AN hour later they arrived at the bush-arbor, a rough shed upon which rested a roof of freshly cut boughs of trees and on which there were benches without backs. The ground was strewn with straw, and at the far end was a crude platform and table where several ministers sat.

Leaving his companion near the main entrance, Floyd led his horse some distance away before he could find a suitable place to hitch him. Returning, he found a seat for himself and Cynthia near the rear. They had not been there long before Pole Baker slouched in, warm and flushed from his walk, and sat directly across the aisle from them. Floyd smiled and called Cynthia's attention to him, but Pole stared straight at the pulpit and neither looked to the right nor left. Floyd noticed a farmer bend over and speak to him, and was surprised to see that Pole made no response whatever. With a puzzled expression on his face, the farmer sank back into his seat.

The meeting was opened with prayer and a hymn. Then Hillhouse, who had arrived a little late, came in, a Bible and hymn-book in hand, and went forward and sat with the other ministers. Floyd noted the shifting look of dissatisfaction on his thin face, and his absent-minded manner, as he exchanged perfunctory greetings with those around him.

“Poor fellow!” Floyd said to himself, “he's hard hit, and no wonder.” He glanced at the fair face at his elbow and thrilled from head to foot. She was certainly all that a woman could possibly be.

Then there was a rousing sermon from the Rev. Edward Richardson, an eloquent mountain evangelist. His pleadings bore immediate fruit. Women began to shed tears, and sob, and utter prayers aloud. This was followed by tumultuous shouting, and the triumphant evangelist closed his talk by asking all who felt like it to kneel where they were and receive prayers for their benefit. Half of the congregation fell on their knees. “Did you see that?” Floyd whispered to Cynthia, and he directed her attention to Pole Baker, who was kneeling on the ground, his great, heavily shod feet under the seat in front of him, his elbows on his own bench, and his big, splaying hands pressed over his eyes.

“Poor fellow!” she whispered back, “he is making fresh resolutions to quit drinking, I suppose. I'm so sorry for him. He tries harder to reform for the sake of his wife and children than any man I know. Sometimes I am afraid he never will succeed.”

“Perhaps not,” said Floyd. “You see, I know what it is, Cynthia.”

“You?”

“Why, of course, it almost got me down once. There was a point in my life when I could have been blown one way or the other as easily as a feather. I don't want to pose as being better than I am, and I confess that I am actually afraid at times that it may again get the best of me. God only knows how a man has to fight a thing like that after it has once become a habit. As long as matters are like they are now, I can hold my own, I am sure; but I actually believe if I had to meet some absolutely crushing blow to all my hopes and aspirations, I'd—I'd really be as weak as Pole is.”

“I don't believe it,” said Cynthia, raising her frank eyes to his. “I don't believe a word of it,” she repeated, firmly.

“You don't? Well, perhaps your faith will save me.”

The prayer over, the preacher next called on all who felt that they needed special spiritual help in any particular trial, affliction, or trouble to come forward and give him their hands. Several men and women responded, and among them, to Floyd's growing astonishment, was Pole Baker. He stood erect at his seat for an instant, and then, with his long arms swinging at his sides, he walked up and shook hands stiffly with the minister.

“You were right about it,” Floyd said to Cynthia. “I reckon he's making new resolutions. But where is the fellow going?”

They saw Pole, after releasing the preacher's hand, turn out at the side of the arbor, and slowly stalk away towards the spot where Floyd had hitched his horse.

“Perhaps he's going to start back home,” Cynthia said. “It's getting late and cloudy, and he has a long walk before him.”

“That's it,” said Floyd. “And footing it through the woods as dark as it is even now is no simple matter; though Pole really has the instincts of a red Indian. But I don't understand it, for he is not headed towards home.”

There was another earnest talk from another preacher, and then Hillhouse closed the meeting with a prayer.

Leaving Cynthia at the arbor, Floyd went down for his horse. He was not far from the buggy when he saw Pole Baker rise from a flat stone upon which he had been seated. Without looking at him, Pole went to the hitch-rein and unfastened it, and led the restive animal around in the direction he was to go.

“Much obliged to you, old man,” Floyd said, deeply touched by the action. “I could have done that myself.”

“I know it, Nelson,” Pole responded; “but I've got some'n' to say to you, an' as it is late an' may take a minute or two, I thought I'd save all the time I could an' not keep yore little partner waitin'.”

“Oh, you want to see me, do you?”

Pole hesitated, his glance on the ground; the sockets of his big eyes were full-looking, and the muscles of his face and great neck were twitching. Presently he stared Floyd steadily in the eyes and began:

“Nelson, you've knowed me a good many years in the way one man knows a friend an' neighbor, or even a brother, but you don't plumb understand me yit. The Lord God Almighty's made men side by side in life as different as two kinds o' plants, or two sorts o' minerals. Me'n' you is friends, an' I'm a-goin' to say at the start that I love you as a brother, but we see things different—me'n' you do—we act different about some things. That's what I want to see you about.”

“Oh, I see!” Floyd had never been more perplexed in his life, but he waited for Pole's explanation.

“I hain't here to reflect on the character of women in general, nuther,” said Baker, “though what I say mought sound like it to the shallow-minded. I'm here to tell you that the Lord God has made some o' the sweetest an' best an' purest women that ever lived unable to resist the fire the devil kindles in some men's eyes. Jest as the Almighty allowed Old Nick to play smash right among the elected angels o' heaven tell he was kicked out, so does he let 'im play hell an' damnation with the best an' purest here on earth, usin' as his devilish instrument men who excuse the'rselves on the plea that it's human natur'. A good woman will sometimes be as helpless under a hot-blooded man's eye and voice as a dove is when it flutters an' stands wonderin' before a rattlesnake that means to devour it soul and body.”

“Pole, what's all this mean?” Floyd asked, slightly irritated.

“You wait an' see, dern yore hide!” said Pole. “Ef I kin afford to talk to you when I'm due at my home an' fireside, you kin afford to listen, fer ef it don't do you some good, it will be the beginnin' o' more harm than you ever had to tackle in yore short life. I want to tell you, Nelson, that that little woman you drove out here has been as true a friend to me as you have, an' if I have to side with one or the other, it will be with the weakest one.”

“She's made sacrifices fer me. She saved little Billy's life, an' one day while I was lyin' too drunk to hold my head up in the swamp betwixt her daddy's house an' mine, she found me thar an' run an' fetched fresh water in my hat, an' bathed my nasty, bloated face with her wet handkerchief, an' kept tellin' me to brace up an' not go home that away an' make my wife feel bad. She done that, Nelson Floyd, an', by the holy God, ef you think I'm a-goin' to set idle an' even think thar's a bare resk o' her bein' made unhappy by a big, strappin' thing in pants, an' a vest, an' coat, an' a blue neck tie, you've got little enough sense to need a guardeen to look after yore effects. I don't say thar is danger nor thar hain't, but I seed you doin' a thing back thar on the road that didn't strike me as bein' plumb right, coupled with what I seed when you climbed over the fence o' Nathan Porter's orchard nigh midnight not long back. I've already told you I love you like a brother, but while meetin' was goin' on I made up my mind to say this to you. I got down at the preacher's invite an' prayed on it, an' I went forward an' give 'im my hand on it, axin' the sanction o' the Lord on it, an' I'm here to tell you to yore teeth, Nelson, that ef a hair o' that bonny head is harmed through you I will kill you as I would a p'ison snake! Now, I've said it. I'd 'a' had to say it ef you had been my twin brother, an' I'm not a-goin' to be sorry fer it, nuther. Yore a good, well-meanin' young man, but you ain't yorese'f when you give way to hot blood.”

Floyd was standing behind the neck of his horse, and for an instant Pole could not see his face. There was silence for a moment. Then Floyd came round the horse and stood facing the mountaineer. He was pale, his lower lip was twitching; there was a look in his eyes Baker had never seen there before.

“Pole,” he said, “I'd shoot any other man on God's earth for talking to me as you have.

“You mean you'd try, Nelson.”

“Yes, I mean I'd try; but I can't be mad at you. We've been too close for that, Pole. I admire you more than any man alive. With all your faults, you have done more, in the long run, to lift me up than any other influence. I don't know what to say to you. I—I feel your words keenly, but you understand that I cannot, after what you have said, and the way you've said it, make promises. That would really be—be an insult to—to the lady in question, and an acknowledgment that no brave man could make to another.”

“I understand that, Nelson.” And Pole, with a softened face, held out his big, warm hand. “Shake, old boy. Let it all pass. Now that you understand me, I'm goin' to trust you like a friend. No good man will harm the sister of a friend, noway, an' that's what she is to me. She's my little sister, Nelson. Now, you go take 'er home. I don't like the looks o' that cloud in the west,' an' I don't like the way that hoss o' your'n keeps layin' back his ears an' snortin' at ever' leaf that blows by.”

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