Standing on the great hanging rock before his cabin, Thryng imagined himself absolutely solitary in the centre of a wide wilderness. Even the Fall Place, where lived the Widow Farwell, although so near, was not visible from this point; but when he began exploring the region about him, now on foot and now on horseback, he discovered it to be really a country of homes.

Every mule path branching off into what seemed an inaccessible wild led to some cabin, often set in a hollow on a few acres of rich soil, watered by a never failing spring, where the forest growth had been cut away to make cultivation possible. Sometimes the little log house would be perched like a lonely eagle's nest on a mere shelflike ledge jutting out from the mountain wall, but always below it or above it or off at one side he found the inevitable pocket of rich soil accumulated by the wash of years, where enough corn and cow-peas could be raised for cattle, and cotton and a few sheep to provide material for clothing the family, with a few fowls and pigs to provide their food.

Here they lived, those isolated people, in quiet independence and contented poverty, craving little and often having less, caring nothing for the great world outside their own environment, looking after each other in times of sickness and trouble, keeping alive the traditions of their forefathers, and clinging to the ancient family feuds and friendships from generation to generation.

David soon learned that they had among themselves their class distinctions, certain among them holding their heads high, in the knowledge of having a self-respecting ancestry, and training their children to reckon themselves no "common trash," however much they deprecated showing the pride that was in them.

Many days passed after Frale's departure before David learned more of the young man's unhappy deed. He had gone down to give the old mother some necessary care and, finding her alone, remained to talk with her. Pleased with her quaint expressions and virile intellect, he led her on to speak of her youth; and one morning, weary of the solitude and silence, she poured out tales of Cassandra's father, and how, after his death, she "came to marry Farwell." She told of her own mother, and the hard times that fell upon them during the bitter days of the Civil War.

The traditions of her family were dear to her, and she was well pleased to show this young doctor who had found the key to her warm, yet reserved, heart that she "wa'n't no common trash," and her "chillen wa'n't like the run o' chillen."

"Seems like I'm talkin' a heap too much o' we-uns," she said, at last.

"No, no. Go on. You say you had no school; how did you learn? You were reading your Bible when I came in."

"No. Thar wa'n't no schools in my day, not nigh enough fer me to go to. Maw, she could read, an' write, too, but aftah paw jined the ahmy, she had to work right ha'd and had nothin' to do with. Paw, he had to jine one side or t'othah. Some went with the North and some went with the South,—they didn't keer much. The' wa'n't no niggahs up here to fight ovah. But them war cruel times when the bushwackers come searchin' 'round an' raidin' our homes. They were a bad lot—most of 'em war desertahs from both ahmies. We-uns war obleeged to hide in the bresh or up the branch—anywhar we could find a place to creep into. Them were bad times fer the women an' chillen left at home.

"Maw used to save ev'y scrap of papah she could find with printin' on hit to larn we-uns our lettahs off'n. One time come 'long a right decent captain and axed maw could she get he an' his men suthin' to eat. He had nigh about a dozen sogers with him; an' maw, she done the bes' she could,—cooked corn-bread, an' chick'n an' sich. I c'n remember how he sot right on the hearth where you're settin' now, an' tossed flapjacks fer th' hull crowd.

"He war right civil when he lef', an' said he'd like to give maw suthin', but they hadn't nothin' but Confed'rate money, an' hit wa'n't worth nothin' up here; an' maw said would he give her the newspapah he had. She seed the end of hit standin' out of his pocket; an' he laughed and give hit out quick, an' axed her what did she want with hit; and she 'lowed she could teach me a heap o' readin' out o' that papah, an' he laughed again, an' said likely, fer that hit war worth more'n the money. All the schoolin' I had war just that thar papah, an' that old spellin'-book you see on the shelf; I c'n remembah how maw come by that, too."

"Tell me how she came by the spelling-book, will you?"

"Hit war about that time. Paw, he nevah come home again. I cyan't remembah much 'bouts my paw. Maw used to say a heap o' times if she only had a spellin'-book like she used to larn out'n, 'at she could larn we-uns right smart. Well, one day one o' the neighbors told her 'at he'd seed one at Gerret's, ovah t'othah side Lone Pine Creek, nigh about eight mile, I reckon; an' she 'lowed she'd get hit. So she sont we-uns ovah to Teasley's mill—she war that scared o' the Gorillas she didn't like leavin' we-uns home alone—an' she walked thar an' axed could she do suthin' to earn that thar book; an' ol' Miz Gerret, she 'lowed if maw'd come Monday follerin' an' wash fer her, 'at she mount have hit. Them days we-uns an' the Teasleys war right friendly. The' wa'n't no feud 'twixt we-uns an' Teasleys then—but now I reckon thar's bound to be blood feud." She spoke very sadly and waited, leaving the tale of the spelling-book half told.

"Why must there be 'blood feud' now? Why can't you go on in the old way?"

"Hit's Frale done hit. He an' Ferd'nan' Teasley, they set up 'stillin' ovah in Dark Cornder yandah. Hit do work a heap o' trouble, that thar. I reckon you-uns don't have nothin' sich whar you come from?"

"We have things quite as bad. So they quarrelled, did they?"

"Yaas, they quarrelled, an' they fit."

"No doubt they had been drinking."

"Yas, I reckon."

"But just a drunken quarrel between those two ought not to affect all the rest. Couldn't you patch it up among you, and keep the boy at home? You must need his help on the place."

"We need him bad here, but the' is no way fer to make up an' right a blood feud. Frale done them mean. He lifted his hand an' killed his friend. Hit war Sunday evenin' he done hit. They had been havin' a singin' thar at the mill, an' preachah, he war thar too, an' all war kind an' peaceable; an' Ferd an' Frale, they sot out fer thar 'still'—Ferd on foot an' Frale rid'n' his horse—the one you have now—they used to go that-a-way, rid'n' turn about—one horse with them an' one horse kep' alluz hid nigh the 'still' lest the gov'nment men come on 'em suddent like. Frale, he war right cute, he nevah war come up with.

"'Pears like they stopped 'fore they'd gone fer, disputin' 'bouts somethin'. Ol' Miz Teasley say she heered ther voices high an' loud, an' then she heered a shot right quick, that-a-way, an' nothin' more; an' she sont ol' man Teasley an' the preachah out, an' the hull houseful follered, an' thar they found Ferd lyin' shot dade—an' Frale—he an' the horse war gone. Ferd, he still held his own gun in his hand tight, like he war goin' to shoot, with the triggah open an' his fingah on hit—but he nevah got the chance. Likely if he had, hit would have been him a-hidin' now, an' Frale dade. I reckon so."

Thryng listened in silence. It made him think of the old tales of the Scottish border. So, in plain words, the young man was a murderer. With deep pity he recalled the haunted look in Frale's eyes, and the sadness that trembled around Cassandra's lips as she said, "I reckon there is no trouble worse than ours." A thought struck him, and he asked:—

"Do you know what they quarrelled about?"

"He nevah let on what-all was the fuss. Likely he told Cass, but she is that still. Hit's right hard to raise a blood feud thar when we-uns an' the Teasleys alluz war friends. She took keer o' me when my chillen come, an' I took keer o' her with hern. Ferd'nan' too, he war like my own, fer I nursed him when she had the fever an' her milk lef' her. Cass war only three weeks old then, an' he war nigh on a year, but that little an' sickly—he like to 'a' died if I hadn't took him." She paused and wiped away a tear that trickled down the furrow of her thin cheek. "If hit war lef' to us women fer to stir 'em up, I reckon thar wouldn't be no feuds, fer hit's hard on we-uns when we're friendly, an' Ferd like my own boy that-a-way."

"But perhaps—" David spoke musingly—"perhaps it was a woman who stirred up the trouble between them."

The widow looked a moment with startled glance into his face, then turned her gaze away. "I reckon not. The' is no woman far or near as I evah heern o' Frale goin' with."

Still pondering, David rose to go, but quickly resumed his seat, and turned her thoughts again to the past. He would not leave her thus sad at heart.

"Won't you finish telling me about the spelling-book?"

"I forget how come hit, but maw didn't leave we chillen to Teasleys' that day she went to do the washin'. Likely Miz Teasley war sick—anyway she lef' us here. She baked corn-bread—hit war all we had in the house to eat them days, an' she fotched water fer the day, an' kivered up the fire. Then she locked the door an' took the key with her, an' tol' we-uns did we hear a noise like anybody tryin' to get in, to go up garret an' make out like thar wa'n't nobody to home. The' war three o' us chillen. I war the oldest. We war Caswells, my fam'ly. My little brothah Whitson, he war sca'cely more'n a baby, runnin' 'round pullin' things down on his hade whar he could reach, an Cotton war mos' as much keer—that reckless."

She paused and smiled as she recalled the cares of her childhood, then wandered on in her slow narration. "They done a heap o' things that day to about drive me plumb crazy, an' all the time we was thinkin' we heered men talkin' or horses trompin' outside, an' kep' ourselves right busy runnin' up garret to hide.

"Along towa'ds night hit come on to snow, an' then turned to rain, a right cold hard rain, an' we war that cold an' hungry—an' Whit, he cried fer maw,—an' hit come dark an' we had et all the' war to eat long before, so we had no suppah, an' the poor leetle fellers war that cold an' shiverin' thar in the dark—I made 'em climb into bed like they war, an' kivered 'em up good, an' thar I lay tryin' to make out like I war maw, gettin' my arms 'round both of 'em to oncet. Whit cried hisself to sleep, but Cotton he kep' sayin' he heered men knockin' 'round outside, an' at last he fell asleep, too. He alluz war a natch'ly skeered kind o' child.

"Then I lay thar still, list'nin' to the rain beat on the roof, an' thinkin' would maw ever get back again, an' list'nin' to hear her workin' with the lock—hit war a padlock on the outside—an' thar I must o' drapped off to sleep that-a-way, fer I didn't hear nothin', no more until I woke up with a soft murmurin' sound in my ears, an' thar I seed maw. The rain had stopped an' hit war mos' day, I reckon, with a mornin' moon shinin' in an' fallin' on her whar she knelt by the bed, clost nigh to me. I can see hit now, that long line o' white light streamin' acrost the floor an' fallin' on her, makin' her look like a white ghost spirit, an' her two hands held up with that thar book 'twixt 'em.

"I knew hit war maw, fer I'd seed her pray before, but I war skeered fer all that. I lay right still an' held my breath, an' heered her thank the Lord fer keerin' fer we-uns whilst she war gone, an' fer 'lowin' her to get that thar book.

"I don't guess she knew I seed her, fer she got up right still an' soft, like not to wake we-uns, an' began to light the fire an' make some yarb tea. She war that wet an' cold I could see her hand shake whilst she held the match to the light'ud stick. Them days maw made coffee out'n burnt corn-bread, an' tea out'n dried blackberry leaves an' sassafrax root." She paused and turned her face toward the open door. David thought she had lost somewhat the appearance of age; certainly, what with the long rest, and Cassandra's loving care, she had no longer the weary, haggard look that had struck him when he saw her first.

Following the direction of her gaze, he went to the shelf and took down the old spelling-book, and turned the leaves, now limp and worn. So this was Cassandra's inheritance—part of it—the inward impulse that would urge to toil all day, then walk miles in rain and darkness through a wilderness, and thank the Lord for the privilege—to own this book—not for herself, but for the generations to come. David touched it reverently, glad to know so much of her past, and turned to the old mother for more.

"Have you anything else—like this?"

Her sharp eyes sparkled as she looked narrowly at him. "I have suthin' 'at I hain't nevah told anybody livin' a word of, not even Doctah Hoyle—only he war some differ'nt from you. But I'm gettin' old, an' I may as well tell you. Likely with all your larnin' you can tell me is it any good to Cass. She be that sot on all sech." She fumbled at her throat a moment and drew from the bosom of her gown a leather shoe-lacing, from which dangled an iron key. Slowly she undid the knot, and handed it toward him.

"I nevah 'low nobody on earth to touch that thar box, an' the' ain't a soul livin' knows what's in hit. I been gyardin' them like they war gold, fer they belonged to my ol' man—the first one—Cassandra's fathah; but I reckon if I die the' won't nobody see any good in them things. If you'll onlock that thar padlock on that box yander, you'll find it wropped in a piece o' gingham. My paw's mothah spun an' wove that gingham—ol' Miz Caswell. They don't many do work like that nowadays. They lived right whar we a' livin' now."

David unlocked the chest and lifted the heavy lid.

"Hit's down in the further cornder—that's hit, I reckon. Just step to the door, will you, an' see is they anybody nigh."

He went to the door, but saw no one; only from the shed came an intermittent rat-tat-tat.

"I don't see any one, but I hear some one pounding."

"Hit's only Hoyle makin' his traps." She sighed, then slowly and tenderly untied the parcel and placed in his hands two small leather-bound books. Tied to one by a faded silk cord which marked the pages was a thin, worn ring of gold.

"That ring war his maw's, an' when we war married, I wore hit, but when I took Farwell fer my ol' man, I nevah wore hit any more, fer he 'lowed, bein' hit war gold that-a-way, we'd ought to sell hit. That time I took the lock off'n the door an' put hit on that thar box. Hit war my gran'maw's box, an' I done wore the key hyar evah since. Can you tell what they be? Hit's the quarest kind of print I evah see. He used to make out like he could read hit. Likely he did, fer whatevah he said, he done."

It seemed to her little short of a miracle that any one could read it, but David soon learned that her confidence in her first "old man" was unlimited.

"What-all's in hit?" She grew restless while he carefully and silently examined her treasure, the true significance of which she so little knew. Filled with amazement and with a keen pleasure, he took the books to the light. The print was fine, even, and clear.

"What-all be they?" she reiterated. "Reckon the're no good?"

David smiled. "In one way they're all the good in the world, but not for money, you know."

"No, I don't guess. Can you read that thar quare printin'?"

"Yes. The letters are Greek, and these books are about a hundred years old."

"Be they? Then they won't be much good to Cass, I reckon. He sot a heap by them, but I war 'feared they mount be heathen. Greek—that thar be heathen. Hain't hit?"

David continued, speaking more to himself than to her. "They were published in London in eighteen twelve. They have been read by some one who knew them well, I can see by these marginal notes."

"What be they?" Her curiosity was eager and intent.

"They are explanations and comments, written here on the margin—see?—with a fine pen."

"His grandpaw done that thar. What be they about, anyhow?"

"They are very old poems written long before this country was discovered."

"An' that must 'a' been before the Revolution. His grandpaw fit in that. The' is somethin' more in thar. I kept hit hid, fer Farwell, he war bound to melt hit up fer silver bullets. He 'lowed them bullets war plumb sure to kill. Reckon you can find hit? Thar 'tis." Her eyes shone as Thryng drew out another object also wrapped in gingham. "Hit's a teapot, I guess, but Farwell, he got a-hold of hit an' melted off the spout to make his silvah bullets. That time I hid all in the box an' put on the bolt an' lock whilst he war away 'stillin'. The' is one bullet left, but I reckon Frale has hit."

David took it from her hand and turned it about. "Surely! This is a treasure. Here is a coat of arms—but it is so worn I can't make out the emblem. Was this your husband's also? Is there anything else?"

"That's all. Yes, they war hisn. I war plumb mad at Farwell. I nevah could get ovah what he done, all so't he mount sure kill somebody. Likely he meant them bullets fer the revenue officers, should they come up with him."

"It would have been a great pity if he had destroyed this mark. I think—I'm not sure—but if it's what I imagine, it is from an old family in Wales."

"I reckon you're right, fer they were Welsh—his paw's folks way back. He used to say the' wa'n't no name older'n hisn since the Bible. I told him 'twar time he got a new one if 'twere that old, but he said he reckoned a name war like whiskey—hit needed a right smart o' age to make hit worth anything."

Thryng laid the antique silver pot on the bed beside the old mother's hand and again took up the small volumes. As he held them, a thought flashed through his mind, yet hardly a thought,—it was more of an illumination,—like a vista suddenly opened through what had seemed an impenetrable, impalpable wall, beyond which lay a joy yet to be, but before unseen. In that instant of time, a vision appeared to him of what life might bring, glorified by a tender light as of red fire seen through a sweet, blue, obscuring mist, and making thus a halo about the one figure of the vision outlined against it, clear and fine.

"'Pears like you find somethin' right interestin' in that book; be you readin' hit?"

"I find a glorious prophecy. Was your first husband born and raised here as you were?"

"Not on this spot; but he was born an' raised like we-uns here in the mountains—ovah th'other side Pisgah. I seed him first when I wa'n't more'n seventeen. He come here fer—I don't rightly recollect what, only he had been deer huntin' an' come late evenin' he drapped in. He had lost his dog, an' he had a bag o' birds, an' he axed maw could she cook 'em an' give him suppah, an' maw, she took to him right smaht.

"Aftah suppah—I remember like hit war last evenin'—he took gran'paw's old fiddle an' tuned hit up an' sot thar an' played everything you evah heered. He played like the' war birds singin' an' rain fallin', an' like the wind when hit goes wailin' round the house in the pine tops—soft an' sad—like that-a-way. Gran'paw's old fiddle. I used to keer a heap fer hit, but one time Farwell got religion, an' he took an' broke hit 'cause he war 'feared Frale mount larn to play an' hit would be a temptation of the devil to him."

"Well, I say! That was a crime, you know."

"Yes. Sometimes I lay here an' say what-all did I marry Farwell fer, anyway. Well—every man has his failin's, the' say, an' Farwell, he sure had hisn."

"May I keep these books a short time? I will be very careful of them. You know that, or you would not have shown them to me."

"You take them as long as you like. Hit ain't like hit used to be. Books is easy come by these days—too easy, I reckon. Cassandry, she brung a whole basketful of 'em with her. Thar they be on that cheer behin' my spinnin'-wheel."

"Was the basket full of books? So, that was why it was so heavy. Might I have a look at them?"

"Look 'em ovah all you want to. She won't keer, I reckon. She hain't had a mite o' time since she come home to look at 'em."

But David thought better of it. He would not look in her basket and pry among her treasures without her permission.

"When is she coming back?" he asked, awakened to desire further knowledge of the silent girl's aspirations.

"Soon, I reckon. She's been a right smart spell longah now 'n she 'lowed she'd be. Hit's old man Irwin. He's been hurted some way. She went ovah to see could Aunt Sally Carew go an' help Miz Irwin keer fer him—she's a fool thing, don't know nothin'. They sont down fer me—but here I be, so she rode the colt ovah fer Sally."

David wrapped and tied the piece of silver as he had found it. As he replaced it in the box, he discovered the pieces of the broken fiddle loosely tied in a sack, precious relics of a joy that was past. Carefully he locked the box and returned the key, but the books he folded in the strip of gingham and carried away with him.

"I'll be back to-night or in the morning. If she doesn't return, send Hoyle for me. You mustn't be too long alone. Shall I mend the fire?"

He threw on another log, then lifted her a little and brought her a glass of cool water, and climbed back to his cabin, walking lightly and swiftly.