seen ye, but I reckon ’twon’t be the las’.”

He strode off then, and she watched him as he went with his assured gait and singularly erect pose. A deft, swift step he had, too, and she was presently gazing into the closing obscurity where he had disappeared.

“I’d jes’ ez lief ’twould be the las’,” she said to herself,—“I’d jes’ ez lief.”