"Oh, Orlick!" she breathed in amazement.

Unconsciously she sat down on the wagon-bed, with the pile of money beside her; and thus, wholly enthralled, she muttered faint exclamations. Orlick's eyes glittered in their devouring scrutiny, fixed upon Belle-Ann's beauty.

"Oh, Orlick," she reiterated, "is thes all yore money? Where did yo' git all thes money, Orlick?"

For an instant he fumbled blindly for words; then found them at the end of his short, ingratiating laugh. He lied with a gusto that reddened his face.

"Git hit!" he echoed blatantly. "Why, Belle-Ann, I worked fo' hit! I'm trainin' hosses below, I git a hundred a month, Belle-Ann; an' I don't drink, an' I 'low t' save my money, I do, 'cose yo' know I 'low t' git married, Belle-Ann; an' hit takes a powerful sight o' money t' keep a wife like I'm aimin' t' do.

"I hain't aimin' t' keep my wife in these mountains. She'll dry up an' blow away 'fore a buddy kin git to her to bury her. I air a goin' t' buy a nice house in Louisville an' fill hit up with fancy fixin's, an', talk about fine, fancy clothes—well, mebby my wife won't hev some fine things, 'cose I got th' money t' git 'em with, Belle-Ann!"

"Orlick," she said, "how much do yo' 'low is heah?"

So engrossed was she in lifting the bills one by one out of the tangled heap, examining both sides minutely, and laying them in one smooth stack, that she had heard little of Orlick's discourse, being vaguely conscious only that he was talking.

"Why, Belle-Ann," said he, "hit's fo' hundred dollars!"

He chuckled immoderately and pressed his cowlick down, which defiant tuft popped instantly back to its position of attention.

"Yes," he went on, noting every look that crossed her lovely face as she proceeded, deeply absorbed in handling this dazzling pile of wealth. "Yes—an' a hundred a month comin' long all th' time. Thet hain't powerful bad fo' a boy like me—air hit, Belle-Ann?"

Orlick rubbed his hands in the throes of self-exaltation and added a laugh that grated upon the girl's senses, inspiring her with a sudden impulse to end this conversation without delay.

"I reckon I'll be a goin'. Slab'll cum soon from th' mill, an' I got some bakin' t' do."

She made as if to rise. With a swift stride Orlick stood close to her, defeating this move. The money lay in one even, smooth pyramid on the wagon-bed.

With one hand he snatched up the bills and laid them in Belle-Ann's lap.

She tossed her curls, lifted her face, and fixed an inquiring look upon him. Above her his face had changed to something evil. His features were shot with a dull red from chin to brow. His lips were a-quiver with the words that clamored in his throat.

"Belle-Ann, thet money 'is all yo'ren," he blurted out, "an' all I make's yo'ren, Belle-Ann; an' I want yo' t' run away with me an' marry me, eh? I want yo' t' go now!"

This effrontery brought her to her feet, and the money spilled out on the ground. He stepped quickly in front of her and held up a restraining hand, blocking her intent to move away.

"I bin a lovin' yo', Belle-Ann, I hev. I bin a lovin' yo'-all fo' mo' than two year gone. I'm a goin' t' keep on a lovin' yo', I air, an' I hain't 'lowin' t' let any man take yo' away from me. I make mo' money in a month than Lem makes in six, Belle-Ann. Yo'-all hain't got no business in these mountains noways.

"Yo' belong down below where th' worl' kin see yo'—down in Louisville, er Lexington, among th' fine folks where yo' maw wus born, an' all dressed up like I'm lovin' t' dress yo', with a diamond ring, an' a watch, an' a gold bracelet; an' a trap with a cob-hoss which has a hock fling t' em—an' a fine house full o' fixin's."

"Thet's the place yo'-all belongs by rights, an' thet's th' place I'm a goin' t' take yo'. I bin in all th' big towns below, an' in Mexico, an' I'll swear t' Gawd I hain't never seen a gal with yore purtiness! They hain't no gal a livin' with curls fixed aroun' a face like yo'ren! Gawd only made one pair o' blue eyes—yo' got 'em! Heah, Belle-Ann, I want yo' t' marry me, eh? Cap an' th' boys air gone, an' Slab's away. Let's hurry off now, eh, Belle-Ann?" he urged in breathless tremor, his eyes afire with the quest that trumpeted in his heart.

Throughout this impassioned discourse Belle-Ann had covertly maneuvered inch by inch toward the cabin. But Orlick had hedged in front, and they now stood scarce twenty feet from the wagon-bed.

His words stirred her to a resentment that at first suffused her neck and face with a flood of crimson indignation; a humiliation that ebbed slowly away before the chill of a fear that now crept into her countenance, leaving her sweet, bowed lips a trifle pallid.

"What ails yo', Belle-Ann—don't yo' 'low t' go?" he blurted out fiercely.

She pointed toward the wagon-bed. In his voice she had sensed a note that boded ill.

"Pick up yore money, Orlick; yo' mought need hit," she advised with calm dignity, while he stooped and gathered up the bills in a flurry of haste, stuffing them in a tangled mass into his pocket. When he turned about Belle-Ann was walking leisurely, but directly toward the cabin. He was at her side in a trice.

He kept pace with her, dinning into her ears an avalanche of torrid appeals, urging her to flee with him. To his onslaught of frantic words she maintained a stoic silence.

This apparent indifference seemed to enrage him beyond all self-restraint. At a point near the open door of the kitchen, he suddenly grasped her wrist and pulled her toward him. With a dexterous turn she put her back to him, twisting her arm so a cry of pain rose to her throat, though she closed her teeth hard upon it.

He held on, and she felt the wheeze of his hot, fierce breath beating against her shoulder.

She could not alter her position without throwing herself face to face with him, so she leaned outward, and then slowly turned her head and their eyes met; and in that instant Orlick loosened his grip as though a hot bar had been laid across his two hands.

Sin had long been Orlick's adopted brother. Since early boyhood odious temptings and wild deeds had been his running-mates. When a soul has known naught but abasement and evil the sight of good is appalling. He stood away now, puzzled at first and strangely disturbed.

She still stood half smiling. It was a pitying smile. Orlick was dismayed and crestfallen, and in that minute he knew that he had jeopardized his last hope.

With a tenacious persistence, born to the breed of his kind, he ventured a lame apology. With his perfunctory laugh he suddenly stammered the fragments of words, confused and inarticulate.

"Sho'," he was muttering. "I wus jest a funnin', Belle-Ann. Yo' thought I wus a goin' t' kiss yo'. I warn't. Ha! ha! ha!—thet's one on yo'-all! Yo' thought I wus a meanin' thet. I wus jest a funnin', Belle-Ann," he ended in a faltering attempt at vindication.

"I air powerful sorry," she breathed in her soft tones, "I've hearn lots th' folks says, Orlick; but I wusn't a believin' thet yo'-all'd hurt a gurl thet-away."

Her mild reproach stirred him to a vehement defense. He sprang forward. In two strides he was beside her.

With a hand that shook perceptibly he strove gently to touch her hand. But she deftly raised her hands and locked them safely behind her head; a posture which seemed to fix the crucifixion of his one last, fleeting hope.

"Good Gawd, Belle-Ann," he cried, "yo' hain't hurted! I wus only foolin'. I wouldn't darst kiss yo', Belle-Ann, lessen yo' let me. I'd die daid ten times 'fore I'd hurt yo'-all! Don't be mad, Belle-Ann," he pleaded guiltily.

"I air powerful sorry—sorrier than I kin say—thet I ever knowed a man's name whut'd hurt a gurl. I don't know what pap an' Lem 'll say."

The terrible look that flamed up into Orlick's face stopped her words. The mention of Lem's name had a galvanic effect upon him.

It seemed to rake across all the rampant, violent passions of his nature.

He was transformed instantly from a penitent subject to a dangerous animal-thing that knew naught but the power of its own brute strength. A scowl of jealous rage distorted his features. He stepped near to her.

"I want yo' t' marry me, Belle-Ann," he panted. "Air yo' a goin' t' run away an' marry me? Jest say yes or no."

The desperate, unbridled fury in his eyes sent a chill to her heart. Notwithstanding this, she preserved her outward calm and smiled back serenely upon his menacing grimace.

"Well—yo' better saddle up. See, yore hoss is at th' trough. I'll wait at th' block."

For a moment he stood nonplused. His shifting eyes lighted with the back tide of hope that had all but ebbed away.

"Yo're a meanun' t' go?" he cried out in a voice husky with new exultation.

"I said fo' you'-all t' saddle an' I'll meet yo' at th' block," she repeated.

He started away, then jerked about and looked searchingly into her face, the light of a sudden suspicion a-glitter in his eyes.

"Yo're aimin' t' run in an' shet th' door on me, hain't yo'?"

Indignation was now in her eyes as she tossed her mass of curls and regarded him with a sense of outraged veracity.

"I said I'd wait fo' you'-all at th' witch-block," she said once more.

He turned quickly and hurried after his horse.

True to her word, Belle-Ann was waiting for Orlick at the horse-block. She sat serenely, watching his advance. At the ends of a rawhide thong a cow-horn dangled at her side, and there was no longer any fear in her heart.

When Orlick caught sight of the cow-horn he stopped as though a gun was leveled at him. A flash of fury swept his face. Then she raised the horn to her lips.

"Lord!" he ejaculated; "don't blow, Belle-Ann. They hain't no need—I'm a ridin' now."

His rage had instantly given place to a sudden meekness, and he came on, his twitching features the hue of chalk and the gloom of utter defeat in his eyes.

Belle-Ann slowly swung the horn to her side. She leaned against the horse-block and watched him saddle. Her look was neither triumphant nor scathing. Orlick did not glance at her, nor did he speak, being strenuously engaged with the horse which, having recovered its spirits, fought the bit determinedly. The saddle was double-cinched, and when Orlick tightened the flank girth the animal revolved, kicking in a circle like a bucker.

When he had leaped into the saddle Orlick wheeled about facing the girl, grinning, arrogant, and bombastic. The only sign of his thoughts was a peculiar glitter playing in the depths of his eyes.

"I'll say good-day t' yo'-all, Miss Benson," he said, with mockery in his tone and giving vent to a laugh, though it carried a threatening note.

"I 'low yo'-all'd be happier, Orlick," ventured Belle-Ann, "ef yo'd change a bit an' jine pap's church thes Sabbath a comin', an' settle down in th' mountains an' marry some gurl thet's better matched t' yo'-all."

His vibrant laugh cut into her words.

"Belle-Ann Benson," he cried, glowering down upon her placid face, with one arm pointing downward across the sunlit valley, "yo' know where they be. My pap an' my fo' brothers air asleep down yander under th' willers on Pigeon Creek. They died fo' the Luttses, they ded—shot t' pieces a fightin' fo' yo'-all!

"Who knows hit better 'n yo'? An' this day yo'-all run th' last Orlick off en yore place. Whut fer—'cause I'm a lovin' yo'? Whut fer air yo'-all so stuck up? 'Cose yore beaut'f'l, an' 'cose yore mother wus a blue-grasser, an' 'cose yore a goin' below t' school?

"Yes, I reckon yo' an' Lem Lutts 'll be satisfied now—yo'-all run th' last Orlick offen yore place."

"Yo' know where they be."

With a vicious jerk he turned the horse's head around and spurred the animal so cruelly that it reared and plunged away down the steep, rocky trail at a gallop that threatened disaster to both horse and rider. And above the jumbled clatter of the horse's shod hoofs the echoes of Orlick's wild, defeated laugh came back to Belle-Ann's ears.

She lingered a while at the horse-block, and pondered soberly upon the advisability of acquainting the old man and Lem with Orlick's visit. There could be only one consequence if she did this.

Presently she decided humanely to keep her own counsel, and, slipping to the ground, she walked slowly toward the cabin.

She walked slowly to allow the two unfortunate dogs tagging at her heels to keep pace with her. One was old Ben, the blind hound, the other a pup with a broken fore-leg which Belle-Ann had bolstered up with splints. As she approached the kitchen door, she beheld Slab standing in the yard, rigid, and looking at her with a beaming countenance. Slab, always an optimist, ever presented a hopeful face. But at this moment when she noted his presence with the tail of her eye, she glimpsed something so extraordinarily illuminating as straightway to pique her curiosity, and she stopped short and regarded him inquiringly. A prodigious grin now lured the corners of his mouth beyond sight; inspiring the freakish suspicion that they met at the back of his head.

"Lan's sake'—what ails yo'—Slab?" she interrogated.

The sound of her voice seemed to fuse some combustible deposit of exultation cached within him. Instantly he began leaping up and down in a most frantic and alarming manner, yelling in loud outbursts, causing the girl mentally to question his sanity.

"I tol' ye so—I tol' ye so—I tol' ye so——"

"What ails yo'-all?"

"Halliluja'—halliluja'——" he answered, keeping time with a grotesque dance.

"Slab—have yo' gone plum offin' yore haid?"

Belle-Ann watched his antics curiously. Presently he ceased this puzzling exposition as abruptly as he had startled her, and advanced, smearing the sweat over his seamed face with one gnarled hand, and she noticed that he kept the other hand concealed behind his back. His unique plaudits having subsided, he stood before her. He screwed his head around and looked furtively about, his sable features now drawn into a visage of deep and profound solemnity. He spoke in low, mysterious accents.

"Lil'le gal," he began softly, "lil'le gal,—sompin' hev drap—some mammon hev drap—some mammon, lil'le gal—drap plunk inter de ole man's han's. I got sompin' heah ter show yo'-all,—sompin' whut makes dis ole man nigh bus' wif gratatudness an' praise fo' de good Lo'd,—no—no—now yo' jest wait, honey—Slab'll show yo'—I mos' bus' when dis mammon drap down ter de ole man—drap down ter Slab, lil'le gal,—jest like olen times when de good Lo'd drap mammon down ter his starvin' chillens—de good Lo'd do sho' love dis ole niggah man, same ez he do good white folks. Belle-Ann—fo' seben nights Slab, he pray jes' ez hard—he pray de good Lo'd fo' wharwithal ter buy some flannel shirts wif. I done pray fo' seben nights, lil'le gal—den las' night, er big ole owl he sot on dat sycamore, an' he call me outen ma sleep—den I snuck down dar by dat wagon-bed, an' I wait, an' when Mr. Owl say 'hoo-ho' I say 'hoo-hoo' back—den when owl say 'hoo-ho' seben times, he goed away—Slab, he know zacly what dat mean—den I look roun' an' fine er lil'le bitty obeah-stone, an' lay it on de wagon-bed. Den dis morn'n' 'fore I goed ter de mill, I tuk er peek—but de obeah-stone war jes' zacly whar I lay him—den on ma way back jes' now, I tuk er nudder peek—obeah wus goed away. Den I look all roun' an' ma eyes see sompin' layin' clost up ter de wagon-bed—den ma han' reches down an' picks it up—an', lil'le gal, I mos' bus' wif happiness—whut yo' think I pluck, lil'le gal?—looky—looky—jes' look at dat bull, feedin' on dat green."

A triumphant, gloating grin broke over his face again, as he exhibited to the impatient girl a crisp, new five-dollar bill, with a buffalo engraved thereon.

As Belle-Ann took a bucket and gourd, and proceeded to water the flowers on the shady side of the house, a knowing smile lingered at the up-turned corners of her little red mouth. Again she was holding her own counsel.