THAT afternoon at dusk Paul drove down the mountain with his last load of bark for the day. The little-used road was full of sharp turns around towering cliffs and abrupt declivities, worn into gullies by washouts, and obstructed by avalanchine boulders. In places decayed trees had fallen across the way, and these the young wagoner sometimes had to cut apart and roll aside. The high heap of bark on the groaning vehicle swayed like a top-heavy load of hay, and more than once Paul had to dismount from the lead horse he rode, scotch the wheels with stones, and readjust the bark, tightening the ropes which held the mass together. At times he strode along by the horses, holding the reins between his teeth, that his hands might be free to combat the vines and bushes through which he plunged as blindly as an animal chased by a hunter. His arms, face, and ankles were torn by thorns and briers, his ill-clad feet cut to the bone by sharp stones. Accidents had often happened to him on that road. Once he had fallen under the wheels, and narrowly escaped being crushed to death, a perilous thing which would have haunted many a man's life afterward, but which Paul forgot in a moment.

Near the foot of the mountain the road grew wide, smooth, and firm; his team slowed down, and he took a book from the wagon, reading a few pages as he walked along. He was fond of the history of wars in all countries; the bloodshed and narrow escapes of early pioneer days in America enthralled his fancy. He thought no more of a hunter's killing a redskin than he himself would have thought of shooting a wild duck with a rifle.

As he started down the last incline between him and Grayson he replaced his book on the wagon. The dusk had thickened till he could scarcely see the print on the soiled pages. Below, the houses of the village were scattered, as by the hand of chance, from north to south between gentle hills, beyond which rose the rugged mountains now wrapped in darkness. He made out the sides of the Square by the lights in the various buildings. There was the hotel, with its posted lamps on either end of the veranda. Directly opposite stood the post-office. He could make no mistake in locating the blacksmith's shop, for its forge gave out intermittent, bellows-blown flashes of deep red. Other dots of light were the open doors of stores and warehouses. Like vanishing stars some were disappearing, for it was closing-time, and the merchants were going home to supper. This thought gave the boy pleasant visions. He was hungry.

It was quite dark when he had unloaded the wagon at the tannery and driven on past Hoag's pretentious home to the antiquated cottage in which he lived. It had six rooms, a sagging roof of boards so rotten and black with age that they lost thickness in murky streams during every heavy rain. There was a zigzag fence in front, which was ill cared for, as the leaning comers and decayed rails testified. Against the fence, at the edge of the road, stood a crude log barn, a corn-crib made of unbarked pine poles, above which was a hay-loft. Close about was a malodorous pig-pen, a cow-lot, a wagon-shed, and a pen-like stall for horses.

The chickens had gone to roost; the grunting and squealing of the pigs had been stilled by the pails of swill Paul's father, Ralph Rundel, had emptied into their dug-out wooden troughs. In the light of the kitchen fire, which shone through the open door and the glassless windows, Paul saw his father in his favorite place, seated in a chair under an apple-tree at the side of the house. Ralph rose at the sound of the clanking trace-chains and came to the gate. He rubbed his eyes drowsily, as if he had just waked from a nap, and swung on the gate with both hands.

“No use puttin' the wagon under shelter,” he said, in a querulous tone, as his slow eyes scanned the studded vault overhead. “No danger o' rain this night—no such luck for crops that are burnin' to the roots. The stalks o' my upland cotton-patch has wilted like sorghum cut for the press. Say, Paul, did you fetch me that tobacco? I'm dyin' for a smoke.” He uttered a low laugh. “I stole some o' yore aunt's snuff and filled my pipe; but, by hunkey, I'd miscalculated—I sucked the whole charge down my throat, and she heard me a-coughin' and caught me with the box in my hand.”

Paul thrust his hand into his hip-pocket and drew forth a small white bag with a brilliant label gummed on it. “Bowman was clean out o' that fine cut,” he said, as he gave it into the extended hand. “He said this was every bit as good.”

“I'll not take his word for it till I've tried it,” Ralph Rundel answered, as he untied the bag and tested the mixture between thumb and forefinger. “Storekeepers sell what they have in stock, and kin make such fellers as us take dried cabbage-leaves if they take a notion.”

Ralph was only fifty years of age, and yet he had the manner, decrepitude, and spent utterance of a man of seventy. His scant, iron-gray hair was disheveled; his beard, of the same grizzled texture, looked as if it never had been trimmed, combed, or brushed, and was shortened only by periodical breaking at the ends. Despite his crude stoicism, his blue eyes, in their deep sockets, had a wistful, yearning look, and his cheeks were so hollow that his visage reminded one of a vitalized skull. His chest, only half covered by a tattered, buttonless shirt, was flat; he was bent by rheumatism, which had left him stiff, and his hands were mere human talons.

Paul was busy unhooking the traces from the swingletrees and untying the straps of the leather collars, when Ralph's voice came to him above the creaking of the harness and impatient stamping of the hungry horses.

“I noticed you took yore gun along this mornin'. Did you kill me a bird, or a bushy-tail? Seems like my taste for salt pork is clean gone.”

“I didn't run across a thing,” Paul answered, as he lifted the harness from the lead horse and allowed the animal to go unguided to his stall through the gate Ralph held open. “Besides, old Hoag counts my loads, and keeps tab on my time. I can't dawdle much and draw wages from him.”

“Did he pay you anything to-day?” Ralph was filling his pipe, feebly packing the tobacco into the bowl with a shaky forefinger.

“He had no small change,” Paul answered. “Said he would have some to-morrow. You can wait till then, surely.”

“Oh yes, I'll have to make out, I reckon.”

At this juncture a woman appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was a blue-eyed, blond-haired creature of solid build in a soiled gray print-dress. She was Paul's aunt, Amanda Wilks, his mother's sister, a spinster of middle age with a cheerful exterior and a kindly voice.

“You'd better come on in and git yore supper, Paul,” she called out. “You like yore mush hot, and it can't be kept that away after it's done without bakin' it like a pone o' bread. You've got to take it with sour blue-john, too. Yore ma forgot to put yesterday's milk in the spring-house, and the cow kicked over to-night's supply just as I squirted the last spoonful in the bucket. Thar is some cold pork and beans. You'll have to make out.”

“I didn't expect to get anythin' t'eat!” Paul fumed, hot with a healthy boy's disappointment, and he tossed the remainder of the harness on to the wagon and followed the horse to the stall. He was in the stable for several minutes. His father heard him muttering inarticulately as he pulled down bundles of fodder from the loft, broke their bands, and threw ears of corn into the troughs. Ralph sucked his pipe audibly, slouched to the stable-door under a burden of sudden concern, and looked in at his son between the two heads of the munching animals.

“Come on in,” he said, persuasively. “I know you are mad, and you have every right to be after yore hard work from break o' day till now; but nobody kin depend on women. Mandy's been makin' yore ma a hat all day. Flowery gewgaws an' grub don't go together.”

Paul came out. “Never mind,” he said. “It don't make no difference. Anything will do.” Father and son walked side by side into the fire-lighted kitchen. A clothless table holding a few dishes and pans stood in the center of the room. Just outside the door, on a little roofless porch, there was a shelf which held a tin basin, a cedar pail containing water, and a gourd dipper with a long, curved handle. And going to this shelf, Paul filled the basin and bathed his face and hands, after which he turned to a soiled towel on a roller against the weatherboarding and wiped himself dry, raking back his rebellious hair with a bit of a comb, while his father stood close by watching him with the gaze of an affectionate dog.

“That'll do, that'll do,” Ralph attempted to jest. “Thar ain't no company here for you to put on airs before. Set down! set down!”

Paul obeyed, and his father remained smoking in the doorway, still eying him with attentive consideration. Amanda brought from the fire a frying-pan containing the hot, bubbling mush, and pushed an empty brown bowl and spoon toward him.

“Help yoreself; thar's the milk in the pan,” she said. “If it is too sour you might stir a spoonful o' 'lasses in it. I've heard folks say it helps a sight.”

Paul was still angry, but he said nothing, and helped himself abundantly to the mush. However, he sniffed audibly as he lifted the pan and poured some of the thin, bluish fluid into his bowl.

“It wasn't my fault about the cow,” Amanda contended. “Scorchin' weather like this is the dickens on dumb brutes. Sook was a-pawin' an' switchin' 'er tail all the time I had hold of 'er tits. It must 'a' been a stingin' fly that got in a tender spot. Bang, bang! was all the warnin' I had, an' I found myself soaked from head to foot with milk. I've heard o' fine society folks, queens an' the like, washin' all over in it to soften their skins and limber their joints; but I don't need nothin' o' that sort. Yore ma's not back yet. She went over to see about the singin'-class they want her in. She had on 'er best duds an' new hat, and looked like a gal o' twenty. She was as frisky as a young colt. I ironed 'er pink sash, an' put in a little starch to mash out the wrinkles and make it stand stiff-like. They all say she's got the best alto in Grayson. I rolled 'er hair up in papers last night, an' tuck it down to-day. You never saw sech pretty kinks in your life. Jeff Warren come to practise their duet, an' him and Addie stood out in the yard an' run the scales an' sung several pieces together. It sounded fine, an' if I had ever had any use for 'im I'd have enjoyed it more; but I never could abide 'im. He gits in too many fights, and got gay too quick after he buried his wife. He was dressed as fine as a fiddle, an' had a joke for every minute. Folks say he never loved Susie, an' I reckon they wasn't any too well matched. She never had a well day in 'er life, and I reckon it was a blessed thing she was took. A tenor voice an' a dandy appearance are pore consolations to a dyin' woman. But he treats women polite—I'll say that for 'im.”

Paul had finished his mush and milk, and helped himself to the cold string-beans and fat boiled pork. His father had reached for a chair, tilted it against the door-jamb, and seated himself in it. He eyed his son as if the boy's strength and rugged health were consoling reminders of his own adolescence. Suddenly, out of the still twilight which brooded over the fields and meadows and swathed the mountain-tops, came the blending voices of two singers. It was a familiar hymn, and its rendition was not unmelodious, for it held a sweet, mystic quality that vaguely appealed.

“That's Jeff an' Addie now!” Amanda eagerly exclaimed. She went to the door and stood leaning against the lintel. She sighed, and her voice became full and round. “Ain't that just too sweet for anything? I reckon they are both puffed up over the way folks take on over their music. Ever since they sang that duet at Sleepy Hollow camp-meetin' folks hain't talked of anything else.”

Paul sat with suspended knife and fork and listened. His father clutched the back of his chair stiffly, bore it into the yard, and eased himself into it. Paul watched him through the doorway, as he sat in the shadows, now bent over, his thin body as rigid and still as if carved from stone. The singing grew nearer and nearer. It seemed to float on the twilight like a vibrant vapor. The boy finished his supper and went out into the yard. His aunt had seated herself on the door-step, still entranced by the music. Paul moved softly across the grass to his father; but Ralph was unconscious of his presence. Paul saw him take in a deep, trembling breath, and heard him utter a long, suppressed sigh.

“What's the matter, Pa?” the boy asked, a touch of somnolent tenderness in his tone.

“Matter? Me? Why, nothin', nothin'!”

Ralph started, lifted his wide-open eyes, in which a far-away expression lay.

“What did you ax me that for?”

“I thought you looked bothered,” Paul made answer, and he sank on the grass at his father's feet.

“Me? No, I'm all right.” Ralph distinctly avoided his son's eyes, and that was a departure. He fumbled in his pocket for his pipe and tobacco, and finally got them out, only to hold them in inactive hands.

The singing was over. There was a sound of merry laughter beyond the stable and corn-crib, and Jeff Warren's voice rose quite audibly:

“I thought I'd split my sides laughin',” he was heard to say, with a satisfied chuckle, “when Bart Perry riz an' called for order and began to state what the plan was to be. He was electin' hisself chief leader, an' never dreamt the slightest opposition; but I'd told a round dozen or more that if he led me'n you'd pull out, an' so I was lookin' for just what happened. Old Thad Thomas winked at me sorter on the side and jumped up an' said, 'All in favor of electin' Jeff Warren leader make it known by standin', an' every woman an' man-jack thar stood up, an' as Bart already had the floor, an' was ashamed to set down, he hisself made it unanimous. But Lord! he was as red as a turkey-gobbler an' mad as Tucker.”

The low reply of the woman did not reach the trio in the yard, and a moment later the couple parted at the front gate. Mrs. Rundel came round the house through the garden, walking hurriedly and yet with a daintiness of step that gave a certain grace to her movement. She wore a neat, cool-looking white muslin dress, was slender, and had good, regular features, light-brown eyes, abundant chestnut hair, which was becomingly arranged under a pretty hat.

“Supper's over, I know,” she said, lightly, as she paused at the door-step and faced her sister. “Well, they all just wouldn't break up earlier. They sang and sang till the last one was ready to drop. Singers is that a way when they haven't been together in a long time. Don't bother about me. I ain't a bit hungry. Mrs. Treadwell passed around some sliced ham an' bread, an' we had all the buttermilk we could drink.”

“Tell me about it,” Amanda demanded, eagerly. “What was it Jeff was sayin' about Bart Perry?”

“Oh, Bart was squelched in good fashion.” Mrs. Rundel glanced at the shadowy shapes of her husband and son, and then back to the eager face of the questioner. “You know what a stuck-up fool he is. He come there to run things, and he set in at it from the start. He hushed us up when we was all havin' a good time talkin', and begun a long-winded tirade about the big singin' he'd done over at Darley when he was workin' in the cotton-mill. He pointed to our song-books, which have shaped notes, you know, and sniffed, and said they belonged to the backest of the backwoods—said the notes looked like children's toy play-blocks, chickencoops, dog-houses, an' what not. He laughed, but nobody else did. He was in for burnin' the whole pile and layin' out more money for the new-fangled sort.”

“I always knowed he was a fool for want o' sense,” Amanda joined in, sympathetically. “A peddler tried to sell me a song once that he said was all the go in Atlanta; but when I saw them mustard-seed spots, like tadpoles on a wire fence, I told him he couldn't take me in. Anybody with a grain o' sense knows it's easier to sing notes that you can tell apart than them that look pine blank alike.”

“Some folks say it don't take long to learn the new way,” Mrs. Rundel remarked, from the standpoint of a professional; “but as Jeff said, we hain't got any time to throw away when we all want to sing as bad as we do.”

“Well, you'd better go in and take that dress off,” Amanda advised, as she reached out and caught the hem of the starched skirt and pulled it down a little. “It shrinks every time it's washed, and you'll want to wear it again right off, I'll bound you.”

“I don't want to wrinkle it any more than I have to,” Mrs. Rundel answered. “I want it to look nice next Sunday. We hold two sessions, mornin' and evenin'; and next week—the day hasn't been set yet—we are goin' to have a nip-and-tuck match with the Shady Grove class.”

“That will be a heap o' fun,” Amanda said, as her sister passed her and disappeared within. For a few minutes the trio in the yard were silent. Ralph Rundel's pipe glowed in the darkness like a thing of fitful moods. Paul had not heard a word of the foregoing conversation. Young as he was, he had many things to think of. The affair with the Harris boys flitted across his mind; in that, at least, he was satisfied; the vision of the fleeing ruffians vaguely soothed him. Something he had read in his book that day about Napoleon came back to him.

It was the flashing of her sister's candle across the grass, as Mrs. Rundel passed before a window, that drew Amanda's thoughts back to a subject of which she was fond.

“Folks has always said I spoiled Addie,” she said to her brother-in-law, in a plaintive tone, “an' it may be so. Bein' ten year older when ma died, I was a mother to 'er in my best days. I had no chance myself, and somehow I determined she should have what I missed. I certainly made it easy for 'er. When she started to goin' to parties and out with young men I was actually miserable if she ever missed a chance. You know that, Rafe—you know what a plumb fool I was, considerin' how pore pa was.”

Ralph turned his head toward the speaker, but no sound came from him. His head rocked, but whether it was meant as a form of response, or was sinking wearily, no one but himself could have told. After that silence fell, broken only by the grinding tread on the floor within.