And now Judith’s days strung themselves on the glowing thread of midsummer weather like black beads on a golden cord, a rosary of pain. She told each bead with sighs, facing the morning with a heavy heart that longed for darkness, lying down when day was over in dread of the night and a weariness that brought no sleep. And the cedar tree, swayed in the raw autumn air, talking to itself sombrely of the empty nest in its heart, sounded upon her wakeful ears a note of desolation and despair. For all the Turkey Tracks soon knew that Blatch Turrentine was sound and whole; all Hepzibah knew it eventually—and Creed Bonbright neither returned nor made any sign.

The embargo being removed, Judith went straight to Nancy Card.

In the preoccupation of her sorrow, she might have forgotten Little Buck’s wounded heart; but when as of custom Beezy came rioting out to meet her, the man child hung back with so strange a countenance that she needs must note it.

“Come here, honey,” she urged tenderly—her own suffering made her very pitiful to the childish grief.

Little Buck came slowly up to his idol, lifting doubtful eyes to her face. The girl’s ready arm went swiftly round the small figure.

“Are you pestered about that word I sent Creed Bonbright by you?” she whispered.

The little boy nodded solemnly, and you could see the choke in his throat.

“Well, you don’t need to be,” she reassured him. “I had to send jest that word, Little Buck—jest that very word; nothin’ less would ’a’ brought him.”

Again the child nodded, twisting around to look in her face, his own countenance clearing a bit.

“But it don’t make any differ between you an’ me, does it, honey?” she pursued. “You’re Jude’s man, jest the same as you ever was, ain’t ye? You wouldn’t never need to be jealous of anybody; ’cause you know all the time that Judy loves you.”

Silently the small man put his arms round her neck and hugged her hard—an unusual demonstration for Little Buck. And during her entire stay he hung close about, somewhat to Nancy’s annoyance, seeming to find plentiful joy in the contemplation of his recovered treasure.

The loss of Creed had meant a good deal to Nancy. More like a son than a boarder in her house, he had brought with him a sense of support and competence such as the hard-worked little woman had never known. With his going, she was back again in the old helpless, moneyless situation, with Pony on her hands a growing problem and anxiety, and Doss Provine but a broken reed on which to lean. Such inquiries after Creed as they managed to set afoot fetched no return.

“Hit ain’t like Creed to be scared and keep runnin’,” she would repeat pathetically. “I know in reason something awful has chanced to that boy. Either that, or it’s like they’re all beginning to say, he’s wedded and gone to Texas same as his cousin Cyarter done. Cyarter Bonbright run away with a gal on the night she was to have wedded another feller—tuck her right out of the country and went to Texas. That’s Bonbright nature: they ain’t much on sweet-heartin’ an’ sech, but when they git it, they git it hard.”

She laid a loving hand on the girl’s shoulder, and leaned around to look frankly into the beautiful, melancholy, dark face with the direct, honest grey eyes that would admit no concealments between herself and those whom she really cared for.

“I speak right out to you, Jude,” she said kindly, “’caze I see how hit’s been between you an’ Creed, an’ hit’ll hurt you less if you get used to the idy of givin’ him up. Him treated the way he was, I don’t know as I’d blame him.”

But Judith could have blamed him. It was only when despair pressed too hard that she could say she would be glad to know he was alive even though he belonged to somebody else. Yet to credit Blatch’s story for a moment, to think he had gone that night with Huldah Spiller, was to open the heart’s door on such a black vista of treachery and double-dealing in Creed’s conduct, to so utterly discredit his caring for herself, that she had no defence but to disbelieve the whole tale, and this she was generally able to do.

But as far away as Hepzibah a small event was preparing that should break the monotony of Judith’s grievous days. Venters Drane, the elder’s twelve-year-old boy, going to school in the village, fell ill of diphtheria. When word was brought to the father—a widower and wise—he loaded his three younger children and their small belongings into the waggon and drove over to the Turrentine place.

“I jest p’intedly ain’t got nary another place to leave ’em, Sister Barrier, nor nary another soul on earth that I could trust ’em with like I could with you,” he said wistfully, after he had explained the necessities of the case. “I’m on my way down now to get Venters and bring him home—look at that, will ye!” as the baby made a dash for Judith who stood by the wheel looking up.

“They’re mighty welcome, Elder Drane,” Judith declared warmly, receiving the little fellow in open arms. “I’ll be glad to do for ’em.”

Martin and Lucy were old-fashioned, repressed, timid children, with the pathetic outlook of young persons brought up by a melancholy, ancient hireling. But the baby, glowing-eyed, laughing-mouthed rogue, staggering valiantly on sturdy, emulous legs, taking tribute everywhere with all babyhood’s divine audacity, walked straight into her heart. He slept beside her at night, for him she darkened and quieted the house of afternoons, lying down with him to watch his slumbers, to brood with mother fondness upon the round, rosy, small face, and the even, placid breathing.

Drane had brought such clothing as they had, but Judith found them ill-provided, and set to work for them at once. Being a capable needlewoman she soon had them apparelled more to her liking, and the labour physicked pain. Sitting in the porch sewing, with the baby tumbling about the floor at her feet and Mart and Lucy building play-houses in the yard under the trees, Judith began dimly to realise that life, somewhere and at some time, might lack all she had so passionately craved, all she so piercingly regretted, and yet hold some peace, some satisfaction. True she was still desolate, robbed, despairing, yet with the children to tend there were hours when she almost lost sight of her own sorrow, in the sweet compulsion of doing for them.

Jim Cal shook his head over these arrangements. “Looks like to me ef I was a widower with chaps, trying to wed a fine lookin’, upheaded gal like Jude, I’d a’ kep’ the little ’uns out of her sight as much as I could, ’stid of fetchin’ ’em right to her. Hit seems now as though she muched them greatly, but she’s sartin shore to find out what a sight o’ trouble chaps makes, and ain’t any woman wantin’ more work than she’s ’bleeged to have.”

Lacking active concerns of his own, James Calhoun was always greatly interested in those of the persons about him. Judith’s doings, on account of her reticence, beauty and high spirit, proved a theme of unending, mild interest.

“Jude,” he opened out one day as he sat on the edge of the porch while his cousin was busy with some sewing for her little visitors, “did ye hear ’bout Lace Rountree?”

Judith never moved her eyes from her work. “I know they’s sech a person,” she said evenly, “if that’s what you mean.”

“No, but have ye heared of how he’s a-doin’ here lately?” persisted the fat man. “I don’t know as anybody has named anything special to me about Lacey Rountree or his doin’s,” Judith returned with a rising irritation. “Why should they?”

Jim Cal heaved a wheezy sigh. “’Caze yo’ said to be the cause of it,” he expounded with lugubrious enjoyment. “Lace Rountree is fillin’ hisse’f up on corn whiskey and givin’ it out to each and every that he’s goin’ plumb straight di-rect to the dav-il, an’ all on yo’ accounts—’caze you wouldn’t have ’im. Now what do you make out o’ that?”

“I make out that some folks are mighty big fools,” retorted Judith with asperity. “Lace Rountree is no older than Jeff and Andy—he’s two years younger’n I am—why, he’s like a child to me. I never no more thought of Lace Rountree than I’d think of—well, not so much as I would of Little Buck Provine.”

“Uh-huh,” agreed Jim Cal shaking his head dolefully, “that’s the way you talk; but you-all gals had ort to have a care how you toll fellers on. Here’s Huldy got Wade so up-tore about her that he’s a-goin’ to dash out and git him a place on the railroad whar he’s mighty apt to be killed up; and you——”

“I what?” prompted Judith sharply, as he came to a wavering pause.

“Well—they was always one man that you give good reason to expect you’d wed him. I myse’f have heared you, more’n forty times I reckon, say to Blatch Turrentine—or if not say it in so many words, at least——”

“Cousin Jim,” broke in Judith, carefully ignoring this last charge, “so far as that Lace Rountree is concerned, did you ever know of a reckless feller that come to no good but what he had some gal at whose door he could lay it all? I vow I never did. They ain’t a drinkin’ whiskey becaze they like it; they don’t git into no interruptions becaze they’re mad—it’s always ’count o’ some gal that has give ’em the mitten. I’ll thank you not to name Lace Rountree to me again, nor—nor anybody else,” as she saw his eyes wander to the sewing in her lap.

“Well, Drane’s old enough to look out for hisse’f,” said Jim Cal, rising and trying his joints apparently for a movement toward home. “Ef you choose to toll him on by takin’ care of his chaps, that’s yo’ lookout, and his lookout—’taint mine; but ’ef I was givin’ the man advice, I’d say to him that he might about as well take ’em home, or hunt up some other gal to leave ’em with, ’caze yo’ apt to much the chil’en and then pop the do’ in the daddy’s face.”

The weeks brought piecemeal confirmation of Jim Cal’s dismal forebodings. Elihu Drane took advantage of every pretext to haunt about the roof that sheltered his children. Though he was not with the sick boy, he made the presence of a “ketchin’ town disease” in his home, reason for not coming near the little ones, but called Judith down to the draw-bars to talk to him. When he had her there at such disadvantage, he so pertinaciously urged his unwelcome suit that he made her finally glad to be rid of the children, to see him, when Venters was once more well, take them away with him and give her respite from his importunities.

In the case of Wade, too, the fat man’s pessimistic expectations were realised; the young man did, early in August, dash out and secure a place on the railroad. Mountain people write few letters. They heard nothing from him after the first message which told them where he was employed and what wages he was to have.

It was September when Iley announced to Judith that she had word from some of Pap Spiller’s kin who were living in Garyville, that acquaintances of theirs from Hepzibah, coming down to the circus at the larger town, had given them roundabout and vague news of Huldah. The girl had delayed in Hepzibah but a few days. The story as it came up on the mountain was that she had married “some feller from Big Turkey Track, and gone off on the railroad.”

“Them Tuels is mighty po’ hands to remember names,” Iley said. “But all ye got to do is to look around and take notice of anybody that’s gone from Big Turkey Track here lately. Ye can fix it to suit yo’se’f. But I reckon Huldy has made a good match, and I’m satisfied.”

Judith looked upon the floor in silence. In silence she left the cabin and took her way to her own home. And that night, while the cedar tree talked to her in the voice of love—Creed’s voice—she fought with dragons and slew them, and was slain by them.

When Blatchley Turrentine had asserted this thing to her at Garyville, she found somewhere—after her first gust of unreasoning resentment was past—strength to disbelieve it utterly. But now it came again in more plausible guise. It gained likeliness from mere repetition. And hardest of all to bear, she was totally unsupported in her trust. She knew Creed, knew his love for her; yet to cling to it was to fly in the face of probabilities, and of everything and everybody about her. The lover who is silent, absent from her who loves him, at such a time, runs tremendous risks.

It was the set or turn of the year’s tide; sunsets were full, rich, yellow, and a great round, golden moon swung in the evening sky above the purple hills. A soft, purring monotone of little tree crickets in the night forest replaced the shriller insect chorus of midsummer. Garden patches, about through their summer yield, were a tangle of bubble-tinted morning glories, the open woods misty with wild asters, bell flowers trembling from the crevices of rocks; and along fence-row and watercourse turkey-pea, brook sunflower, queen of the meadow, and joepye-weed made gay the land.

Such farm work as remained was only garnering—fodder-pulling, pea-hay and millet hay to gather; with a little sowing of wheat, rye, or turf oats.

In late midsummer and early fall revivalists, preachers, and exhorters go through the Cumberlands holding protracted meetings in the little isolated churches. At this time of year the men as well as the women are most at liberty. To a people who live scattered through a remote and inaccessible region, who have few and scanty public gatherings and diversions, this season of religious activity offers the one emotional outlet which their conception of dignity permits them, and it is proportionately precious in their eyes. In addition to the women and the girls and boys, who usually make up the rank and file of religious gatherings elsewhere, here at this favoured season old fellows, heads of families and life-long pillars of the Church, give up their entire time to the meetings. The family is put into the waggon with a basket of dinner, and they make a day of it. Services hold as late as twelve and one o’clock, and after them this contained, stoic folk will go home through the woods, carrying pine torches, singing, shouting, laughing, sobbing.

Hiram Bohannon came into the two Turkey Tracks this year and held services at Brush Arbour church. He was very much in earnest, Brother Bohannon, a practical man with a rough native eloquence that spoke loud to his hearers.

Every afternoon the wild, sweet hymns rang out over the little cup-like valley in which Brush Arbour church stood. The month was extremely warm, and they used the outside brush arbour from which the schoolhouse-church received its name.

Judith went day and night in a feverish attempt to get away from herself and her sorrows. Even the fact that Elihu Drane was very much to the fore in these gatherings could not deter her. Sitting in the open there, her hands clasped upon her knee, her sombre eyes on the ground, or interrogating the distance with an unseeing stare, she would let hymn and sermon, prayer and the weeping and shouting which always close night meeting, go past her ears well-nigh unheard. Before those darkened, bereaved eyes, turn where they would, Love’s ever-renewed idyl of rustic courtship was enacting, since Big Meetin’ was the time and occasion of all the year for Corydon to encounter Phyllis, to stroll or sit beneath the trees with her, possibly to “carry her home.”

Andy and Jeff began taking the Lusk girls to meeting, and within a week’s time two very pale young men—the twins always acted in concert—stumbled up the earthen aisle between the puncheon seats to join the group at the mourners’ bench and ask for the prayers of the congregation. Brother Bohannon knew what quarry he had netted, and he hurried down at once, half in doubt that this was another scheme of these young daredevils to make game of his meeting. But both boys were on their knees, and the tears with which they began confessing to him past sins, the penitence of their shaking voices, proclaimed the genuineness of their conversion.

Cliantha and Pendrilla left behind—they had been sober church members since they were twelve years old—fluttered to Judith and demanded her instant attention to the miracle.

“Oh, Judith, ain’t it jest too good to be true?” panted little Cliantha. “Jeff never did lack anything of bein’ the best man that ever walked this earth except to jine the church—an’ now look at him!”

“And Andy, too,” put in Pendrilla jealously. “I do believe Andy is a prayin’ the loudest—I’m shore he is.”

Judith roused herself. “I’m mighty glad—for the both of ye,” she said kindly.

And then she looked at their tremulous, happy faces, at the kneeling boys up among the press of figures about the pulpit, and burst into a storm of weeping. Where was her lover? Where was Creed? Dead—or he had forgotten her.

“Are you under conviction of sin, sister?” inquired one of the helpers.

Judith let it pass at that, and flung herself on her knees beside the bench to wait until the last hymn and the dismissal.

Brother Bohannon was an extremely practical Christian; his creed applied to every day in the year and to the most commonplace acts. He adjured his converts not only to quit their meanness, but to go and acknowledge past errors, to repair such evil as they could, and if possible to seek forgiveness from man, certain that God’s forgiveness would follow. Such counsel as this brought the twins to their father’s cabin early on the morning after their conversion at Brush Arbour church.

“Pap,” began Andy standing before his parent with an odd suggestion of the small boy caught in mischief, “me and Jeff are aimin’ to join the church.”

“That’s right, son,” said the old man rising and clapping a hearty hand on each young shoulder. “I’m mighty proud to hear it. Hit’s a good way for fellers like you to start out in this world.”

“Well, befo’ we do so,” Jeff took up the burden, “the preacher says we ort to confess our sins and git forgiveness from them we have done wrong by. Creed Bonbright ain’t here. Mebbe he’s never goin’ to be back any mo’. We talked it over and ’lowed we’d better come tell you, pap.”

At Creed Bonbright’s name a pathetic change went over old Jephthah’s pleased countenance. He had received the opening words with satisfaction, not untinctured by the mild, patronising indulgence we show to children. But when Bonbright was mentioned he sat back in his chair, nervously knocking the ash from his pipe, anxiously staring at the boys.

“I’m mighty proud,” he repeated, “to hear what you say.” He spoke gravely and with dignity; but a note of uncontrollable eagerness stole into his voice, as he added in a lower tone, “What mought you-all have to tell me about Creed Bonbright?”

“Pap, we done you a meanness in that business,” hastened Jeff. “We had no call to lie to you like we done, and send the feller word in yo’ name.”

“Wade, he was mad about his gal,” agreed Andy thoughtfully, “but what possessed me and Jeff I’ll never tell ye. Spy or no spy, we done that man wrong.”

Jephthah looked expectantly and in silence from one young face to the other.

“Blatch let on to you hit was the still; but of course we knowed hit was Jude that ailed him. He got Taylor Stribling to toll Creed to Foeman’s Bluff that night,” Jeff supplied. “Blatch picked the quarrel, and drawed a knife when they was wrastlin’, and when Bonbright pushed Blatch away from him, he fell over the cliff. That’s God’s truth about the business, pappy, ef I ever spoke it. Me an’ Andy an’ Wade was all into it.”

The boyish countenance was pale, and Jeff drew a nervous hand across his brow as he concluded. There followed a lengthened silence. Old Jephthah sat regarding his own brown right hand as it lay upon his knee.

“Ye tolled him thar,” he said finally. “Ye tolled him thar. Then Creed Bonbright wasn’t no spy.” He lifted his head. “I never could make it figure up right for that feller to be a spy. Curious he was, and he had some idees that I couldn’t agree with; but a spy——”

He broke off suddenly, and one saw how strong had been the bond between him and the young justice, how greatly he cared that the memory of the man even should be cleared.

The boys looked at each other, and with a gulp Jeff began again:

“I reckon you knowed well enough we stood in with Blatch when he hid out and let folks believe the killin’ had been did. We knowed you seen through it all; but when ye git started in a business like that, one thing leads on to another, and befo’ you’re done with it, ye do a plenty that you’d ruther not.”

“Well, hit’s over and cain’t be he’ped, but you’ve done what’s right at last,” Jephthah assured them. “The church is a mighty good thing for young fellers like you. A good wife’ll do a sight to he’p along.”

He looked at them kindly. He had never liked his boys half so well.

“I’m mighty proud of the both of ye,” he concluded heartily. “Ef Creed Bonbright ever does come back in the mountains, we’ll show him that the Turrentines can be better friends than foes to a man.”