came along the road and, stopping at the fence, hailed him. He plowed to
the end of the row, and halted.

"Good evenin’, ’Zeki’l," said the man, mounting to the top of the fence,
and sitting with his heels thrust through a crack in the lower rails.

"Howdy you do, Marshall?  What’s the news down your way?" ’Zeki’l
inquired, drawing his shirt-sleeve across his face, and leaning on the
plow-handles.

"I don’t know as there’s much to tell. Billy Hutchins an’ Sary Ann
McNally run away an’ got married last night, an’ old Mis’ Gillis is
mighty nigh dead with the ja’nders. A punkin couldn’t look yallerer."
He opened his knife, and ran his fingers along the rail in search of a
splinter to whittle.  "Old man Biggers has sold his place at last."

"Has he?"

"Yes; I met him down at the store, an’ he said the trade had been made."

"He’s bound to go to Texas."

"Yes; so he ’lows."

"Well, old Georgy is good enough for me," ’Zeki’l remarked, with a
pleased glance at his sterile fields.

"An’ for me," said Marshall, heartily. "Wanderin’ ’round don’t make
folks rich. Biggers owns the best place in this settlement, an’ he’d
better stay on it.  It won’t do to believe all the tales they tell about
these new States.  I had a brother go to Louisiany before the war.
Folks said, ’Don’t take anything with you; why, money mighty nigh grows
on bushes out there.’  His wife took the greatest pride in her feather
beds, but what would be the use o’ haulin’ them beds all the way across
the Mississippi, when you could rake up feathers by the bushel
anywheres? Well, they went, an’ for the whole endurin’ time they stayed
they had to sleep on moss mattresses, an’ my brother ’lowed it was about
the meanest stuff to kill he ever struck.  If you didn’t bile it, an’
bury it, an’ do the Lord only knows what to it, it would grow an’ burst
out of the beds when you was sleepin’ on ’em."  ’Zeki’l’s attention did
not follow those reminiscent remarks.  "Who bought the Biggers place?"
he inquired, as soon as Marshall ceased speaking.

"A man he met in Atlanta when he went down the last time, a man from one
of the lower counties, an’ his name—why, yes, to be sure, it’s Morgan,
same as yours—’Lijy Morgan.  May be you know him?" with a sharp,
questioning glance.

But the momentary flush of emotion that the stranger’s name had called
to ’Zeki’l’s face was gone.

"I don’t know as I do," he slowly replied, staring at a scrubby
cotton-stalk the muzzled ox was making ineffectual attempts to eat.

"I ’lowed may be he might be some kin to you," said Marshall, in a
baffled tone.

"I don’t know as he is," said ’Zeki’l, still in that slow, dry,
non-committal tone, his eyes leaving the cotton-stalk to follow the
swift, noiseless flight of a cloud-shadow across a distant hillside.
"Morgan isn’t an uncommon name, you know."

"That’s so," reluctantly admitted Marshall.

"When does Mr. Biggers think o’ goin’ to Texas?"

"Oh, not until after crops are gathered."

"The other family, isn’t to come, then, right away?"

"No; not till fall."

After Marshall had whittled, and gossiped, and gone his way, ’Zeki’l
stood a long time with his hands resting on the plow-handles, his brows
drawn together in deep thought. Some painful struggle seemed to be going
on. The crickets shrilled loudly in the brown sedge bordering a dry
ditch, and a vulture sailed majestically round and round above the
field, his broad black wings outspread on the quivering air.  The
cloud-shadows on the river-hills assumed new form, shifted, swept away,
and others came in their places, and the vulture had become a mere
speck, a floating mote in the upper sunlight, before he turned the
patient ox into another furrow, murmuring aloud:

"I didn’t go to them, an’ if they come to me, I can’t help it.  I am not
to blame; the Almighty knows I’m not to blame;" and his overcast face
cleared somewhat.

That night when Mr. Davy Tanner closed his store and went home, he said
to his wife:

"’Zeki’l Morgan must be lonesome, or pestered about somethin’.  You’d
think that old fiddle o’ his could talk an’ cry too, from the way he’s
playin’."

The season advanced; crops were gathered, and the shorn fields looked
brown and bare. A sere, withering frost touched the forests, and the
leaves fell in drifts, while the partridge called to his mate from fence
and sedgy covert. A light snowfall lay on the distant mountains when the
Biggerses started to the West and the new family of Morgans moved into
Zion Hill settlement.

It was the third day after their arrival. ’Zeki’l leaned over the front
gate with an armful of corn, feeding two fat pigs, when ’Lijy Morgan
passed along the road on his way to Mr. Davy Tanner’s store.  He was a
strong-looking, well-built man, with rugged features and hair partly
gray.  He looked curiously at the solitary, stooping figure inside the
gate, his steps slackened, then he stopped altogether, a grayish pallor
overspreading the healthy, ruddy hue of his face.

"’Zeki’l!"

’Zeki’l dropped the corn, and thrust open the gate.

"Howdy you do, ’Lijy?"

[Illustration: "HOWDY YOU DO, ’LIJY?"]

Their hands met in a quick, close grip, then fell apart.

"I like not to have known you, ’Zeki’l, it was so unexpected seein’ you
here," said ’Lijy, huskily, scanning the worn, deeply lined face before
him with glad yet shrinking gaze.

"An’ twelve years make a great difference in our looks sometimes, though
you are not so much changed," said ’Zeki’l quietly.  He had been
prepared for the meeting, and years of self-mastery had given him the
power of concealing emotion.

"Twelve years?  Yes; but it has seemed like twenty to me since—since it
all happened. Why didn’t you come home, ’Zeki’l, when your time was
out?"

"I ’lowed the sight o’ me wouldn’t be good for you, ’Lijy; an’—an’ the
old folks were gone."

"Yes; it killed them, ’Zeki’l, it killed them," in a choked voice.

"I know," said ’Zeki’l, hastily, his face blanching; "an’ I thought it
would be best to make a new start in a new settlement."

"Do the folks here know?"

"That I served my time?  Yes; but that’s all.  When I heard that you had
bought the Biggers place I studied hard about movin’ away, but I like it
here.  It’s beginnin’ to seem like home."

’Lijy stared at the poor cabin, the stunted, naked peach-trees, so cold
and dreary-looking in the wintry dusk.

"Is it yours, ’Zeki’l?"

"Yes; it’s mine, all mine.  Come in and sit awhile with me, an’ warm.
It’s goin’ to be a nippin’ cold night."

He turned, and ’Lijy silently followed him across the bare yard and into
the house.  A flickering fire sent its warm glow throughout the room,
touching its meagre furnishing with softening grace, but a chill struck
to ’Lijy Morgan’s heart as he crossed the threshold—a chill of
desolation.

"Do you live here alone?"

"Yes; all alone, except Rover and the fiddle."

The cur rose up from the hearth with a wag of his stumpy tail, and gave
the visitor a glance of welcome from his mild, friendly eyes.

There were only two chairs in the room, and ’Zeki’l placed the best one
before the fire for his guest, then threw on some fresh pieces of wood.
Outside the dusky twilight deepened to night, the orange glow fading
from the west, and the stars shining brilliantly through the clear
atmosphere.  The chill wind whistled around the chimney-corners and
through the chinks in the log walls.

Between the men a constrained silence fell. The meeting had been painful
beyond the open acknowledgment of either.  The dog crept to his master’s
side and thrust his nose into his hand.  The touch roused ’Zeki’l. From
the jamb he took a cob pipe and a twist of tobacco.

"Will you smoke, ’Lijy?"

"I believe not; but I’ll take a chew."

He cut off a liberal mouthful, and then ’Zeki’l filled and lighted his
pipe.  It seemed to loosen his tongue somewhat.

"Is Marthy Ann well enough?"

"She’s tolerable."

"How many children have you?"

"Three; the girls, Cynthy an’ Mary—"

"I remember them."

"An’ little Zeke."

’Zeki’l’s face flushed.

"Named him for me, ’Lijy?"

"Yes; for you.  Cynthy’s about grown now, an’ a likely girl, I can tell
you."

His face softened; his eyes grew bright with pride and tenderness as he
spoke of his children.  ’Zeki’l watched him, noting the change in his
countenance, and perhaps feeling some pain and regret that he had missed
such pleasure. ’Lijy reached out his hand and laid it on his knee.
"’Zeki’l, you must come live with us now.  I’ll tell these folks we are
brothers, an’—"

"I don’t know as I would," said ’Zeki’l, gently.  "It would only make
talk, an’ I’m settled here, you know."

His unimpassioned tone had its effect on his brother.  He protested, but
rather faintly, finally saying:

"Well, if you’d rather not—"

"That’s just it.  I’d rather not."

They both rose, and ’Lijy groped uncertainly for his hat.

"Your life ain’t worth much to you, ’Zeki’l, I know it ain’t," with
uncontrollable emotion.

"It’s worth more ’n you think, ’Lijy, more ’n you think."

He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and cleared his throat as though to
speak again, but his brother had reached the door before he called to
him.

"’Lijy."

"Well?"

"What became o’ ’Lizabeth?"

"She’s still livin’ with us."

He peered into the bowl of the pipe.

"She’s never married?"

"No.  She had a fall about ten years ago which left her a cripple, an’
she’s grayer than I am.  You ’re not comin’ to see us, ’Zeki’l?"

"I reckon not, ’Lijy."  And while ’Lijy stumbled through the darkness
home—his errand to the store forgotten—’Zeki’l stood before the fire,
one arm resting against the black, cobwebby mantel.  "Crippled an’ gray!
O ’Lizabeth, ’Lizabeth!" he groaned, and put his head down on his arm,
the twelve years rolling backward upon him.

"Where have you been, ’Lijy?" exclaimed Mrs. Morgan when her husband
returned. "We waited an’ waited for you, till the supper was spoiled."

"I met a man I used to know," he said, evasively, casting a wistful,
troubled glance toward the corner where ’Lizabeth, his wife’s sister,
sat knitting, a crutch lying at her side.

Cynthia, a rosy, merry-eyed girl, laughed.

"Pa is always meetin’ a man he knows."

Mrs. Morgan began hastily removing the covered dishes from the hearth to
the table.

"Well, where is the sugar you went over to the store to get?" she
demanded with some irritation.

"I forgot it, Marthy.  I’ll go for it in the mornin’," in a confused,
propitiatory tone.

She stared at him.

"I never!  Forgot what you went after! You beat all, ’Lijy Morgan; you
certainly do beat all."

"The man must ’a’ sent your wits wool-gatherin’, pa," cried Cynthia,
jocosely.

’Lizabeth leaned forward.  Her face was long, thin, and pale, and the
smooth hair framing it glinted like silver in the firelight; but her
dark eyes were wonderfully soft and beautiful, and her mouth had
chastened, tender lines about it.

"Are you sick, ’Lijy?" she inquired, in a gentle, subdued voice, a voice
with much underlying, patient sweetness in it.

Morgan gave her a grateful look.  "N—no; but I don’t think I care for
any supper," he said slowly.  "I’ll step out an’ see if the stock has
all been fed."

When he returned Mrs. Morgan sat by the fire alone.  He looked hastily
about the room.

"Where is Cynthy?"

"Gone to bed."

"An’ ’Lizabeth?"

"She’s off, too."

He drew a sigh of relief, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze.

"Marthy Ann, it was ’Zeki’l I saw this evenin’."

She dropped the coarse garment she was mending.

"’Zeki’l!"

"Hush!  Yes; he lives up on the hill between here an’ the store;" and
then he went on to tell her about their meeting and conversation.  Her
hard, sharp-featured face softened a little when he came to ’Zeki’l’s
refusal to live with them or to have their kinship acknowledged.

"I’m glad to see he’s got that much consideration. We left the old place
because folks couldn’t forget how he’d disgraced himself; an’ to come
right where he is!  I never heard of anything like it.  Why didn’t he
leave the State if he wanted to save us more trouble?" wiping tears of
vexation from her eyes.  "You spent nearly all you had to get him out of
prison, an’ when he had to go to the penitentiary it killed his pa an’
ma, an’—"

"Be silent, woman! you don’t know what you are talkin’ about!" he said
sternly, writhing in his chair like a creature in bodily pain. "God
A’mighty forgive me!"  He paused, smote his knee with his open palm, and
turned his face away.

"Well, if I don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, I’d like to know the
reason!" she cried, with the same angry excitement.  "You ain’t been
like the same man you were before that happened, you know you ain’t.
I’ll never be willin’ to claim kin with ’Zeki’l Morgan again, never!
Folks may find out for themselves; an’ they’ll do it soon enough—don’t
you be pestered—soon enough."

But not a suspicion of the truth seemed to occur to Zion Hill
settlement.  The Morgans were welcomed with great friendliness, and
’Zeki’l alone failed to visit them.  Children sat around his brother’s
fireside, a wife ministered to him; but he had forfeited all claim to
such homely joys.  The girls had evidently been informed of his
relationship to them, for they looked askance at him as they passed
along the road, pity and curiosity in their eyes.  Once he came out of
the blacksmith shop, and, meeting his sister-in-law in the roadway,
stopped her, or she would have passed with averted head.

"You needn’t be so careful, Marthy Ann," he said, without the slightest
touch of bitterness in his calm tone.

"It is for the children’s sake, ’Zeki’l," she said, her sallow face
flushing with a feeling akin to shame.  "I must think o’ them."

He gave her a strange glance, then looked to the ground.

"I know; I thought o’ them years ago."

"It’s a pity you didn’t think before—"

"Yes, so it is; but some deeds aren’t to be accounted for, nor recalled
either, no matter how deeply we repent."

"We sold out for the children’s sake, but, Lord!  I’m pestered now more
than ever."

"Because I’m here?"

"Well, it ain’t reasonable to think we can all go right on livin’ here,
an’ folks not find out you an’ ’Lijy are brothers."

"What would you like for me to do, Marthy Ann?"

She hesitated a moment, then drew a little nearer to him.

"Couldn’t you go away?  You’ve got nobody but yourself to think about,
an’ I know in reason ’Lijy would be glad to buy your place," with a
careless, half-contemptuous glance at the cabin.

A dull flush passed over his face; his mouth twitched.

"Does ’Lijy want me to go?"

"He ain’t said so; but—"

"I’ll think about it," he said slowly, turning back to the smithy, where
a red-hot tool awaited his hammer.

But thinking about it only seemed to bind his heart more closely than
ever to the arid spot he called home.  He had looked forward to spending
all the remaining years of his broken, ruined life there, far from the
world and from those who had known him in the past.  Then a great desire
had risen within him to remain near ’Lizabeth.  He shrank from the
thought of meeting her, speaking to her, and felt rather glad that she
did not appear at church.  A few times in passing he had caught a
glimpse of her walking about the yard or garden in the winter sunshine,
leaning on her crutch, and the sight had sent him on his way with
downcast face.  He had just sat down before the fire to smoke one
evening when there came a timid knock on the door. It was just between
daylight and darkness, and he supposed it to be some neighbor on his way
to or from the store who wished to drop in to warm himself and gossip a
little.

"Come in," he said hospitably, and, reaching out, drew the other chair
nearer the fire.

The latch was slowly lifted, the door swung open, and then he started to
his feet, pipe and tobacco falling to the floor, while his face flushed
and paled, and his breath came in a sharp sigh.  It was ’Lizabeth, her
bonnet pushed back, her shawl hanging loosely around her shoulders.

"I’ve be’n to the store for Marthy Ann, I wanted to go to get out away
from the house a little while, and I thought I’d step in for a minute,
’Zeki’l, to see you."

"You are tired; come an’ sit down," he said huskily, and led her to the
chair.

[Illustration: "DO YOU THINK YOUR LAMENESS WOULD MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE?"]

What emotion those simple, commonplace words covered!  They looked at
each other, silently noting the changes time and sorrow had wrought.
They had never been openly declared lovers, but words were not needed
for them to understand each other, and they knew that they would marry
when she had finished her term as teacher in the county school, and he
had built a house on the lot of land his father had given him.  But that
shameful, undenied accusation of horse-stealing, followed swiftly by
trial and conviction, had put an end to all hopes, all plans.

"You see I’m a cripple now, ’Zeki’l," she said, to break the silence.

"An’ I’ve grown old," he replied, and their eyes met again in a long,
eloquent, steadfast gaze, and they knew that neither age, nor
affliction, nor shame, nor separation had wrought any change in their
love.  It had only grown stronger and deeper.  Her thin face flushed,
her trembling fingers gathered up a fold of her gown.

"Why don’t you come to see us, ’Zeki’l?"

"I can’t, ’Lizabeth; I can’t.  It wouldn’t be right.  Don’t you know
I’ve been longin’ to come, an’ hungerin’ an’ hungerin’ to see you?"  He
flung himself on the floor at her feet, his face hidden against her
knees.  "You don’t know all! you don’t know all!"  The words were wrung
from him by an almost uncontrollable desire to tell her the story of his
sufferings. She had not turned against him nor forgotten him.  It was
almost more than he could bear, to read in her eyes her faith and her
pardon.  He felt the touch of her hand on his bared head, and tears
gushed from his eyes.

"Can’t you tell me?" she whispered, her face, her eyes, illumined by a
pity and tenderness divine in their beauty.

"No, honey; it’s somethin’ I must bear alone, I must bear alone."

He rose to his feet again, brushing his sleeve across his eyes, and she
stood up also, leaning on her crutch, the transient glow of color fading
from her face.

"You shouldn’t bear it alone if I didn’t have this lameness.  You—"

"Hush!" he said, and, taking her hand, pressed it against his breast.
"Do you think your lameness would make any difference? Wouldn’t I love
you all the more, take care o’ you all the better, for it?  It’s the
disgrace, the shame, standin’ between us.  I’ll never outlive it—get rid
of it—an’ I’ll never ask any woman to share it.  I couldn’t."

Her physical infirmity held her silent.  She would be a care and a
burden to him rather than a help.  She drew up her shawl.

"The Almighty comfort you, ’Zeki’l."

"An’ take care o’ you, ’Lizabeth."

He took her hand in a grasp painful in its closeness, then he turned and
leaned against the mantel, and she went softly out of the room.

Winter passed.  The frost-bound earth sent up faint scents and sounds of
spring in fresh-plowed fields and swelling buds.  ’Zeki’l wandered about
his fields in idleness, striving to make up his mind to go away.  It
would be best, yet the sacrifice seemed cruel.

"It is more than I can bear," he cried aloud one night, and strained one
of the violin-strings until it snapped asunder.  He laid the instrument
across his knees and leaned his head upon it.  The candle burned dimly,
and a bat flew in through the open door, circled around the room, at
last extinguishing the feeble light with one of its outspread wings. But
the unhappy man did not heed the gloom.  Why should he care to have a
light for his eyes when his soul was in such darkness?  He groped his
way to the bed, and fell down upon it.  Rover came back from a nightly
prowl, barked to let his master know of his presence, then lay down on
the doorstep.

The sound of music vibrated through the air, and ’Zeki’l remembered that
the young people of the settlement were to have a "singing" at his
brother’s that evening.  He raised his head and listened.  They were
singing hymns, and many of them were associated with recollections of
his own youth.  A line of Tom Moore’s "Come, ye disconsolate," once a
special favorite when sorrow seemed far from him, was borne to his ears:

    Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.

He lay down and slept.

At dusk the next evening, as he was heating a piece of iron in the
blacksmith shop, a man stopped at the wide-open door.

"Will you give me a night’s lodging?  I have walked far to-day, and I’m
a stranger in this part of the country."

’Zeki’l wheeled, the light from the forge shining across his face.  It
brought out the stranger’s face and form in bold relief also. "Why, it’s
Zeke Morgan!" he cried, walking into the shop.

"Yes: I thought I recognized your voice, Miller," said ’Zeki’l, slowly,
and without much pleasure at the recognition.

They had been in prison together, and ’Zeki’l had left Miller there.  He
had never felt any liking for the man, and less now than ever, as he
looked at his ragged clothing and dissipated face.  He had evidently
been steadily sinking in vice, and its repulsiveness was impressed upon
his outward being.  But a certain pity stirred ’Zeki’l’s heart.  He
remembered his own friendlessness when he entered that settlement.
Could he show less mercy than had been shown to him?

"Sit down, won’t you?" he said kindly, blowing up the coals in the forge
to a glowing heat.

"That I will.  I’m footsore, and hungry as a bear.  I’m in luck to meet
with you, comrade," chuckling.

’Zeki’l winced.  The man’s familiarity grated upon him.

"Where are you goin’?" he inquired.

"Oh, nowhere in particular.  I’m jest out."

"Why, I thought your time would be up in two years after I left."

Miller shrugged his shoulders.  "Yes; but I made so many attempts to
escape that they kept adding extra time to my term."

He sat down while ’Zeki’l finished his work.

"You seem to be getting on pretty well," he continued, his restless eyes
scanning the surroundings.

"Only tolerable."

Two or three of the neighbors dropped in, one to leave a broken plow,
another to tell a bit of gossip.  They stared curiously at ’Zeki’l’s
disreputable companion, who jocosely informed them that Morgan had once
been his chum.

’Zeki’l felt annoyed, and, closing up the shop, invited his guest into
the house.  They had supper, then sat down and smoked.  Miller talked a
good deal, and asked many questions about the neighborhood and the
store; but at last he fell asleep, huddled up on the bed, and ’Zeki’l
lay down on a bench, recollections of his prison life keeping him awake
far into the night.  When he awoke the next morning his guest was gone.
He was glad of it.  The man’s presence oppressed him—brought a sense of
degradation.  But what were his feelings when he heard that Mr. Davy
Tanner’s store had been robbed, the mail-box rifled, letters torn open,
and various articles of wearing apparel taken!

He grew so pale, seemed so agitated and confused, that the man who had
come up to tell the news stared wonderingly, half-suspiciously at him.
He had brought the plow to the shop the evening before, and he now
looked around for the stranger.

"Where is your friend?" he inquired.

"He is no friend of mine."

"But he ’lowed that he knew you."

"Yes."

"Where?"

"In prison," said ’Zeki’l, quietly, though he flushed with shame.

"Aha!  I lowed so, I jest ’lowed so, last night."

’Zeki’l tingled all over.  He had never felt the degradation of being a
convict more keenly than at that moment.  He suspected Miller of the
theft: this man’s tone implied that he suspected them both.  It showed
how slight a hold he had upon the trust of his neighbors if they could
so readily believe that he would rob the best friend he had in the
settlement. He went into the house, and sat down by the hearth, his head
leaned between his hands.

News of the robbery spread, and men left their work to go over to the
store—stirred up, pleasantly excited.  It was not often that Zion Hill
settlement could boast of having anything so important as this robbery
take place within its limits, and it must be made the most of.

’Zeki’l held aloof from the store, where he knew a large crowd had
collected, but later in the day a small delegation came up to interview
him.  He read suspicion in every face, indignation in every eye.  His
quiet, honest life among them had been forgotten; they remembered only
that he had been a convict.

"Once a thief, always a thief, I say!" one man cried loudly.

’Zeki’l clenched his hands, but what could he say in self-defense?  He
made a clear, straight-forward statement of all he knew about Miller,
earnestly denying all knowledge of the robbery, but he felt the slight
impression it made on their doubting minds.  They did not openly accuse
him, but they asked many questions, they exchanged knowing glances, and
when they went away he felt that he had been tried and condemned.  The
sheriff had gone in pursuit of Miller, and all day groups of men sat or
stood about the store whittling sticks, chewing tobacco, and talking.
It was a most enjoyable day to them.  It afforded excitement, and gave
an opportunity to air opinions—to bring forth old prejudices.  There was
almost universal condemnation of ’Zeki’l.  He had entertained the thief,
had given him all the information necessary, and the more bitter ones
wagged their heads and said that no doubt he had shared in the spoils.
Even Mr. Davy Tanner looked sad and doubtful, though he defended the
unfortunate man.

"We’ve no right ever to accuse a person without evidence o’ guilt.  We
don’t know even that this other man had anything to do with it—though
circumstances do all p’int that way—let alone ’Zeki’l Morgan.  It’s best
to hold our peace till we find out the truth."

"But it looks mighty suspicious ag’in’ ’Zeki’l."

"Because he’s been in the penitentiary, an’ we think he’s got a bad name
by it."

"Well, ain’t that enough to set honest men ag’in’ him?"

"Yes; but it ain’t best to always judge a man by his misdeeds in the
past, but rather by his good deeds in the present, an’ what they promise
for the future."

"Why not, when it’s accordin’ to scriptur’?"

So the talk went on, while ’Zeki’l sat by his fireless hearth or walked
aimlessly up and down the yard.  At dusk his brother called, looking
almost as haggard as he did.

"It’s a bad thing, ’Zeki’l."

"Yes," said ’Zeki’l, listlessly.

"They are fools to think you had anything to do with it, plumb fools."

"It’s natural they should, ’Lijy."

"I can’t stand it, ’Zeki’l!  Lord!  I can’t stand it!"

He fell into a chair and covered his face with his hands.

"Chut, man! what does it matter?" said ’Zeki’l, bracing himself up and
forcing a smile. "Don’t let ’Lizabeth believe it, that’s all I ask."

"She’ll never believe it."

"It’s all right, then; I’ll not care what the rest o’ the world thinks."

"But I do," cried ’Lijy, starting up, "an’ I’ll put an end to it by—"

"You’ll not do anything rash, ’Lijy," said ’Zeki’l, firmly, quietly, and
laid his hand on the other’s shoulder.  "Recollect your family."

He looked slight and insignificant by the side of his brother, but his
face had a strength and calmness which seemed to give it a power the
other lacked.  ’Lijy groaned, and turned tremblingly away.

A week passed, but Zion Hill settlement could not go back to its
every-day vocations until somebody had been arrested for the robbery.
The man Miller seemed to be wary prey, eluding his pursuers with the
crafty skill of an old offender.  It was a solitary week to ’Zeki’l.  He
had been completely ostracized by his neighbors.  They openly shunned
him, and no more work came to his forge.  He stood in the empty shop one
day, wondering what he should do next, where he should go, when
’Lizabeth walked slowly, quietly in.

He flushed painfully.

"You see I’m idle," he said, pointing to the dead coals in the forge.
"They don’t think I’m worthy o’ doin’ their work any longer."

"I wouldn’t mind," she said, tenderly, laying her hand on his arm.
"They’ll see they are mistaken after a while, and be glad enough to come
back to you."

[Illustration: "THE SHERIFF, TWO DEPUTIES, AND MILLER."]

"I don’t know," with a heavy sigh.  "It’s the injustice that hurts me,
an’ the lack o’ faith in my honesty.  The years I’ve lived here count
for nothin’ with them."

"I have faith in you, ’Zeki’l."

He laid his hand over hers.

"If I had you, ’Lizabeth, if I only had you to help me bear it!"

"That’s what I’ve come for, ’Zeki’l.  I’m crippled.  It may be that I’ll
turn out to be more of a burden than a comfort to you, but I can’t sit
down there any longer, knowin’ you are here slighted and sufferin’ all
alone. ’Zeki’l, have pity on me, if you’ve none on yourself, and let me
bear this trouble with you."

He trembled before the future her words conjured up.

"Could you, would you, be willin’ to bear my disgrace, share it, be
shunned like a plague, have no company, no friend, but me?"

"What are friends to the one we love, or company?  I’d give up all the
world, ’Zeki’l, willin’ly, willin’ly, for you."

He looked into her deep, earnest eyes, realized the full truth of her
words, and drew her closer to him.

"It’s a great sacrifice, ’Lizabeth, an’ I’m wrong to let you make it;
but—the Lord forgive me!  I can’t hold out alone any longer. My will an’
my courage are all broke down. I need help; I need you."

After a momentary silence he dusted a bench, and they sat down to talk
over their plans for the future.  The shop, black with charcoal and iron
dust, was a queer place for such a conversation; but they paid little
heed to their surroundings.

"Marthy Ann will never get over your marryin’ me," said ’Zeki’l.

"Then she can make the best of it."

The next day was Saturday, and the beginning of the regular monthly
"meetin’" at Zion Hill church.  Everybody in the settlement who could,
attended services that day. The Morgans were all there, even ’Lizabeth,
and ’Zeki’l sat in his accustomed place, apparently unmindful of the
cold, hostile glances and whispers around him.  Through open doors and
windows shone golden sunlight, floated spicy odors from the woods
surrounding all but the front of the church, which faced the public
road; and vagrant bees mingled their lazy hum with the champing of bits
and the stamping of iron-shod hoofs in the thickets, where the mules and
the horses were tied.

It was a quiet but alert congregation.  A kind of expectancy—of
suspense—filled the air. No telling what might happen before the day was
over.  The preacher made the robbery the theme of his discourse, and
there were nods and approving looks when he referred to the punishment
laid up for those who persisted in doing evil.  It was a fitting finale
that just before the benediction was pronounced a small cavalcade rode
up to the church door—the sheriff, two deputies, and Miller.  A thrill
ran through the church, a rustle, a whisper, and the preacher cried
aloud to the sheriff:

"What do you want, Brother Mangum?"

"’Zeki’l Morgan."

"Here he is! here he is!" cried more than one voice, and men rose to
their feet and laid eager hands on the unresisting ’Zeki’l.

"What do you want him for?" cried ’Lijy Morgan, rising from his seat in
the deacons’ corner.  "What’s he done?"

"Helped to rob the store."

"We’ve said so, we’ve said so, ever since it happened!" a chorus of
stern but triumphant voices exclaimed.

"Bring up the witness ag’in’ him, the man that says he did it," said
’Lijy, advancing to the open space before the pulpit.

"No man has said out an’ out that he helped to do it, but Miller—"

"It’s a lie," cried ’Lijy, loud enough to be heard beyond the church
door.

’Zeki’l’s eyes were fixed anxiously, warningly, on his brother, and once
he tried to throw off the hands holding him.

"Prove it, then!" a taunting voice cried out.

"I will," said ’Lijy, though he grew pale, and trembled strangely.  "A
more honest man than ’Zeki’l Morgan never lived."

"What do you know of him?"

Again ’Zeki’l strove to free himself, but failed.

"’Lijy!" he called imploringly, "’Lijy, ’Lijy, mind what you say!"

’Lijy looked across at him.

"I will mind the truth, ’Zeki’l."  He turned to the congregation.

"I come here with good recommendations, brethren; I am a deacon o’ the
church; you have faith in my integrity, my honor."  An approving murmur
went up.  "If a dozen thieves were to stop at my house there’d be no
suspicion against me."  He paused, passed his hand over his face, then
looked up again. "Years ago there were two brothers in this State who
grew up together happy and contented.  The elder one was always a little
wild, and would get drunk sometimes, even after he’d married and had a
family to look after, but the younger was the steadiest, best boy in the
settlement.  One night the elder brother, in a fit of drunken
recklessness, stole a horse from the camp of a Kentucky drover, an’
nobody found it out but his brother, who undertook to return the horse,
an’ was arrested. He took the guilt, he stood the trial, an’ went to the
penitentiary.  He lost his good name, the girl he loved, his home,
everything in the world an honest man values.  He served his time, an’
instead o’ comin’ home to be a reproach to his cowardly brother, he,
when free, went away into a strange settlement to live. An’ by an’ by
his brother moved there too, an’ his conscience hurt him more an’ more
as he saw what a sad, lonesome life the convict lived. He was
prosperous, he enjoyed the confidence of his fellow-men, while the other
was shunned, and regarded with distrust."  Emotion checked his utterance
for a moment; then he turned and pointed to ’Zeki’l.  "Brethren, look at
that man; look without prejudice or suspicion, an’ you’ll not see guilt
in his face nor on his conscience.  There never lived a truer hero than
’Zeki’l Morgan.  Nobody should know it better than I, for I am the
brother whose crime he suffered for."

Then he walked across the floor to ’Zeki’l’s side in the midst of the
deepest silence which had ever fallen upon a congregation in Zion Hill
church.

                     *WAS IT AN EXCEPTIONAL CASE?*

The Capelles were Louisianians, of French descent, and before the war
lived in New Orleans, occasionally visiting their plantations on Red
River.  But Anthony Capelle was killed in the battle of Vicksburg, and
after the surrender Mrs. Anthony Capelle sold the Red River plantations
for about half their value, placed her New Orleans property in the hands
of a lawyer, gathered up some of her household stuffs, books, and other
things she prized, and with her little daughter Madeline, and one old
negro who had spent his life in the service of the Capelles, removed to
Marietta, Georgia. Those were days of change and great confusion, and
she disappeared from New Orleans and the knowledge of old friends
without calling forth comment or question, and she was received into the
social life of Marietta in the same way.  It was not the time to sit in
judgment on one’s neighbors—to probe for secret motives or purposes.  A
common woe made all akin.  From a merchant and planter who wished to
sell out and go west to recuperate his broken fortunes, Agnese Capelle
bought a house and lot on the northeast side of the town, and with her
small family settled quietly down.  It was a picturesque old house,
built after the colonial fashion, and set back from the street in the
seclusion of an oak grove. In the early spring the graveled walks were
bordered with jonquils and mountain pink, and from April to December the
roses bloomed along the garden fence and around the piazza.

The tumult following the war died away. People ceased to go about with a
helpless, bewildered look as they learned to adjust themselves to the
new conditions of life, and realized that the negro could no longer be
regarded as a slave, but as a free citizen, with all the rights and
privileges of citizenship.  The laws of the country made white and black
equal, but there was some bitter triumph in the consciousness that
unwritten social laws would hold them forever apart, two distinct races,
one degraded by color and past servitude.  On the surface of life the
agitations and thrills of the strong undercurrents ceased to make much
impression; they had sunk too deep.  The country at large settled to
outward peace, and from politics and social questions attention turned
to commerce and manufacture, to the development of rich mineral
resources, and to literature.  But the years passed quietly enough over
the Capelles.  They were so strongly fixed in their pride and prejudices
against social equality that they pursued their own gentle, even way,
untouched by the convulsions and throes of fierce indignation around
them.  Their servants were treated with kindness and consideration, and
when the old man who had clung to them with unbroken faith through
slavery and freedom died, they wept over him, and felt that a noble
friend had been lost, though also a negro and a servant.  And Madeline
developed into womanhood, beginning her education at her mother’s knee,
and finishing it at a college in Virginia.

She was gifted above the average girl in wit and beauty, and possessed
not only fascinating, lovely manners, but the tenderest heart and the
finest sympathies.  She was a girl of ardent temperament, but refined
and delicate in all her tastes, and pure in thought and aspiration. She
had strong convictions and opinions of her own, read and reflected more
than the ordinary Southern girl, and loved music passionately. The
simplest strain could make her eyes kindle, her color come and go, in a
sort of silent rapture, and the pathos of a negro song moved her heart
deeply.  In person she was slightly above medium height, and held her
head with an imperial grace not at all unsuitable to her youth and her
French ancestry.  Her hair was burnished brown, with a crisp wave in it,
her eyes blue-gray and brilliant.  But she lacked the clear, thin,
transparent skin usually accompanying such hair and eyes, the blood
pulsing through it pink as a rose.  Hers was soft as velvet, with an
opaque creamy tint, and the faintest suggestion of color, ordinarily.
She had scores of friends, and in her own small family circle was looked
upon as the most beautiful and lovable girl in the world. In Agnese
Capelle’s love for this fair daughter there was a passionate protective
tenderness, a subtle quality one would have called pity, had not such a
thing seemed absurd in connection with Madeline.  While not betraying
any undue anxiety over her marriage and settlement in life, she studied
each suitor that appeared on the scene, and if eligible, gave him a
gracious welcome.  But Madeline’s heart remained in her own possession
until she met Roger Everett.

Marietta was just attracting the attention of the Northern invalid and
also the Northern capitalist.  A few delicate, weak-lunged people had
found their way to it, and a company of enterprising men had projected a
railroad to pass through the north Georgia mountains, across the Blue
Ridge, and into North Carolina and Tennessee.  Along the line of this
road marble quarries were being opened and gold and talc mines
discovered; but Marietta still preserved its provincial ways and
appearances, its best houses the old colonial mansions, its churches
overgrown with ivy, Cherokee-rose hedges bounding the pastures and
gardens on the outskirts of the town, and inclosing the
neglected-looking graveyard.  Its picturesque hills were overshadowed by
Kennesaw Mountain, with the solitary peak of Lost Mountain rising far to
the south, and the dim, broken outline of the Blue Ridge range bounding
the northern horizon.  The hills and the mountains are still there, but
the town has caught the spirit of progress sweeping with electrical
effect over the South.  Handsome modern residences are springing up,
hotels and boarding-houses are being opened, and on the northeast side
of the town a beautiful national cemetery has been laid out, where the
Union soldiers who fell in the battles around Atlanta lie buried.  The
public square is still the scene of lively traffic in the fall, when the
streets are crowded with wagons heavily loaded with cotton, the farmers,
white and black, standing around, clothed in jeans and homespun, while
the buyers go about thrusting sampling-hooks into the great bales to
test the quality of the cotton and to determine its market value. But
these brown, tobacco-chewing countrymen jostle the New Yorker, the
Bostonian, and, indeed, people from all parts of the Union, seeking
health and fortune.

Roger Everett was one of the first New England men to find his way to
Marietta, and to invest in the Pickens County Marble Works.  He belonged
to _the_ Everetts of Massachusetts, a family of strong abolitionists,
and possessed his share of the traditional New England reserve and the
deeply rooted New England pride. For a year or two he devoted himself
almost exclusively to business, making only occasional visits to
Marietta; but his circle of acquaintances widened, and, being young and
handsome and cultivated, he was at last drawn into the social life of
the town, and few parties or picnics were complete without him.  He and
Madeline met at one of the picnics, danced together once at one of the
parties, but their acquaintance really began the day a large party went
up the new railroad to the marble works.  It fell to Everett to play the
part of cicerone, and though Madeline shrieked less and asked fewer
questions than the other girls, there was an intelligent comprehension
in her eyes when he explained the process of getting out the marble from
the quarries, and the machinery used for cutting it into blocks, that
made him feel that he was talking directly to her.  They lunched on the
bank of Long Swamp Creek, with the purple shadows of the mountains
falling over them, and mountain laurel in bloom all about them.  Then
Madeline and the young Northerner strolled away down the stream to look
for maidenhair ferns. They talked at first on general topics, and then
the girl asked some questions about the North, drawing in her breath
with little quivering sighs as he told her of frozen rivers, of snows so
deep one could scarcely walk through them, of sleighing and skating.

"And—and is it true what they say about the negroes?" she questioned
hesitatingly, curious to hear with her own ears the opinion of one of
these rabid abolitionists—at least she had read in the papers that they
were rabid.

He smiled, broke off a bit of laurel, pink and fragrant, and offered it
to her.

"What do they say, Miss Capelle?"

"That they are equal—that we should recognize them.  Oh, I hardly know
how to explain it," breaking off with a little laugh, not caring to
tread too boldly on delicate ground for fear he should feel wounded.

"We respect them where they deserve it, just as we do all men," he said
calmly.

"Regardless of color?"

"Yes.  What has the color of a man’s skin to do with the question of his
worth?"

"Everything, if he is a negro.  Could you—I beg your pardon for asking
the question—sit at the table with a _negro?_ actually break bread with
him as your equal?"

"If he were a gentleman, yes," firmly, his blue eyes meeting hers
fearlessly.

"Oh, oh! how could you?  I cannot understand it.  I am fond of some
negroes.  I loved Uncle Sam, I like Aunt Dilsey, and I’m sorry for them
as a race, but meet them on common ground I could not."  And then they
drifted away from the dangerous topic.

He walked with her and her mother to the train that evening, and Mrs.
Capelle invited him warmly and graciously to call upon them when he came
to Marietta again.

"He is interesting," she said to Madeline, with a backward glance
through the car window at his tall, slight figure as the train swept
them away from the station.

"Do you think so, _chérie_ mama?" indifferently, _her_ eyes looking down
upon her lap.

"He is handsome and well-bred."

"Oh, he is a Yankee," maliciously.

"He is a gentleman."

And then they looked at each other and laughed gently, and Madeline held
up a little paper-weight of pale pink marble, veined with threads of
white, that he had selected and ordered polished for her as a souvenir
of the day.

From that day it was a clear case of strong mutual attraction.  What
though they had been differently trained, and their opinions clashed on
some points?  They came out of wordy controversies firmer friends than
ever. There was never-ending interest in their combats, and the lightest
jest or banter held a fascination keen as the brightest wit.  He called
Madeline a narrow-minded, illiberal provincial, for holding such fierce
prejudices against the colored people, and she retorted that the negro
had become a sentiment to the North, and that if they, the Yankees,
would give some of their attention and pity to the poor white people
crowding their large cities, the South would solve its own great
problem. Sometimes they parted in anger; but it was short-lived, for
love drew them with irresistible force, and if they disagreed on a few
questions, how many hopes, thoughts, and desires they had in common!
what taste and sympathy!

Mrs. Capelle looked on, sighed, and smiled, but waited in silence for
Madeline’s confidence. And one evening she came in, knelt at her
mother’s feet, put her arms around her, and pressed her flushed,
tremulous, radiant face against her bosom.  Mrs. Capelle flushed and
trembled herself, and gathered that proud young head closer to her
heart.

"You have promised to marry him," she said in a whisper.

"He asked me again this evening.  I could not put him off," Madeline
confessed, also in a whisper.

"Coquette!  Did you want to put him off?"

"N—no."

"Oh, oh! he is a Yankee."

"I love him."

"He may take you away to his hard, his cold New England."

"We are to live here with you."

"Without consulting me?  Fie! what aggressive children!"

"You are glad, mama.  Why are you so glad I’m to be married?"

"I am longing to see you safe, my darling," dropping her teasing tone,
and speaking with sudden agitation.

"Am I not safe with you?" lifting her head, and looking tenderly into
the delicate face above her.

"But I am not strong, sweet, and I may be called suddenly from you some
day, and it is not good for girls to be alone.  It will be comforting to
leave you in such hands.  He is noble, he is good, and will love you
faithfully. Ah, Madeline, he is strong and firm; he will rule my wilful
girl."

"I should not love him if I could rule him," said Madeline, proudly.

Mrs. Capelle laughed and kissed her.  "Tell me all about it," she said
softly.  They talked until the hand of the clock pointed to twelve, and
only the barking of a dog or two pierced the silence resting upon the
town.

"We have no secrets—no secrets from each other, have we, mama?" said
Madeline with a happy laugh.

"No secrets, sweet?  No, no; there should be no secrets between mother
and child," said the elder woman; but her eyes fell; a paleness swept
over her face.  It was a swift, subtle change, unnoticed by the girl in
the delicious absorption of her thoughts.

That was a winter to live in the memory of those lovers as long as they
lived.  Every one of the swiftly flying days seemed to have its own
special joy, its own sweet experiences. When apart, there were long
letters written out of the fullness of their hearts; when together, long
talks, or delicious silences in which it seemed enough that they could
be together.

And there were letters from his New England home to her, one from his
mother, as sweet and gentle as her own mother could have written.

"She must be lovely, Roger," she said to him.

"She is," he replied with proud loyalty.  "I am longing for you to see
her."

"I shrink from it, for if she should not be pleased with me—"

"She must; she cannot help it, dearest.  Ah! you know that you’ll charm
her," putting his hand under her chin, and turning her face upward to
his eyes, its palpitant color, proud, shy eyes, and lovely
tremulousness, a tacit confession of his power.

Before she could elude him—for with all her caressing ways and Southern
temperament, lending itself so naturally to demonstrativeness, she was
very chary of her favors—he drew her into his arms against his heart,
and kissed her.

Mrs. Capelle spent those winter days sewing on fine linen, cambric,
sheer muslin, and lace, stitching many loving thoughts into the dainty
garments intended for Madeline’s wardrobe. Imperceptibly, as it were,
she had grown very fragile, and the least excitement caused her to
palpitate and tremble, with flushed face and hand pressed upon her
heart.

She had been a devout Catholic in her youth, and though removed from her
church, she still occasionally attended mass in Atlanta, and went to
confession.  But as the winter passed, her thoughts turned longingly to
Father Vincent, her old father confessor, and one day in the early
spring she received a letter from him. He would in a short time pass
through Marietta on his way to the North.  Could he stop for a day with
them?  It seemed such a direct answer to her secret desire for his
counsel that she joyfully hastened to reply, telling him how she needed
his advice and his blessing.

She had rejoiced over Madeline’s engagement, but as the time set for her
marriage drew near, some secret trouble seemed to wear upon her, much to
the girl’s distress.

"What is it, mama?" she asked, sitting at her feet, and taking her hand
and laying it against her cheek.

"What can it be but the loss of you, sweet?" she replied quickly.  "You
must allow me to be jealous and foolish."

"But you are not going to lose me, dearest mama, and are you sure—I have
fancied there must be something else troubling you."

"Indeed you must not think so; I am selfish to—"

"Selfish!  You, the best and sweetest woman in the world, selfish!  I’ll
not believe that."  Still she did not feel satisfied, and was greatly
relieved when Father Vincent came, and she saw her mother brighten and
look like her old self.  It was about two weeks before the wedding that
he came, and was persuaded to stop with them two days instead of one. He
was an old man, small, slender, and ascetic looking, with clear, calm
eyes, and a sweet voice.

It was the afternoon of his arrival that Madeline went out to make some
calls, but after one visit changed her mind, and returned home.  She did
not at once go to her mother, knowing that she and Father Vincent would
probably have much to say to each other, but turned into the parlor,
cool, dusky, and deserted, and went to the little alcove, where she had
left her embroidery and the last letter from her lover.  It was simply a
corner of the big room, furnished with a lounge and a small table, and
shut in by soft silk curtains.  How long she had been there, re-reading
that letter, dreaming over her work, she could not tell, when roused by
footsteps and voices in the room—her mother and the priest.

"You hinted at some special cause for trouble in your letter," he said,
as they sat down in close proximity to those curtains and Madeline’s
retreat.

"Yes; it concerns Madeline."

"What of her?  I thought her future had been settled.  Is she not to be
married in a short time?"

"Yes; but, Father, she is not my child, and I am growing doubtful of the
honor of my course in regard to this marriage."

"Not your child!" exclaimed Father Vincent in surprise, for he thought
that he knew all the Capelle secrets.

"No.  I would to God that she were!" she said with deep emotion, "for I
love her so well that I’d gladly give my life to know that pure, unmixed
blood flowed in her veins."

His chair creaked as he drew it a little nearer her; his voice sank to a
low key:

"You do not mean—"

"Yes; her mother was a quadroon," in a trembling whisper.

Did he hear that strange gasping sigh, as of a dumb creature struck by a
mortal blow, that he so quickly and abruptly exclaimed:

"Where is she now?"

"Out calling.  I did not dare speak of this while she was in the house,
for fear the very walls would betray the secret.  She must never know
it, never!  It would ruin her life, kill her, my poor, proud child!"

Her voice broke in tears.

"Tell me the whole story," said the priest gently, but with authority.

"Yes, yes; that is what I am longing to do. The secret has become a
burden to me: I want to be assured that I have acted rightly about her
marriage.  You remember my husband’s brother, Lawrence Capelle?"

"Well, very well; a handsome young fellow, but rather wild."

"And lovable with it all.  He died while my husband and I were in
France—we were there three years—and before his death he wrote to
Anthony, begging him to look after the welfare of a child, a baby, and
giving the history of his attachment to a beautiful quadroon in New
Orleans.  Her mother had been a slave, but this girl had been born free,
received a very good education, and grew up superior to her class. She
had loved him with rare faith and tenderness, and died at the birth of
the child."

"They were not married, of course?"

"Married?  Oh, no; but he had really been quite fond of her, and he
dwelt at length upon the beauty and intelligence of the child.  We came
home very quietly, and before going to our own house, or betraying our
presence to even intimate friends, we sought her out, and the moment I
took her in my arms, looked into her eyes—Lawrence’s own beautiful gray
eyes, smiling with innocent fearlessness straight into my own—my heart
went out to her in such a gush of love, pity, tenderness, I did not feel
that I could ever be parted from her.  Father, she was the loveliest,
most lovable child I ever saw.  We adopted her, we made her our very
own, and no one knew that she had not really been born to us abroad. Not
even to you, Father, did we confess the truth.  The war came then, and
Anthony died at Vicksburg; but I could not feel utterly alone, utterly
bereft, while I had Madeline.  I made plans for her; I said that she
should never know that she was not truly my own child. Her training, her
education, became the absorbing interest of my life.  After the close of
the war I thought it best for her sake to leave New Orleans, to seek a
new and more obscure home, away from old friends, old ties.  If we
remained there she might in some way learn the truth.  We came here, you
and my lawyer alone knowing where to find us.  I have brought her up
most carefully.  She is refined, beautiful, accomplished, and innocent
as a young girl should be, but you can see for yourself what she is.  I
instilled the strongest race prejudices into her mind.  I impressed it
upon her that the negro is an inferior creature, a servant of servants,
to be treated with kindness, but never to be considered an equal; for a
morbid fear that her mother’s blood would betray itself in some coarse
or degraded taste, haunted me.  But I am no longer afraid for her.  Have
I acted with wisdom?  Have I done well to lift her up?"

"Assuredly; only"—he reflected a moment—"only your extreme course in
regard to color prejudice would make the truth a hundredfold harder to
bear should she discover it."

"But she shall not discover it.  In two weeks she will be married to
this young Northerner, her life merged into his, her very name lost.  Is
it right, is it cheating him?"

"If you cannot tell her, then you must not tell him, for it would only
be to raise a barrier of secrecy between them."

"Tell me there is no dishonesty, no sin in it, and my heart will be at
rest."

"According to my understanding, Agnese Capelle, there is none, but the
highest human understanding is at best but poor authority. You have
rescued this child from the common fate of her class, elevated her,
thrown around her love, protection, the honor of a good name. You save
her from the consequences of her father’s sin.  Be contented with your
work. For marriage will be the crowning of it, and if she is noble,
neither origin nor birth can make her less precious to her husband.  I
only wish there were more women like you in this country."

She drew a long breath of relief, but humbly said:

"Do not credit me with being a humanitarian. It was simply for love of
her I did it all, and lately I have craved your blessing on it, Father
Vincent, for I have developed the heart-disease hereditary in my family,
and look any hour to be called hence."

A little longer they talked, and then went away, Mrs. Capelle to seek
some repose after the excitement of the interview, and the priest to
stroll about the grounds in prayer or meditation.

When the last sound of their footsteps and voices died away, the
curtains were drawn aside, and Madeline came out of her retreat. She
looked wan and ghastly, and groped her way across the room and up to her
own apartment as though stricken with sudden blindness.

She closed and locked the door, then flung herself prone upon the floor.
She felt like writhing and screaming aloud instead of lying there like a
senseless log, only her tongue seemed paralyzed, her body numbed.  And
yet she could think—think with burning, agonizing intensity.  Could it
be true, or only a hideous nightmare out of which she would presently
wake?  Her mother a quadroon, her grandmother a slave!  She wondered
that the very thought of it did not kill her.  Her name, her pride,
everything that she had cherished, had been torn from her, and she—she
had been hurled down into a black abyss where she must grovel and suffer
until death set her free. Strange visions seemed to come before her out
of the remote past—visions of African jungles, of black, half-naked
savages borne across the seas to be bought and sold, to pine and fret in
bondage, longing for the freedom which never came to them.

They were her ancestors; their blood, degraded by generations of
slavery, flowed in her veins.  Her education, her refinement, her
prejudices would only be instruments of torture now, with that secret
consciousness of shame and degradation underlying them.  It was as
cruel, as complete, as if it had been planned with Machiavellian art to
this ending; and through the confused misery of her thoughts ran a
sensation of pity for her mother, that she had so unconsciously spoiled
her work.  Presently the stunned feeling passed, and she rose to her
feet again, and walked about the room. On the bed and chairs were
strewed the pretty things belonging to her wedding outfit.  Half
unconsciously she folded and put them away. She would not need them now.
Once she went to the mirror, and, leaning close to it, looked at
herself, seeking for traces of that race she had been taught to regard
as the lowest on earth.  Did that soft fullness of lip, that crisp wave
in her hair, that velvety, opaque skin come from her mother?  A
momentary savage rage thrilled her.  She struck the glass so fierce a
blow with her closed hand that it cracked from bottom to top.  Then her
eyes fell on her lover’s picture, placed in an open velvet frame, and
she paled and shuddered. She did not touch it, though a hundred times it
had been pressed to heart and lip, but gazed at it with that intense
parting look we give the dead before they are hidden forever from us;
then she leaned over the bureau, her head bowed upon her folded arms.

The afternoon passed; twilight crept into the room.  Faint sounds of
life came up from the lower part of the house; the tea-bell rang; at
last some one came slowly, heavily up the stairs, shuffled across the
hall, and knocked on her door.

"Miss Mad’line, Miss Mad’line."  She opened the door, and found Aunt
Dilsey standing there, a big, coffee-colored mulatto woman, panting from
the exertion of mounting the stairs, the wrinkles in her fat neck filled
with little streams of perspiration.  "Miss Agnese an’ de priest man air
waitin’ fo’ yo’ to come down to supper, honey, an’ Miss Agnese say
hurry, de cakes gwine git cold," she said in a full rich voice; but
Madeline only caught her by the shoulder, and stared at her thick brown
skin, her coarse crinkled hair, her protruding lips, and broad figure.
So her grandmother might have looked.  "Fo’ mercy’s sake, honey, what’s
de matter?  Air yo’ sick?" cried Aunt Dilsey in a frightened, anxious
tone; but the girl only turned from her, and fell upon the bed with a
moan of despair.

She heard the old negress hurrying downstairs, and then her mother’s
light swift steps, and tried to compose herself.

"My darling, what is the matter?" cried Mrs. Capelle, bending tenderly,
anxiously over her.

"It is only a—a—headache," said Madeline, glad that the twilight hid her
face from those loving, searching eyes.

"Are you sure?  Dilsey frightened me so."

"Dilsey is a foolish old creature."

Mrs. Capelle felt of her hands, her face.

"You are feverish.  You were in the hot sun too much this afternoon."

"Yes; that was it—the sun.  Don’t be anxious, mama.  It is nothing.  Go
back to Father Vincent, and I’ll sleep, and be well to-morrow."

"But I do not like to leave you."

"You must, _chérie_.  Remember your guest."

"Yes, yes; so I must.  I will come up again presently."

She stooped to arrange a pillow, and to kiss her, and Madeline raised
herself up, threw her arms around her.

"My own good, sweet mama, my dear, lovely one!" she murmured.  "You do
everything for my comfort and happiness.  You would not hurt me for the
world, would you?"

"Hurt you, sweet?"

"I know you would not.  I—I like to tease you a little.  Kiss me
good-night, and go. _Poor mama!_" she murmured under her breath, as they
held each other, in a love no bond of flesh and blood could have made
stronger.

"How can I tell her that I know!  How can I!" Madeline moaned when left
again alone.

But she did not have that cruel task, for sometime during that night,
while she turned wakefully on her bed, or paced softly about the room,
Agnese Capelle received the summons she had been so long expecting.
Next morning only her fragile body lay between the white sheets of her
bed, the life, the spirit gone.

Madeline was strangely calm through all the excitement and confusion
following, and went herself to select a sunny open spot in the neglected
little cemetery for her mother’s grave.

"She loved sunshine," she said to Everett and Father Vincent, "and she
wished to be buried here."

She preserved the same stony quiet through the funeral and burial, and
friends commented and wondered, and Roger watched her anxiously.  He
felt an indefinable change in her, but attributed it to the shock of her
mother’s sudden death.  Father Vincent studied him with keen eyes, but
could find no fault.  He was a manly man, and a tender, considerate
lover.

It was the third evening after her mother’s burial that Madeline called
Father Vincent into the little study adjoining the parlor. The New
Orleans lawyer had come up, held a private interview with her, and had
gone away again, and she had sent off her wedding trousseau to a young
girl in a distant town, and certain things belonging to her mother she
had carefully collected and put together.  So much Aunt Dilsey, the
priest, and a kind old lady who proposed to stay with her a few days
knew; but she offered no explanation, and gave no clue to her plans for
the future.

"She acts for all the world like she didn’t expect to get married,
herself," the old lady confided to a friend or two.  "I can’t understand
what she intends to do."

Father Vincent felt some curiosity too, and went into the little room
rather eagerly.  She sat before her mother’s desk with a lot of papers
open before her.  It came upon him with the force of surprise that she
had changed greatly in a few days.  Her features were sharpened, her
eyes had purplish hollows under them, and the dull black gown she wore
only brought out the intense pallor of her face.

"My child, where did you get those papers? You must let me examine them.
There are some your mother wished destroyed," said the priest, hastily.

"I know, Father, I know," she said in a dull tone.

"Have you—"

"Read them?  No; but I heard all that she told you that day."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, understanding why she looked so changed, and his
eyes rested pityingly upon her.  A fiery blush burned her throat and
face for a moment, leaving her paler than ever when it receded.

"Yes; I know," she said, and clasped her hands together on her lap.
"Father, will you tell Mr. Everett?"

"But—"

"I cannot do it; help me, will you?"

It was a piteous appeal, and his heart melted at the sight of her
anguished eyes.

"You think he ought to know it?"

"He must, of course," she said, and he felt satisfied that she had not,
for a moment even, been tempted to keep the truth from him. "He is in
the parlor," she continued after a slight pause; "tell him all, spare
nothing," her tensely drawn lips quivering, her hands tightly clenched.

"My child, you take it too hard," laying his hand on her head.  "I am
grieved for you, but do not let it spoil your peace."

"How can I help it, Father, with the training I have had?  I cannot
change my beliefs in a day.  Oh, you know how my friends would shrink
from me if they knew the truth, and I—I cannot blame them.  I should do
the same.  There is no help, no comfort, for me anywhere."

"There is the comfort of the Church, the help of Heaven."

"Ah, yes; I forget—I forget."

"But hear your lover before you decide your future.  He has a right to
it, remember."

"Tell him, Father, tell him."

He went away, and, turning the light a little lower, she waited.  He
made the story short, for in a few minutes the door opened again and her
lover entered.  She rose to meet him, determined to be brave and
self-possessed, but that new, bitter sense of shame again overpowered
her. She seemed to shrink and shrivel under his tender eyes, and sank
down with bowed head.  But he knelt by her chair with his arms around
her, and drew that proud, averted face against him.

"Dearest, dearest," he whispered, the very tone of his voice carrying to
her his sympathy, his unshaken love.

"I thank God that I learned the truth in time," she said faintly.

"In time for what, Madeline?"

"To save you."

He raised her face, forced her to look at him.

"Do you believe my love has changed?"

"It has an element of pity now."

"But pity for your suffering, and not because I hold you less noble.  I
can take care of myself and you also, my darling.  Father Vincent and I
agree that it will be best for you to go North, get away from old
associations, old ideas; so we’ll be married quietly, and leave here at
once."  He rose, and she stood up also, facing him, looking straight
into his eyes.

"Did Father Vincent tell you _all_?  Do you realize just what I am?"

"Yes; you are the woman I love—my promised wife.  Can I hold you
blamable, dearest, or unlove you simply because—come, Madeline, put all
the past behind you, and we will never speak of this again."

"Impossible, Roger.  You are generous, and I’m not afraid that you would
ever reproach me, but it is not worth while for us to argue the matter.
We cannot marry.  In my own sight I have been humbled into the dust, and
as your wife I should always have a cringing, cowardly feeling of
unworthiness.  I could not be happy myself, and my misery would only
overshadow you.  Don’t think me unreasonable or lacking in love.  Love!
It fills all my heart, pervades every atom of my being.  I loved you at
once—the first moment, I think, that my eyes rested upon you.  The
prejudices which seemed so foolish, so false, are interwoven, blended
with life itself.  We, here, call them instincts, holding us apart from
the lower order of man, and my education only fostered, developed them
to the utmost in me."

"If your mother had only—"

"Don’t think hardly of her, my dearest. She is not to blame.  She
brought me up as she believed best, and implanted the principles and
beliefs she thought would be my surest safeguards.  As she grew weak and
ill the secret burdened her, and for fear that she might be wronging you
she sought Father Vincent’s advice.  How I thanked God that she died
without knowing that her work was all undone!"  She flung herself again
into the chair, and he saw that she was too excited, too overwrought, to
be reasoned with.

She looked up at him.

"Had you known my birth, my parentage, from the first, could you have
loved me?"

"I do not know," he said candidly; "I only know that I do love you, and
that I will not give you up."  His face flushed, his eyes kindled.  "You
must, you shall, be my wife.  But we will not talk of it any more
to-night: you need rest, and time to recover from the double shock which
has come upon you.  To-morrow—every day, I shall come, until you learn
to look at this as I do.  Good-night, Madeline. Think wisely,
reasonably, dear."

"I will try; and you will know my decision to-morrow, Roger."

He bent over her, kissed the bright waves of her hair; but she started
up, and clasped her arms about him, drawing his lips down to hers in an
abandonment of love she had never shown before.  Tears rained from her
eyes, the stony curves of her mouth melted, and he felt that it was a
tacit surrender.

"To-morrow you will listen to me, Madeline," he said with the certainty
of conviction.

"Yes; to-morrow," she replied, and turned, weeping, from him.

But when he came next morning Father Vincent met him at the door, while
the old lady and Aunt Dilsey hovered in the hall with frightened,
excited faces.  Fear, vague, indefinite, but chilling, fell upon him.
He had spent half the night in thinking and planning; he had felt
assured that it needed only time and change of scene to restore Madeline
to her former brightness; but even if a cloud should always hang over
her, he wished to share its gloom.  He could not fully appreciate her
position, because he could not look at it from her standpoint.  He could
understand that it had been a cruel blow to her, but he could not
understand how tragical.  He felt very hopeful as he walked over to her
home, but the face of the priest, those women in the background,
startled him.

"What is the matter?" he cried sharply.

"She is gone," said Father Vincent.

"Gone!" he echoed, paling suddenly, and half reeling.

"Yes."

"Where?  In God’s name, where?"

"That is what we do not know.  She must have gone away on the early
train this morning."

The blood came back to the young man’s face, a hideous fear lifted from
his mind.

"You do not think then—"

"No; a Capelle would never seek self-destruction."

Everett stood still and looked about the hall and through the open doors
into the silent rooms, yesterday filled with the sweet influence of her
presence, to-day empty, desolate, and a terrible sense of loss swept
over him.  Her words, "You will know my decision to-morrow," came back
to his memory with crushing significance.

"Fool, fool that I have been!" he groaned aloud, and the priest took him
by the arm and led him into the parlor.

"The women think her mind has been upset by her mother’s sudden death.
It is well; let all her friends think so.  But we must find her, Mr.
Everett."

"Yes; I will go at once," said Roger, rousing himself.  "It is to hide
from me that she has gone away; but I shall find her, I shall certainly
find her."

He spoke firmly and quietly, but the task before him proved very hard,
for she had left no written message, no clue to her plans or
destination.

It was a spring day in the year 1886 that Roger Everett turned aside
from the beaten track of the tourist in New Orleans to visit a school in
the old quarter of the city—a school maintained by a few New England
philanthropists for colored children exclusively.  He lost his bearings
in the narrow streets among the quaint old-fashioned houses, and stopped
to make inquiries at a small building opening on the street.  He rapped
on the half-closed wooden shutter with his stick, his eyes meanwhile
wandering up and down the silent, sunny street, absently noting the
scant, picturesque attire of some brown-faced children at play on the
sidewalk and the pathetic figure of an old negro sitting on a doorstep.
His failure to find Madeline Capelle had left its traces upon his face.
Five years had elapsed since her disappearance, and though he had not
ceased to look into every woman’s face he met, he had given up hope of
finding her.  A serene-eyed woman in a black gown and cap came to the
door, and he instantly recognized the dress as the uniform of some
religious order or sisterhood.

"Come in," she said in a gentle, subdued tone.

"I beg your pardon.  I merely wished to—"

"It will not be an intrusion.  Many have already come to-day to see her,
for you know many love her.  This way, please," she said, and without
waiting for him to speak again, she turned and walked through two rather
bare, dusky rooms into a small one opening on a green, magnolia-shaded
court.  He followed her, puzzled, but with a touch of curiosity,
wondering how he should explain himself; but the moment he crossed the
threshold he understood the mistake that she had made, for in the centre
of the room stood a white-draped bier, and through the unfolded linen he
could trace the outline of a rigid human form.

"See the flowers," his conductress whispered, pointing to the masses of
cape jasmines, roses, and smaller flowers.  "Sister Christiana loved
them, but she loved all things beautiful and good.  They were brought
this morning by negroes she has been kind to.  To teach, to elevate, and
to nurse them has been her mission.  No service seemed too humble, no
duty too hard for her.  She did indeed ’belong to Christ.’"

Her mild eyes kindled, her hand instinctively sought the cross at her
side.

"She died calmly and with joy, and knew us until the last moment."

He followed her across the room, treading softly, as we always do in the
presence of death. With reverent hand she laid aside the shielding
linen, and he leaned forward—the past once more a vivid reality and not
a memory, not a dream vanishing from him, for the face he looked down
upon was the face of Madeline Capelle.

                       *AN OLD-TIME LOVE STORY.*

The Galers lived on the summit of a long hill sloping down to the brink
of the Chattahoochee River, and nearly opposite the small town of
Roswell.  Above the house and below it stretched the fertile acres of a
fine plantation worked by many slaves; for old Jabez Galer was rich in
land and negroes, besides owning a large interest in a wool factory over
the river.  Roswell was really the most important manufacturing town in
Georgia before the War, though it was scattered so picturesquely over
the river hills with no railroad market nearer than Atlanta.

But it does not enter the province of this short sketch to give a
history of the old town with its factories scattered along short canals,
fed from the river, its traditions reaching back into the early days of
the settling of Georgia—its "lover’s leap" on the brink of a wide creek,
a cliff of gray rocks with lovely maidenhair ferns growing thickly
around its base—but of the Galers living across the river from it in the
midst of their small kingdom, surrounded by their black retainers, and
of an old love story.

The house was big and white and squarely built, with the piazzas—without
which no Southern house would have seemed complete—wide halls and large
rooms belonging to a certain period of colonial architecture.  The lower
hall was ornamented with the antlers of a stag or two, some leopard-skin
rugs, and with a stuffed owl perched above the door. The rooms wrere
sparely furnished after the stiff fashion of the day, but linen closets
and clothes-presses were full and overflowing; for there wrere swift
spinners and skillful weavers among the negro women on the place, and a
careful mistress to look after them.  In the rear of the main dwelling
were the negro quarters, and off at one side the barns and stables.  The
grassy lawn was shaded with fine old oaks and mimosa trees.  In the back
yard the little negroes disported, and a dozen hounds had their kennels;
for Mr. Jabez Galer was fond of riding forth over the river hills in the
early dawn, with dogs and gun and hunting-horn.  His family consisted of
himself, his meek, gentle sister, Miss Jane, and his grand-daughter,
fair Pamela.

Mr. Jabez Galer was a character in his day and generation.  He was
impulsive and could be generous, but had a most tyrannical will and a
violent temper.  He ruled his household like an autocrat.  There was
something domineering in his very tread, the roll of his keen eye, the
fit of the white linen arraying his portly person.  He was a rather
fine-looking old man, gray-haired and blue-eyed, and with evidences of
good living in every line of his clean-shaven face.  No man could be
more genial than he when in a good humor, or appreciate a story or a
joke more keenly; and he was kind to his negroes.  True, they did not
dare disobey him without expecting and receiving punishment, and they
worked hard; but they were well clothed, housed and fed, and enjoyed
their regular holidays and merrymakings.

Mr. Galer’s doors were always open to the wandering prospector, the
trader, the itinerant preacher, or, indeed, to any one who claimed his
hospitality and seemed worthy of it, and his sister and granddaughter
were free to entertain or be entertained by the society of Roswell; but
his guests sometimes came in contact with his imperious will or his
temper.  To show what manner of man he was one experience is herein
given:

A Kentucky horse-trader stopped at the house one night, and long after
the other members of the family had retired he sat in the dining-room
with his host drinking wine and telling stories.  They both grew
somewhat excited as the mellow vintage warmed their fancies.  They told
adventures of youthful gallantry.  Mr. Galer had, in his time, figured
prominently in society as a beau, dancing and paying compliments; and
the Kentuckian admitted that he had also once felt proud of his
nimble-footedness in treading the cotillon.  He was invited to give an
example of his skill, but declined.  His host insisted, but he laughed
contemptuously at the idea. Old Jabez Galer’s choler rose.  He went to
the dining-room door and shouted for his own special servant, Elbert.

"Elbert, hey there!  Elbert, you rascal, bring down your fiddle!"

An old negro man stumbled down the back stairway and into the room,
rubbing open his sleepy eyes, a much abused and battered violin under
his arm.  He looked older than his master, his woolly head quite white,
a complex tracery of wrinkles covering his shrewd black face; but he
seemed active and strong, and betrayed not the slightest surprise at the
midnight summons.

"Mars Galer up tu some mischief, sho’," he muttered, sitting down, with
his feet drawn up under him, and beginning to tune the violin. He gave a
few preparatory scrapes across the strings, and then began to play the
old inspiring tunes his dusky people had danced to round many a brightly
blazing bonfire, or in the light of the full moon.  Mr. Galer turned the
key in the door, reached down the gun resting in a rack above it, and
deliberately leveled it at his astonished guest.

"Now dance, or I’ll put a bullet through your head."

The Kentuckian was not a coward, but he had no weapon—how he longed for
the pistols in his saddle-bags!—and realized that his host might do him
mischief if not humored.

It was a curious scene, an extremely ludicrous one.  The candles, set in
tall, brass candlesticks, sputtered and flared, the tallow melting down
in a little gutter on one side. They cast only an uncertain, flickering
light over the room, and the tall, awkward Kentuckian, in creaking
boots, shuffled over the bare floor until the house fairly trembled, and
Miss Jane turned on her high feather bed in a chamber above, wondering
what unseemly sport could be going on.  But the victim of Mr. Galer’s
whims was a wary man and given to dissimulation when occasion required.
He appeared to find such humor in the situation that his host was thrown
entirely off guard and allowed the gun to rest negligently on the table
in front of him.  In a twinkling it was snatched from his loosened
grasp, and the Kentuckian stood between him and the door.

"Now you try your skill awhile, Mr. Galer, or you may play best man at
the funeral," he said, grimly.

It was a neat revenge, and instead of trying to rouse the household to
his protection Mr. Galer promptly began to keep time to the music with
slow, old-fashioned steps.  But he had lost the lightness and skill of
his youth, and, soon exhausted, had to beg for mercy. Elbert’s eyes
twinkled in secret glee over his master’s discomfiture, and he played a
livelier strain than ever.  Mr. Galer and the trader parted the next
morning in the friendliest manner, and he told the story of his defeat
with the keenest appreciation.

With such a disposition to override all opposition to his wishes and
desires, it is not to be supposed that his family had an easy life of it
when wills clashed.  It was only by stratagem that they could ever
outwit him; and it was by stratagem that Pamela married the man she
loved.  It happened in this wise:

Adjoining Mr. Galer’s plantation was one even larger and richer,
belonging to Mr. Josiah Williamson, a man who had abundance of money,
and was amply able to take life easy.  He went away annually on a trip
to the principal Northern cities, and even talked of some time going
abroad.  He and old Jabez Galer were warm friends, and it had long been
understood between them that Pamela should become Mrs. Josiah Williamson
when she arrived at a suitable age.  At the date of this story she had
reached eighteen, and her grandfather’s plans for her future began to
take active shape. One morning he stamped into the hall, threw his hat
and riding-whip on a table, shouting in thundering tones:

"Permely!  Per*me*ly! hey, Perme*lee!*"

The little negroes rolling in the sand in the back yard scampered away
behind the kitchen, Miss Jane dropped the fine linen she was mending in
the dining-room, and Elbert muttered over a half-polished boot: "Mars
Jabe in one o’ his tantrums ’g’in, ez I live."

"What is it, grandpa?" inquired a youthful voice from the upper hall,
and Pamela stepped lightly down the broad, shallow stairs.

"Come here to me," he said, but in a softer tone; for she held the
tenderest place in his heart; and she was fair enough to disarm even
greater anger than his.  She was a tall young person, with a certain
charming dignity of carriage, a rather pale but lovely face, fine, pale
brown hair, and steel-gray eyes.  There was no vivid coloring about her,
though plenty of character lay under that soft, subdued beauty.  She was
gowned in thin muslin befitting the summer day, with a narrow lace
collar turned down around her slender neck.  Mr. Galer laid his hands
heavily on her shoulders, looking sternly into her clear eyes.

"What’s this I hear about you and Sim Black?"

She looked down, and the whiteness of her face and throat turned to
rose.

"I _would_ hang my head," giving her a slight shake.  "What do you
suppose that young beggar had the impudence to do this morning when I
went over to Roswell? to ask me for you—you—old Jabez Galer’s
grand-daughter; declared that he had always loved you, and that it was
with your consent he came to me."

"Yes sir," she said, in a low tone, tracing a seam in the floor with the
toe of her neat little shoe.

He stamped the floor.  "Well, he’ll not get you, do you hear?  Do you
think I raised you, educated you, to marry a miserable little lawyer
without a rood of land or a nigger to his name?  No, sirrah!"

"I thought you always intended me to be happy, sir," paling again before
his wrath, but firm.

"So I do, but you’ll be happy in my way, marry the man I have selected
for you, and his name is—Josiah Williamson."

She stared at him in a disconcertingly amazed, shocked way.

"_Why, grandpa!_"

"What’s the matter, now?"

"He’s as old as you are."

"He is not a year older than your aunt Jane."

"And I love Sim, dear grandpa," she pleaded.

"Don’t you dare to think of him again! Williamson—"

"I will certainly not think of _him_," with a flash of her eyes.

"I have forbidden Black ever coming here again, and I’ll wear him out
with a cowhide if I ever hear of your speaking to him."

"Brother, brother," remonstrated Miss Jane’s exasperatingly gentle voice
from the dining-room door, her small person half hidden in an armful of
mending.

"Don’t ’brother’ me!  What have you been doing, not to look after this
girl?  But women are contrary creatures, all of them, and enough to
drive a man distracted with their piety and sentimental foolishness!"

He went out upon the piazza, and sat down to let his vexation cool,
while Pamela was folded in her grandaunt’s comforting little arms, to
the detriment of the linen, which received a copious shower of tears.
But if she wept she was also determined.  As old Elbert had once
shrewdly said:

"Miss Pamely’s er Galer, too, en got de Galer will, en de Galer temper,
en things gwinter fly to pieces when she en ole Mars come tugether."

Mr. Galer sat on the piazza; but he waxed wroth every time he thought of
young Black’s presumption.  Stretching afar before his eyes were his own
cotton-fields, girdled on one side by the winding curves of the
Chattahoochee, and on the other by deep, green forests, and through the
palpitant air of the summer noon floated a field song, chanted by the
joyous mellow voices of his slaves.  His heart swelled with the pride of
riches.  Sim Black, indeed! when Pamela could have the pick and choice
of the country, by right of her beauty and her dowry.  What if the young
lawyer did possess a brilliant mind and an eloquent tongue, and culture
far beyond the average man in that region? he had sprung from obscure
origin, and his future honors were as yet but empty promises, while
Josiah Williamson’s wealth and position were solid facts.

That afternoon, as Pamela sat in her room bending listlessly over some
gay patchwork, Mammy Susannah came in, and from under the kerchief
folded across her bosom, drew a little note.

"Honey, Elbert say, fo’ de lub o’ de Lawd not tu let old Mars know ’e
fetch dis."

Pamela sprang up, flushing and trembling, to receive her first
love-letter.  It was brief:

"_Dearest:_—As your grandfather has forbidden me to enter his house
again, I shall walk by the althea hedge in your garden this evening
where, I pray you, meet me.

"Your devoted Lover,
       "JOHN SIMPSON BLACK."

Mr. Josiah Williamson came a-wooing that evening just as twilight fell
and the whippoorwill began his plaintive serenade.  The negroes
understood his errand, from the groom, who put up his horse, to the
pickaninny peeping around the corner of the house; and there were nods
and winks exchanged as he came nimbly up the piazza steps arrayed in his
finest broadcloth and newest, tightest neck-stock.

He and Mr. Galer sat on the piazza and chatted awhile of plantation
affairs, of the latest news from Washington, and of a public sale of
slaves which had recently occurred in Roswell; and Miss Jane sat in the
candle-lit parlor, knitting; but Pamela had disappeared.

"Can I—ahem—speak to Miss Permely, this evening?" Mr. Williamson at last
inquired. "Your note led me to hope so."

"Yes; I want that matter settled.  I’ll see if she’s with her aunt."

But Miss Jane mused solitarily over the stocking heel, a great white
winged moth circling about her meek head or diving ever and anon toward
the flame of the candle.

"Where is Permely?" Mr. Galer inquired, frowning.

She dropped one of the long, shining needles with a clinking sound, and
stooped to grope around the edge of her skirts for it.

"Why, Jabez, I don’t know; I thought—"

"Leave your thoughts out of the question, Jane, and go call her.  She is
hiding somewhere about the house."

Miss Jane stood up and faced him, nerved to a fleeting courage.

"Brother, don’t try to force the child into a loveless marriage.  Think
how young she is; think—"

"Do as I tell you, Jane; I know what is best for Permely;" and she
silently obeyed.

But Mammy Susannah, hovering in the shadow of the stairway, had already
slipped out into the garden.  It was a beauty’s bower. The rising moon
shone on beds of tulip and mignonette, on rows of flaunting hollyhocks,
blue larkspur and yellow marigolds, on sweet pinks standing thickly in
the border of the walks, and roses bending earthward under the weight of
their own rich bloom and fragrance; its silvered light fell on the
althea hedge with its white and purple flowers, and on Pamela and her
lover slowly pacing the walk beyond.

"Miss Pemely, honey!" Susannah called, low and cautiously.

She hurriedly withdrew her hand from Sim’s clasp.

"I must go; grandpa wants me."

But he threw his arms about her to detain her a moment longer, loth to
part from her so quickly.  Their two young faces were almost on a level;
for Black was short and dark, though strongly built, and
square-shouldered, with keen black eyes, and a handsome, clean-shaven
face.  His eyes were alight with love’s soft fire as they rested on her
face.

"I cannot let you go so soon, beloved," he protested, tenderly.

"Ah, but think of grandpa’s anger, should he find you here."

"It would take a stout heart to face it, I acknowledge," he said
laughing.  Then he took her face between his hands: "You’ll not let them
take you from me, Pamela?"

"Indeed I will not, Sim."

Her sweet eyes and mouth were kissed, and then Black vaulted over the
low garden fence, while she hastened to the house, her light skirts
brushing the tell-tale dew from flower and seeded grass, her fine, soft
hair hanging damply around her throat and delicate ears.

It is not the purpose of this chronicle to give a minute account of Mr.
Josiah Williamson’s wooing, nor of its failure.  Mr. Galer lived in a
state of vexation from morning until night. He was nearly beside himself
with baffled rage when he found that with characteristic family spirit
Pamela declined to be cajoled or coerced into obedience.  All his
ambitious plans threatened a total collapse; and that the obstinacy of a
slim young girl should be the cause made it all the more aggravating.
He thought of a hundred schemes by which he might overcome her contrary
spirit, but only one appeared feasible.  He chuckled grimly over it, and
sent for Mr. Williamson to unfold his plan to him.

"I’ll pretend to give my consent to her marriage with Black, set the
day, invite the guests, and then contrive to have Sim detained over in
Roswell, put in jail if it’s necessary, but let Permely think he’s
changed his mind. Girls are touchy creatures, and Permely is so proud
that she would marry you in a minute rather than not have a wedding at
all."

It was not a situation to Mr. Williamson’s liking.  He wanted no
unwilling bride; and Pamela had shown her aversion for him so plainly
that he was entirely disenchanted. But he dared not sav so.  Like all of
Mr. Galer’s friends, he stood in wholesome fear of that gentleman’s
temper.

"Well, what do you say?" his friend impatiently demanded.

"It seems a little—er—don’t you think—"

"Oh, if you don’t wish to marry my grand-daughter, pray say so."

"But I do, I do," said Mr. Williamson, feeling himself a miserable
coward for not protesting against deceiving the girl.

When he went away it was with the understanding that the whole matter
must be kept a secret between them.  But as he rode dejectedly around
the corner of the garden, who should step out in front of him but Miss
Jane Galer, such a sparkle of indignation in her eyes, such a flush on
her delicate face, that she looked positively young and pretty.  He
stared at her, and she, without so much as a polite good-morning, said:

"I want to know, Josiah Williamson, if you are not ashamed of yourself
for plotting against a young girl’s happiness?"

"Blame your brother, Miss Jane—blame your brother," he said, in
self-defense, having the grace to look very much ashamed of himself,
though.

"You know he’d almost sell his own soul for the privilege of having his
way; but you—I think you ought to have more pride than to want to marry
Permely through fraud.  What peace or pleasure do you think there would
be in it?"

"Not much for me, I’ll allow," he said, flicking the willow switch he
carried at the flies swarming about his horse’s head.  "Miss Permely
hasn’t shown her best temper to me lately, and I don’t know as I care to
marry her at all.  I want somebody that’ll take life quietly and
gently."

He looked down again at Miss Jane.  She smoothed out her black silk
apron, still trembling with indignation.

"No better-tempered girl lives than Permely Galer; but think of the sore
trial of being pestered all the time about marrying one man while she is
in love with another.  I heard all that brother Jabez said to you, and
if you don’t give up the idea of this marriage I’ll tell Permely and
Sim, and, more than that, I’ll do all I can to help them if they want to
run away."

Mr. Williamson was fascinated by her unexpected fire and spirit.

"I didn’t know you were so spunky, Jane," he said, admiringly.  "We used
to go to school together, do you remember?"

"Why yes," she replied, surprised at the turn of his thoughts.

"You were a gentle little thing, but you had temper enough then.  You
look, for all the world, as you did the day Eben Sanders gave me such a
thrashing."

She smiled faintly at the recollection. There were others hidden deep in
her heart. Nobody knew that in those school days she had cherished many
romantic fancies about Josiah Williamson, or what a blow it was to her
when he went off and married a girl from another settlement.  She had
been on friendly terms with his wife, and had so far overcome her own
feelings as to feel deeply, sincerely grieved when she died.  Mr.
Williamson dismounted and stood at her side.

"I don’t know as I’d tell Jabez I overheard his plans if I were you.
Maybe we can fix up the matter without that," he said, persuasively.

"I cannot have Permely cheated out of her happiness," she said.

"She shall not be cheated, I promise you."

But apparently his promise amounted to very little, as Mr. Galer went on
maturing his plans, inviting young Black to his house, and sending away
to Atlanta for Pamela’s wedding outfit.  His conscience smote him for
his duplicity when the girl rapturously thanked him for his goodness; he
wondered what she would say when she discovered the trick played upon
her.

"Pshaw! she’ll be glad enough for it when she comes to her senses.
Women are never sane when they fancy they are in love."

Mr. Williamson behaved in the most discreet and admirable manner,
showing only the interest of a familiar, elderly friend in Pamela’s
approaching marriage; but Miss Jane went about in a nervous,
half-terrified way that attracted even her brother’s attention.

"Any one would suppose that you were to be married, too!" he exclaimed
one day.

"Oh, Jabez!" she gasped, and fled from his presence, while he
contemptuously muttered: "What idiots women are!"

The morning of the wedding-day dawned at last; and while the dew still
hung heavy upon grass and flowers, Pamela declared that she must run
over to Roswell for a piece of white ribbon.  Mr. Galer frowned a little
as he saw her hasten away in a crisp, white gown and a new calash, fair
as the morning itself; and he grumblingly wondered why he could not have
attended to the errand himself, unwilling to let her leave the place
until she was safely married.  Mammy Susannah accompanied her, and the
two came back in a short time, Pamela flushed and trembling with an
inward glow of happiness.  She ran to her grandfather and threw her arms
about his neck for a moment, the little package of ribbon unrolling
itself over his waistcoat; then she embraced and kissed Miss Jane, who
seemed no less agitated than she.

A great feast was spread that evening, and the wedding guests poured in
until the crowd overflowed from the parlor into the great wide hall.
Mr. Galer was a genial host, and even while he braced himself for the
inevitable scene with Pamela when Sim failed to appear—and he had
arranged with the town marshal that the young man should be detained—he
moved about among the guests talking in his most agreeable manner.  It
was a little early, but the minister had already placed himself in
position for the ceremony.  Mr. Galer laughed jovially.

"Plenty of time—plenty of time yet," he exclaimed.  "Young folks are
never prompt;" but even as he spoke silence fell upon the company, as
through the doorway and down the room walked Mr. Josiah Williamson. But
who was it leaning upon his arm, her gray silk gown rustling softly, her
frightened face alternately flushing and paling like a girl’s, her meek
eyes cast down?  Mr. Galer fell back, fumbling for his glasses, doubting
the evidence of his natural vision.  Could it be—could it be—yes, it was
Miss Jane.  Then he saw Sim Black standing boldly in the doorway with
Pamela at his side, and the sight restored his speech and motion and he
strode across the floor to them, just as the minister concluded the
brief ceremony uniting the elderly couple, and laid his hand on the
girl’s shoulder.

"I can at least have my say about _this_ part of the wedding."

But Sim clasped her hand in his, his black eyes, every feature of his
handsome, strong young face betraying his joy and triumph.

"You are too late, sir; she is my wife."

"We were married in Roswell this morning. Forgive us, grandpa," said
Pamela.

When he realized that he had been the one cheated, outwitted, his anger
knew no bounds. He refused to listen to explanation or excuse, but
turned everybody out of the house, gave the wedding supper to the
negroes, and shut himself into his own room.  But he had been fairly
beaten at his own game, and in time he came to appreciate it, and to
look with pride on Sim Black’s career, while he and Josiah Williamson
ended their years in brotherly love and peace.

                        *HOW THE QUARREL ENDED.*

When old Killus Hurd dismounted from his horse before the Hardings’
front gate one spring day, it was not to make a neighborly visit.  The
flash of his eyes, the set of his mouth, boded no good and mild temper.
He was a strong, vigorous-looking man for his years, and larger than the
average mountaineer.  He walked erect, his brown jeans and homespun
clothing fitting loosely, his gray hair falling from under a well-worn
broad-brimmed hat to his shoulders.

The Hardings lived on a settlement road at the foot of Bush Mountain, in
a weather-beaten old log-house, shaded by a fine chestnut-oak, and a
towering spruce pine.  The widow Harding sat out on the low piazza
shelling seed corn into a small splint basket, and she stared at the
approaching visitor with surprise and displeasure.  She was a
middle-aged woman, but looked older, with dust-colored hair, sallow,
sunken features, and faded blue eyes. Mrs. Long, a neighbor who had
dropped in to borrow some dye-stuff and to beg a few garden seed, sat
near her, rubbing snuff, and retailing the latest gossip circulating
through the settlement. At the sight of Mr. Hurd she paused in
astonishment.

"Lizy Ann Harding, thar comes Killus Hurd, ez I live!"

"I’m a-seein’ him," said Mrs. Harding, her fingers trembling over the
yellow corn.

"Good-mornin’, Mis’ Harding; hope you air well as you wanter be, Mis’
Long," he said, walking up to the piazza step.

"Will you come in an’ take a cheer?" said Mrs. Harding, the laws of
hospitality forcing her to be polite even to her enemy.

"Yes, for a minute or two, Mis’ Harding," he replied, and sat down
opposite her, resting his hat on his knees.

Mrs. Long took a fresh dip of snuff, and hitched her chair a little
nearer, expectant and curious.  A brief silence fell, but it was simply
the stillness forerunning a storm.  The shrill voices of the boys at
work in the field below the house were distinctly audible, and from the
kitchen, at the edge of the back yard, sounded the steady click-clack of
a loom, plied by a strong, industrious hand.

A bitter feud existed between the Hurds and the Hardings.  It dated back
to the days when Killus Hurd and Sam Harding were young, and sprang from
a dispute over some gold diggings. Unfilled trenches marked the spot
where they first quarreled, and as the years seemed to wear the earth
away into a deeper chasm, so the break between the two families widened
until it passed into history in the settlement.  The men were members of
the same church, their farms adjoined, their homes were not over a mile
apart, but they would not be reconciled.  At last death claimed Sam
Harding, and a new grave had to be made in the shadow of the
"meetin’-house," where the Hurds and the Hardings of a former generation
rested side by side in peace.

He had been dead two years, and all outward signs of hostility had
ceased; but the elder members of the families had not forgotten.  And
when Mr. Hurd sat down before Mrs. Harding that morning, her thin cheeks
flushed, her faded eyes gathered fire; she had plenty of spirit.

"Mis’ Harding, where is that daughter o’ your’n?"

The mode of attack confused her for a moment.

"Do you mean Sarah Betsy?"

"Yes, I mean Sarah Betsy."

"She’s in the kitchen a-weavin’."

"Yes; but where is she when outen your sight?"

"What’s that to you, Mister Hurd?" straightening up, and looking
unflinchingly at him.

"Mebby you’ll ’low it’s a good deal when I tell you she’s a-goin’ to
meetin’ with John, an’ a-seein’ him at singin’s an’ frolics an’ such.
It’s got to be stopped, Mis’ Harding.  God-a-mighty knows John’s been
raised as he orter be, an’ he ain’t a-goin’ to spile it all by keepin’
comp’ny with a Harding."

He stamped on the floor in mingled grief and rage, and Mrs. Long moved
her chair back a few inches.  The widow Harding did not move, but a
curious tightness in her throat held her speechless for a moment.  Could
it indeed be true Sarah Betsy had so deceived her?  She would not
believe it.

"Mister Hurd, do you s’pose I’d ’low Sarah Betsy to keep comp’ny with
John?" she said, clearing her throat as she talked.  "Sez Harding to me
when he lay a-dyin’: ’I’m sorry to leave you, Lizy Ann, but it ain’t to
be helped, fer it’s the Almighty’s will.  Take keer o’ the chillun an’
do the best you can for ’em;’ an’ now, ruther than see Sarah Betsy
a-throwin’ herself away on a son o’ your’n I’d be willin’ to lay her
down ’longside her pa."  Her voice trembled and softened.  "She’s always
been a good obejent child, an’ I ain’t afraid o’ trustin’ her."

"But ain’t I been told p’intedly that they are courtin’ on the sly, and
didn’t John ’low to me this mornin’ hisself that he’d marry Sarah Betsy
if he lived?  Call her and we’ll hear what she sez."

"To be sure," murmured Mrs. Long, while Mrs. Harding raised her voice in
a shrill call:

"Sarah Betsy!  Sarah Bet-see!"

She came quickly from the kitchen and across the yard to the narrow
entry leading to the piazza, a rift of wind blowing her short dark hair
about her brow and white neck. Her face was sunburned and slightly
freckled, though smooth and fresh as a nineteen-year-old face should be.
Some day age, snuff-dipping and bad diet would probably make her as
yellow and shriveled as her mother, but now the potent charm of youth
gave her comeliness.  Her brown checked homespun dress was neat, and its
primitive fashion but served to show the free grace of all her
movements.

"Did you call me, Ma?" in a soft, slow voice; then she saw Mr. Hurd and
paused.

"Sarah Betsy, Mr. Hurd ’lows John an’ you has been a-keepin’ comp’ny
unbeknownst to us," said her mother, looking seriously at her.

Sarah Betsy cast down her eyes and was silent.

"Jest speak out, Sarah Betsy," said Mr. Hurd, grimly; "your ma don’t
’pear to believe me."

"No; for I ’lowed that you had always been a good child an’ wouldn’t go
ag’in’ me."

A quiver of strongly repressed emotion passed over the girl’s face.

"Oh, Ma, it couldn’t be helped!"

Mrs. Harding rose up, then sat down again, scattering the corn right and
left in her agitation, while Mrs. Long shook her head compassionately,
and old Killus Hurd looked sternly triumphant.

"Do you mean to tell me Sam Harding’s daughter has plum’ forgot all her
pa’s teachin’s?" the widow demanded, sternly.

"Ma, it ain’t that.  I didn’t ’low to keer fer John, an’ he didn’t ’low
to keer fer me, but it jest gradually crope up on us," said the girl in
a faltering tone, her face deeply red.  She looked appealingly from Mr.
Hurd to her mother.  "Don’t turn ag’in’ us.  We lowed it wusn’t right
not to tell you, but—"

"It ain’t no use to be a-palaverin’ with your ma, Sarah Betsy Harding,"
said Killus Hurd, standing up to his full height, and eying her sternly.
"It’s me you’ve got to listen to, an’ if there is a spark o’ pride or
feelin’ in your heart, it’s bound to be teched.  John’s the last child,
out’n nine, that’s been left to me an’ his ma; but I’ll turn him out o’
doors, I’ll drive him plum’ from the country before he shall marry you,
an’ the curse o’ the Almighty shall foller him."

"It ain’t for human creeturs to say who the Almighty’s wrath must be
turned against," said a mild, rebuking voice; and there at the piazza
step stood Sile Ed’ards, the preacher, leaning on his stout stick, his
deep-set gray eyes fixed gravely upon the angry neighbors.

A short embarrassed silence followed his unexpected appearance.  Sarah
Betsy retreated to the doorway, and Mrs. Long laughed awkwardly.

"You must ’a’ jes’ crope up, Brother Ed’ards," she said, with an attempt
at lightness.

"Come in an’ take a seat, won’t you?" said Mrs. Harding, recovering
herself.

"Not to-day, Sister Harding.  I’m goin’ up on Bush Mount’in, an’ I ’low
to salt Dave Martin’s cattle while there."

Mr. Hurd put on his hat.  "I’ll jest be goin’, Mis’ Harding," he said,
coldly.

"Won’t you stay a minute?" asked the preacher in his mild, slow voice.
"If it ain’t puttin’ nobody out, I’d like to know what’s the matter."

The enemies each hastened to give an account of the renewed quarrel, and
its cause. Sarah Betsy hung her head, and uttered not a word, though
conscious that more than once Sile Ed’ards’s deep grave eyes turned
toward her.  The story seemed to agitate him greatly. He grew pale, and
gripped his stick with trembling fingers.  He sighed deeply.

"It’s a serious question; but it ’pears to me love might solve it.  If
the Almighty wants to bring you all together ag’in in peace by unitin’
John an’ Sarah Betsy I don’t think you ought to rebel against his will.
The Scripters say—"

"It ain’t to be argued out on Scripter, Sile," interrupted Mr. Hurd,
stubbornly.  "I ain’t thinkin’ hard o’ you or blamin’ you for feelin’
that way; it’s nachel, seein’ as you’ve been called to preach; but the
Scripters don’t fit ever’ time."

"They will if we’ll only ’low ’m to."

"Mis’ Harding an’ Sarah Betsy know what I’ve said."

"I ain’t apt to forgit some o’ the hard things you’ve said, Mister
Hurd," the widow remarked, in a tone trembling with indignation.

Ed’ards continued to argue and plead with them.  The woman he might have
softened, but he found himself powerless before hard, stern old Killus
Hurd, nursing the concentrated wrath and bitterness of years.

"’Tain’t no use, Sile—’tain’t no use," he said, moving away to his
horse.

"Them that forgives air to be forgiven," said the preacher.

But the old man silently mounted and rode away.  Mrs. Long was also
ready to depart, being eager to spread the news of the quarrel
throughout the settlement.

Ed’ards leaned against the rough sapling post supporting the piazza,
with head dejectedly drooped.  Mrs. Harding wiped her eyes, and looked
furtively at him.  "Wouldn’t you like to take a cheer an’ rest, Brother
Ed’ards?" she said, gently.  "I know it’s sinful to carry on the way
we’ve been a-doin’ this mornin’, but them Hurds are that mean an’ no
’count—" she paused, then hurriedly changed the subject. "I’m most
obleeged to take this corn down to the fields."

"Don’t let me hinder you then, for I must soon be gittin’ on my way.  I
must ask wisdom ’fore I say any more to you an’ Brother Hurd—and I must
git strength for myself," he concluded, half under his breath.  When
left alone, he sat down on the edge of the piazza a few minutes, then
walked slowly around the house to the kitchen-door to speak a few words
to Sarah Betsy.

She sat on the bench before the loom, but the shuttles lay idle on the
beam, while she leaned forward with her face hidden in her hands.  So
still and deep seemed her dejection he would not disturb her, but stood
gazing on her drooped figure with yearning eyes.  He had long secretly
loved her, but had scarcely realized that he indulged the hope of
winning her until he learned that her heart was given to John Hurd.  He
had been used to self-denial all his life, and after the first confused
sensation of misery and loss, strove to put aside his own feelings, and
desire only her happiness.  He had sought her to speak some comforting
words, but finding her in that attitude of silent grief turned away, and
left her alone.

He was a slender, undersized man, not more than thirty years old; but
mental and physical suffering had drawn deep lines upon his thin, sallow
face, and sprinkled threads of gray in his hair.  His features would
have looked hard and forbidding had they not been softened by the
strong, patient endurance religion had brought to him.  Throughout the
length and breadth of Laurel Cove he was respected and loved.  He
belonged to the Cove; the encircling chain of mountains marked the
boundaries of his life; for he was a hopeless cripple, walking ever with
slow, halting steps, and with a staff to aid him.  He had never been a
lusty, vigorous youth, but one of unusual intelligence and ambition.  It
was a grievous blow to all his plans of life when a falling tree lamed
him. It was a long time before he could walk, even with a crutch, and
years before he laid the crutch aside for a stick.  Active labor would
never again be possible for him; but not liking to be dependent on his
neighbors for charity, he plied the trade of a shoe-mender, and while he
worked he read and meditated on the Bible—the only book he possessed,
except a Webster’s _Speller_ and a small arithmetic.  It was no wonder
that so much reading and solitary thinking on religious themes should
inspire him with the desire to preach.  His tongue seemed loosened; he
rose in "meetin’," and exhorted the people.  His eloquence amazed them;
his fervor, his deep sincerity impressed even the callous-hearted.

His physical infirmity also appealed to them, and it was not long before
he became the pastor of the church in Laurel Cove.  He had no more
education than his parishioners, so far as text-books were concerned:
but his spiritual discernment gave him a power marvelous to them.  He
did a great deal of good, but one thing he had set his heart on he
failed to do; he could not make peace between the Hurds and the
Hardings.  Both men sat under his teachings in church and listened to
his exhortations outside, and both loved him; but they would not be
friends with each other.  When Sam Harding died Sile tried to influence
old Killus Hurd to extend the hand of peace to the widow; but he
stubbornly refused, and the preacher gave it up.  Now that a fresh
quarrel had come he knew not what to say or do, particularly as his own
feelings were so deeply involved.  He had watched Sarah Betsy bloom into
womanhood, delighting in her beauty and even admiring the girlish
coquetry of her ways. He had never cherished any definite hopes of
marrying her; what woman would like a cripple for a husband? but as long
as she did not show any preference among her beaux he was satisfied.
Now he knew why she smiled on all alike.  It was because she secretly
loved John Hurd, and not because she was heart-free.  A cruel, jealous
pang pierced the heart of the preacher, and a wave of rebellion, savage
in its fierceness, swept over him.  Why could he not have the love of
this girl?  It would be only a just compensation for the loss of his
physical strength, and with it all he had hoped to be.  For a moment he
loathed his own body: his spirit panted to rush forth upon the air,
freed from all its trammels of flesh.  He was not conscious of a
temptation to commit suicide; but for an instant the vistas of Heaven
seemed to open on his longing eyes, the perplexities and sorrows of life
to roll away. Death would be a sweet, a lovely friend to him, not the
grisly terror that so many shrank from.  He knew every nook and fastness
of Bush Mountain, having spent many of the idle days of his boyhood in
roaming over it, and now it was a favorite refuge when he wished to
think out his sermons, or to wrestle in prayer over some wayward soul
gone astray.  It was a fair sight to look down on Laurel Cove from the
heights, and see its freshly plowed fields and blossoming orchards.  The
settlers in that fertile region were more industrious and thrifty than
their neighbors over the mountains, and they were unusually quiet and
law-abiding. Very few moonshiners were to be found in Laurel Cove, and
not a distillery.  Those were hidden in remote and secret places on the
mountains.  Let it be said to the enlightenment of Sile Ed’ards, that he
was bold enough to preach against the making of illicit whiskey, as
against all manner of evil, and many listened and heeded his words.  But
while he climbed the heights that day, seeking solitude and God, in
Laurel Cove things were going very wrong.

It was past the noon hour, and at the Hardings all evidences of the
midday meal had been cleaned away.  The boys had gone back to the
fields, Mrs. Harding raked the garden beds preparatory to seed sowing,
and Sarah Betsy had returned to her weaving.  She had been through a
trying interview with her mother, listening to scolding and reproaches
in silence, and promising only one thing; to wait awhile before seeing
John Hurd again.

"I can’t promise _never_ to see him ag’in," she said, half in tears.

"I don’t, fer the life o’ me, understan’ how you could ’a’ tuk such a
fancy to him, when there’s plenty o’ better-lookin’, pearter boys for
you to ’a’ liked," exclaimed Mrs. Harding, despairingly.

"I’ve never seen the man he couldn’t equal," Sarah Betsy murmured; and
with a shake of her head Mrs. Harding went away.

Sarah Betsy was thinking it all over as she stood by the loom, putting a
quill of thread in the shuttle, when a shadow fell athwart the door and
a man’s voice, softened and eager, exclaimed:

"Sarah Betsy, Sarah Betsy!"

She turned quickly, troubled joy breaking through the enforced stillness
of her face; but she did not speak.  The young man boldly entered.

"I ’lowed I must come to see you before I left the Cove," he said, in
explanation and apology for his untimely visit.

"Air you goin’ away, John?" Sarah Betsy asked, and laid the shuttle down
for fear it would slip through her trembling fingers.

"Yes."

"Why?  Where do you think o’ goin’?"

"Over on Bush Mountain, to work in Aaron Brown’s ’stillery," he said,
answering her last question first.

"Don’t do that!" the girl cried, in dismay. "Oh, please don’t do that!
Think how the revenue men has watched it; an’ once, don’t you know? they
tuk the Brown boys off to jail."

"I don’t keer," he muttered, sullenly.  "Pa an’ me’s had a fallin’ out.
He lows we’ll never marry if he can help it, an’ I ’low we will."  He
crossed the floor and laid his hands gently on her shoulders.  "Let ’em
do an’ say what they will, they can’t come between us, honey, can they?"
his voice sinking to a softer, tenderer key.

"I didn’t ’low they’d keer so much," Sarah Betsy faltered, with downcast
eyes, in which hot tears were swimming.

"You er not thinkin’ o’ goin’ back on yer word to me, air you?" Hurd
exclaimed, his face darkening.

"We must wait, John—we must wait."

"Yes, tel I can git a start," in a relieved tone.

"Tel my ma an’ your pa air willin’," she said, taking up the shuttle.

"I care more for you th’n for what they may say, an’ I ’lowed you did
the same, or you wouldn’t ’a’ promised to marry me.  I s’pose you didn’t
mean it."

"I did mean it; but it’s more’n I can do to go ag’in’ ’em so p’intedly
all at once," she said, and turned from him to lean against the loom,
love and duty struggling mightily together in her heart.

"Well, it ain’t more’n I can do," he replied, grimly; "an’ when I get
settled I’m jest bound to keep you to yer promise."

He drew nearer to her, hesitated, then kissed her cheek.

"I love you Sarah Betsy—I love you, honey," he whispered, then turned
quickly away.

She followed him to the door, and when he had disappeared from her sight
she looked long and gravely at Bush Mountain, a vast pile rising against
the sky, its rugged slopes softened by a hazy veil.  It had been
invested with new interest for her as the temporary home and refuge of
her lover.

The outbreak of the old feud between the Hurds and the Hardings was soon
known throughout the Cove, and discussed at every fireside.  Bitter
feelings were engendered between sympathizing friends of the two
families, and the peaceful settlement was divided into factions.  The
Harding boys were too young to take much part in the wordy war, but Mrs.
Harding did not lack chivalrous support from some of her neighbors, who
loudly declared that no lone woman should be trampled upon. The women,
at least the younger women, and those inclined to sentiment, expressed
great sympathy for Sarah Betsy and John.  It seemed hard that the lovers
should be divided by a quarrel between the elder members of the
families.

"It’s best for ’em if they only knowed it," said one brown, withered old
woman, shaking her head grimly and cynically over her pipe. "Neither
life nor men air what we ’low they air, when we er young.  These young
fo’ks air separated while their love is warm an’ frush, an’ without
discoverin’ that it ain’t goin’ to last ferever, an’ that no human
creetur is without a mighty load o’ faults.  I can recollect more’n one
couple that ’peared lack they’d die broken-hearted if they didn’t git
married, an’ then in a little while, ’peared lack they’d die because
they wus married.  There ain’t no countin’ on human natur, I can tell
you.  It’s about the oncertaintest thing in this world ’ceptin’ death."

Sile Ed’ards had to learn a new lesson in this uncertain human nature
that summer, when those who in former times seemed to care most for his
counsel turned impatiently away from his entreaties for peace.  His
words fell to the ground, and he carried a sorely troubled and heavy
heart about with him, and spent more time than ever in the solitude of
Bush Mountain, fasting and praying for his erring flock, who seemed to
enjoy the excitement of a quarrel far more than they did the peaceable
worship of the Lord; who brought sounds of strife to the very altar
rails, more than one meeting having ended in bitter words.

The material prosperity of Laurel Cove was not in the least affected by
the evil spirit apparently ruling the people.  The corn-fields promised
an abundant harvest, and the orchards were rich in fruits.

Mrs. Harding was an industrious woman, toiling early and late, and her
hours of repose were, in the main, peaceful, though she rose sometimes
in the middle of the night and crept softly to Sarah Betsy’s bed to see
that she also slept; for her heart yearned secretly over this
disobedient daughter who had lost her bright, cheerful ways since John
Hurd went away from the Cove.  She suffered almost as much as the girl,
though they said little to each other about it.  Once Mrs. Harding did
attempt to reason with Sarah Betsy, but she turned and said:

"Didn’t you love Pa?"

"Didn’t I?  There wusn’t many men to equal your pa."

"In your eyes, Ma, but maybe not in the eyes o’ them what didn’t love
him.  Love makes a mighty difference in the way we look at fo’ks.  I
’low ever’ woman thinks the man she loves is the best in the world."

Her mother said no more; but she ceased not to muse on the mystery and
power of love. One morning she had started to the cow lot with a milk
pail on her arm, when she saw a woman coming slowly through the sparse
timber in the rear of the barn, a sunbonnet pulled closely over her head
and face.  It was very early.  Deep Cimmerian shadows still obscured the
low country, though the crimson light of dawn was spreading upward from
the east, and a fading spectral moon sank slowly behind the western
mountains.  The morning star hung over the crest of Bush Mountain,
heralding the day, and fine elusive mists rolled away from the Cove into
the hollows and ravines of the guarding ranges.

A ghostly stillness seemed to hang over the world, and Mrs. Harding
could hear the dry twigs crackling sharply under the feet of the slowly
approaching woman.  She went on into the lot and poured some bran and
peas into the feeding-trough, and softly called the cow, standing in a
distant corner. The stranger walked timidly up to the bars, and pushed
back her sunbonnet.  She was a small, meek-faced old woman, withered and
gray.

"Good-mornin’, Mis’ Harding."

Mrs. Harding stiffened rigidly, and stared coldly at her, not
recognizing her until she had spoken.

"You air out early, Mis’ Hurd."

"Yes.  I don’t know what Hurd would do or say, if he knowed it; but he
started to mill ’fore daylight, an’ I crope out, ’lowin’ it ’ud be a
good time fer seein’ you."  She paused, absently untied her
bonnet-strings, passed a trembling hand over her gray hair, then looked
wistfully at Mrs. Harding.

"Mis’ Harding, has Sarah Betsy heard anything from John lately?"

"Heard from John!" with a flash of indignation. "Didn’t I tell Mister
Hurd you needn’t be a pest’rin’ ’bout Sarah Betsy?  It ’pears to me—"

"It’s all ’long o’ me bein’ so troubled about him that I asked," said
the old woman, hastily. "One o’ the Brown boys wus down in the Cove
t’other day an’ he ’lowed John was sick, an’ yesterday I begged his pa
to go over there an’ see ’bout him, but he ’lowed it wusn’t no use; if
John thought he could take keer o’ hisself, let him do it.  Men fo’ks,
Mis’ Harding, hain’t got the feelin’s o’ women.  There is such a weight
here," laying one hard, withered hand on her breast, "that sometimes it
’pears to me I can’t git my breath.  If he hadn’t a-gone off to the
’stillery.  Them revenue officers will git him, shore, an’ he’ll die in
jail; for he never could bear to be shut up.  Why, he always sleeps with
the door o’ his room open. I hain’t got nothin’ ag’in’ Sarah Betsy, Mis’
Harding.  I’d much ruther John an’ her would marry th’n fer him to go
off."

Her shrunken lips trembled piteously; some large tears rolled down her
face.  The frigidness of Mrs. Harding’s attitude relaxed.  She moved
nearer the bars.

"I hain’t nothin’ ag’in’ John, either, but Mister Hurd—"

"Is terribly sot in his ways, I know; but he don’t mean to do wrong.  He
jest thinks he knows what is best for ever’body," said Mrs. Hurd,
loyally.  "John was always the sweetest, lovin’est child," returning to
the subject absorbing her, "an’ he never wus one to stay away from home
much, even when he’d growed up. I never keered fer no better comp’ny
than his’n; an’ if a good son makes a good husband, then any girl might
be proud to git him.  It’s turrible lonesome ’thout him ever comin’ in
or goin’ out.  Hurd says nothin’ ’bout it, an’ ’pears to sleep like a
log; but I’m pestered at all hours o’ the night, an’ git up to look in
John’s room, an’ when I see the bed all white an’ smooth I feel like
he’s dead."

The cow ate up her food and went browsing along the fence corners again.
Mrs. Harding’s heart waxed soft within her.  What religion failed to do,
human sympathy accomplished.  By her own experiences of motherhood she
could understand the yearning and heartache of this other woman.  It
created a bond between them far easier of comprehension to her than the
spiritual tie the preacher talked about.  That seemed a mere cold
abstraction—this a warm, living thing.

"I’m real sorry Sarah Betsy hain’t heard nothin’ from him," she said
softly.

"I ’lowed maybe she would.  Well, well, I won’t pester you any longer."

Involuntarily their hands met through the bars in a quick close grip.

"I’m in hopes there ain’t no bad news a-waitin’ fer you, Mis’ Hurd."

"I hope so; but a scritch owl lit nigh the door last night an’ wouldn’t
hardly be driv’ off, an’ that’s a bad sign, you know," she said
mournfully, and turned to retrace her steps along the path through the
woods, the dawn shining fair upon her bent gray head and slight figure.
Mrs. Harding stood by the bars and watched her with a mingling of
perplexity and compassion.  She heard the voices of her own sons at the
house, and sighed.

"It ’ud go mighty hard with me if they wus tuk away.  I hain’t nothin’
ag’in’ Mis’ Hurd nor John, but old Killus would rile the angel Gabr’el
hisself."  She finally stooped and picked up her milk pail.  "It ain’t
fer me to fergit my pride an’ be crowed over by him."

Mrs. Hurd went on her way home.  As she passed through a laurel brake,
absorbed in her sad thoughts, she came face to face with Sile Ed’ards.
He looked worn and hollow-eyed, as though he, too, had passed through
sleepless nights and troubled days; but she was too preoccupied to be
very observant.  A minister must ever be ready to comfort and counsel
his flock, no matter what his own feelings may be, so Mrs. Hurd poured
out the story of her anxiety, and Ed’ards said what he could to reassure
her.

"I’m goin’ up to Bush Mountain, an’ I’ll see if I can hear anything o’
John for you," he said kindly.

He did not tell her that he would see the young man and talk with him,
but that was what he purposed doing as he slowly climbed the great
mountain.  He spent the morning in visiting one or two of his
parishioners who lived on the mountain, then went on his way to Aaron
Brown’s house, a low cabin near the summit of the peak.  There he
learned that John Hurd had returned to work again, but Mrs. Brown shook
her head over the state of his health.

"He’s peaked, an’ ain’t got no appetite, an’ I tell Brown it’s all ’long
o’ his frettin’ ’bout the quarrel with his pa an’ the fo’ks in the Cove.
He ain’t fittin’ fer the ’stillery work, nuther. It don’t agree with him
to al’ays have to be on the watch an’ ready to run if a twig snaps, or a
breath rustles the leaves."  She sighed. "My old man an’ the boys don’t
keer.  Brown is as cunnin’ as the fox that’s had experience hidin’ from
the hounds, an’ he’s brought up the boys to be like him.  Come back an’
spend the night," she called after the preacher when he started on.
"You ain’t fittin’ to be takin’ such walks as this, nohow."

He winced, her blunt speech, the pitying glance she gave him, touching
his pride. Nevertheless he accepted her invitation, then pressed onward
toward the still, following a narrow trail down into a wild ravine.
Night had fallen, and the deepest solitude surrounded Ed’ards, but he
felt no fear.  Now and then a gleam of starlight shone across his way,
or rustling leaves betrayed the presence of animals abroad for prey.
The distillery was located in an excavation under a ledge of rock, the
upper entrance only a hole an ordinary sized man could crawl through,
and cunningly concealed by a network of laurel, the lower one away down
where a little stream trickled out between the roots of a gnarled old
tree. Nature had helped the mountaineer to evade the law in giving him
such places of concealment.

Ed’ards approached the spot with that caution inherent in almost all the
people of that region, no matter what their calling may be. He was
within a few yards of the opening of the still when he ran into the very