IT was a few weeks after Hoag's burial. Ethel had been for a walk and was nearing home. At the side of the road stood a sordid log cabin, one of the worst of its class. In the low doorway leaned a woman with a baby in her arms. She was under twenty-five years of age, and yet from her tattered dress, worn-out shoes, scant hair, and wan, wearied face she might have passed as the grandmother of her four or five little children playing about the door-step.

Catching her eye, Ethel bowed and turned in toward the hut. As she did so, the woman stepped down and came forward. The children, forsaking their play, followed and clung to her soiled skirt, eying Ethel's black dress and hat with the curiosity peculiar to their ages and station. The woman's husband, David Harris, had been confined to his bed since the preceding winter, when he had been laid up by an accident due to the falling of a tree while at work for Hoag on the mountain, and Ethel and her mother had shown him and his wife some thoughtful attention.

“I stopped to ask how Mr. Harris is,” Ethel said. “My mother will want to know.”

“He's a good deal better, Miss Ethel,” the woman replied, pulling her skirt from the chubby clutch of a little barefooted girl.

“Oh, I'm so glad!” Ethel cried. “I suppose his new medicine is doing him good?”

“No, he hasn't begun on it yet,” Mrs. Harris answered. “The old lot ain't quite used up yet. I just think it is due to cheerfulness, Miss Ethel. I never knowed before that puttin' hope in a sick body would work such wonders, but it has in Dave.”

“He has been inclined to despondency, hasn't he?” Ethel rejoined, sympathetically. “My mother said she noticed that the last time we were here, and tried to cheer him up.”

“Thar was just one thing that could cheer 'im, an' that happened.”

“I'm glad,” Ethel said, tentatively “He seemed to worry about the baby's sickness, but the baby is well now, isn't she?” Ethel touched the child under the chin and smiled into its placid blue eyes.

“No, it wasn't the baby,” the wife went on. “Dave got some'n off his mind that had been worry-in' him ever since Paul Rundel got home an' took charge o' Mr. Hoag's business. That upset 'im entirely, Miss Ethel—he actually seemed to collapse under it, an' when Mr. Hoag died he got worse.”

“But why?” Ethel groped, wonderingly.

“It was like this,” the woman answered. “Long time ago, when Paul an' Dave was boys together, they had a row o' some sort. Dave admits that him and his brother, Sam, who was sent off for stealin' a hoss, two year ago, acted powerful bad. They teased Paul an' nagged 'im constantly, till Paul got a gun one day an' threatened to kill 'em if they didn't let 'im alone. Then right on top o' that Paul had his big trouble an' run off, an' him an' Dave never met till—”

“I see, but surely Paul—” Ethel began, perplexed, and stopped suddenly.

“I was comin' to that, Miss Ethel. You see, Dave had a good regular job cuttin' an' haulin' for Mr. Hoag, an' until Paul was put in charge he expected, as soon as he was strong enough, to go back to work again. But the report went out, an' it was true, that Mr. Hoag had turned all the hirin' of men over to Paul an' refused to take a single man on his own hook.”

“Oh, I see, and your husband was afraid—”

“He was afraid Paul had a grudge ag'in' 'im, Miss Ethel. He talked of nothin' else, an' it looked like he dreamed of nothin' else. I used to catch 'im cryin' as he nussed the baby for me while I was fixin' 'im some'n to eat. He kept say in' that the Lord was punishin' 'im for the way he done Paul. He said no man with any spirit would hire a fellow under them circumstances, an' he couldn't expect it. He said Paul was plumb on top now since Mr. Hoag's gone, an' had a right to crow. I begged 'im to let me tell Paul how he felt about it, but he wouldn't hear to it; he was too proud. Besides, he said, no brave man would respect another for apologizin' at such a late day when he was after a favor. So he just bothered an' bothered over it till he quit eatin' an' begun to talk about bein' buried.” Here the woman's voice quivered. “He kept sayin' he didn't want me to spend money on layin' 'im away. He got so troubled about that one thing that he begged Zeke Henry, who is a carpenter, you know, to agree to make 'im some sort of a cheap box to be put in so that I wouldn't go to town an' git a costly one on a credit when the time come.”

“How sad—how very sad!” Ethel exclaimed. “And then Paul must have—of course, you told Paul—.”

“No, I wouldn't do that,” the woman broke in. “Dave would 'a' been mad; but one day, about a week ago, I was out in the thicket across the road pickin' up sticks to burn when Paul come along. I used to live over the mountain before he went off, an' so I thought he didn't know me. I thought he was goin' by without speakin' to me, for it looked like he was tryin' to overtake a wagon load o' lumber right ahead; but when he seed me he stopped an' raised his hat an' stood with it in his hand while he asked me how Dave was. He said he'd just heard he was so bad off, an' was awful sorry about it.

“I told 'im how Dave's health was, but I didn't let on about how he was worryin'.' Then Paul studied a minute, an' it looked to me like he was actually blushin'. 'I wonder,' he said, 'if Dave would let me go in an' see 'im. I've met nearly all of the boys I used to know, an' have been hopin' he'd be out so I could run across 'im.'”

“That was just like Paul,” Ethel said, warmly. “And of course he saw your husband?”

The woman shifted the baby from her arms to her gaunt right hip. Her eyes glistened and her thin lips quivered. “You'll think I'm silly, Miss Ethel.” She steadied her voice with an effort. “I break down an' cry ever' time I tell this. I believe people can cry for joy the same as for grief if it hits 'em just right. I took Paul to the door, an' went in to fix Dave up a little—to give 'im a clean shirt an' the like. An' all that time Dave was crazy to ask what Paul wanted, but was afraid Paul would hear 'im, an' so I saw him starin' at me mighty pitiful. I wanted to tell him that Paul was friendly, but I didn't know how to manage it. I winked at 'im, an' tried to let 'im see by my cheerfulness that it was all right with Paul, but Dave couldn't understand me. Somehow he thought Paul might still remember the old fuss, an' he was in an awful stew till Paul come in. But he wasn't in doubt long, Miss Ethel. Paul come in totin' little Phil in his arms—he'd been playin' with the child outside—an' shuck hands with Dave, an' set down by the bed in the sweetest, plainest way you ever saw. He kept rubbin' Phil's dirty legs—jest wouldn't let me take him, an' begun to laugh an' joke with Dave over old boyhood days. Well, I simply stood there an' wondered. I've seen humanity in as many shapes as the average mountain woman o' my age an' sort, I reckon, but I never, never expected to meet a man like Paul Rundel in this life. He seemed to lift me clean to the clouds, as he talked to Dave about the foolishness of bein' blue an' givin' up to a sickness like his'n. Then like a clap o' thunder from a clear sky he told Dave in an off-hand way, as if it wasn't nothin' worth mentionin', that he wanted 'im to hurry an' git well because he had a job for 'im bossin' the hands at the shingle-mill. Miss Ethel, if the Lord had split the world open an' I saw tongues o' fire shootin' up to the skies I wouldn't 'a' been more astonished.

“'Do you really mean that, Paul?' I heard Dave ask; an' then I heard Paul say, I certainly do, Dave, an' you won't have to wait till you are plumb well, either, for you kin do that sort o' work just settin' around keepin' tab on things in general.' An' so, Miss Ethel, that's why Dave's gittin' well so fast. It ain't the medicine; it's the hope an' joy that Paul Rundel put in 'im. They say Paul has got some new religion or other, an' I thank God he has found it. Love for sufferin' folks fairly leaks out of his face an' eyes. Before he left he had every child we have up in his lap, a-tellin' 'em tales about giant-killers an' hobgoblins an' animals that could talk, an' when he went off he left Dave cryin' like his heart was breakin'.”

Ethel walked slowly homeward. From a small, gray cloud in the vast blue overhead random drops of rain were falling upon the hot dust of the road. As she neared the house she saw her mother waiting for her at the front gate with a letter in her hand.

“I wondered where you were,” Mrs. Mayfield said, as she held the gate ajar for her daughter to pass through. “You know I can't keep from being uneasy since your poor uncle's death.”

“I'm not afraid,” Ethel smiled. She noticed that her mother had folded the letter tightly in her hand and seemed disinclined to refer to it.

“Who is your letter from?” the girl questioned, as they walked across the lawn toward the house.

“Guess,” Mrs. Mayfield smiled, still holding the letter tightly.

“I can't imagine,” Ethel answered, abstractedly, for she was unable to detach herself from the recital she had just heard.

Mrs. Mayfield paused, looked up at the threatening cloud, and then answered, “It is from Mr. Peterson.”

“Oh!” Ethel avoided her mother's fixed stare. “I owe him a letter.”

“From this, I judge that you owe him several,” Mrs. Mayfield answered in a significant tone. “Ethel, I am afraid you are not treating him quite fairly.”

“Fairly! Why do you say that, mother?” Ethel showed some little vexation. Touches of red appeared in her cheeks and her eyes flashed.

“Because you haven't answered his recent letters, for one thing,” was the reply. “You know, daughter, that I have never tried, in the slightest, to influence you in this matter, and—”

“This matter!” A rippling and yet a somewhat forced laugh fell from the girl's curling lips. “You speak as if you were referring to some business transaction.”

'“You know what I mean,” Mrs. Mayfield smiled good-naturedly. “Before we came here this summer, while Mr. Peterson was so attentive to you in Atlanta, I told you that he had plainly given me to understand that he was in love with you, and wished to pay his addresses in the most serious and respectful way.”

“Well?” Ethel shrugged her shoulders. “I have let him come to see me oftener, really, than any of my other friends, and—”

“But that isn't all he wants, and you are well aware of it,” the mother urged. “He says you don't write to him as freely and openly as you once did—he has acted very considerately, I think. Owing to your uncle's death he did not like to intrude, but now he can't really understand you, and is naturally disturbed.”

“So he has written to you?” Ethel said, crisply, almost resentfully.

“Yes, he has written to me. I am not going to show you his letter. The poor fellow is deeply worried. The truth is, as he says, that most of your set down home look on you—”

“As his property, I know,” Ethel flashed forth. “Some men are apt to allow a report like that to get circulated. The last time he was here he dropped half a dozen remarks which showed that he had no other thought than that I was quite carried away with him.”

Mrs. Mayfield faced the speaker with a gentle smile of perplexity. “You know, dear, that I firmly believe in love-matches, and if I didn't think you could really love Mr. Peterson I'd never let you think of marrying him; but he really is such a safe, honorable man, and has such brilliant prospects, that I'd not be a natural mother if I were not hopeful that you—”

“You mustn't bother with him and me, mother,” Ethel said, weariedly. “I know all his good points, and I know some of his less admirable ones; but I have some rights in the matter. I have really never encouraged him to think I would marry him, and it is because—well, because his recent letters have been just a little too confident that I have not answered. I can't bear that sort of thing from a man, and I want him to know it.”

“Well, I'm going to wash my hands of it,” Mrs. Mayfield said, smiling. “I want you to be happy. You have suffered so keenly of late that it has broken my heart to see it, and I want your happiness above all. Then there is something else.”

“Oh, something else?” Ethel echoed.

“Yes, and this time I am really tempted to scold,” the mother said, quite seriously. “My dear, I am afraid you are going to make more than one man unhappy, and this one certainly deserves a better fate.”

Ethel avoided her mother's eyes. Her color deepened. Her proud chin quivered.

“What do you mean?” she faltered.

“I mean that I am afraid Paul Rundel is in love with you, too.”

“Paul—oh, how absurd!” the girl answered, her face burning.

“You may say that if you wish, but I shall not change my opinion,” Mrs. Mayfield rejoined, gravely. “I am sure he wouldn't want me to suspect it—in fact, I think he tries to hide it from every one. It is only little signs he shows now and then—the way he looks when your name comes up. The truth is that he can hardly steady his voice when he mentions you. But he will never trouble you with his attentions. He has an idea that there is some understanding between you and Mr. Peterson, and I confess I didn't disabuse his mind. In fact, he said last night, when he and I were out here together, that he would never marry. He has an idea that he ought to remain single so that he may be free to carry out some plans he has for the public good—plans, I think, which mean a sacrifice on his part, in some way or other. He's simply wonderful, my child. He seems to suffer. You know a woman can tell intuitively when a man is that way. He seems both happy and unhappy. I thought I'd speak to you of this so that you may be careful when with him. You can be nice to him, you know, without leading him to think—well, to think as Mr. Peterson does.”

“There is no danger,” Ethel said, wistfully. “I understand him, and I am sure he understands me, but”—she hesitated and caught her mother's arm in a tense clasp, as they started on toward the house—“I am sure, very sure, mother, that he—that Paul is not really in love with me. You don't think so, either, mother—you know you do not! You have so many silly fancies. You imagine that every man who looks at me is in love with me. Paul will never love any woman, much less me. You see, I know. I've talked to him a good deal here of late, and—and I understand him. Really, I do, mother.” Alone in her room, a moment later, Ethel stood before her mirror looking at her reflection.

“He loves me—oh, he loves me!” she whispered. “He's loved me all these years. He is the grandest and best man that ever lived. He has lifted me above the earth, and made me understand the meaning of life. Oh, Paul, Paul!” She sank down by the window and looked out. The rain was beginning to fall heavily. It pattered against the window-sill and wet her sleeve and hair, but she did not move. She breathed in the cooling air as if it were a delightful intoxicant borne down from heaven. The dripping leaves of a honeysuckle tapped her hot cheeks. She thrust her fair head farther out, felt the water trickle down her cheeks and chin, and laughed. Her mood was ecstatic, transcendent, and full of gratitude unspeakable.