THE man stood out in the road looking toward the south. The country under his eye was primitive. The mountains rose in benches, heavily wooded. On one of these benches stood a log house to be seen among the trees, faintly, where the mountain road passed. Behind it, far away, a strip of green lay like a cloth across the very top of the mountain—a bit of farm in which two immense hickory trees stood like pillars. These trees must have been gigantic, since at the great distance they were to the eye huge. The man standing in the road seemed to be considering this country. His face was lifted and, in repose, melancholy.

The woman continued to regard the men standing in the road. Finally she spoke, swinging her body a moment on her sturdy legs.

“You're the new School-teacher, I reckon.”

The man replied, without moving.

“Yes,” he said.

“You're a little behindhand.”

“Yes.”

“You've come a good piece to-day, I reckon.”

“A long way.”

The woman took her fat right hand from her hips, and began to brush the skirt of her calico dress, although there was nothing on it to remove.

“Well,” she said, “you better come in and git your supper.”

The man turned and faced the woman.

His features appeared by a powerful effort to exclude something which he wished not to show and had been until this moment not wholly able to conceal.

“You are very kind,” he said. “I am hungry.”

“Just set down on the porch.” said the woman. “We've had our supper, but I'll git you a bite.”

The man came over and sat down, his hands idly on his knees, his face looking out toward the mountains. The woman began her preparations for the stranger's meal. She entered the room where the wooden table stood, crossed to a cupboard, opened it and took out some dishes. These she began to put on the table. Then she stopped and stood with her hands resting on her hips. A moment later she removed the dishes, went over to a chest, standing in the corner, lifted the lid, took out a clean homespun linen cloth, and spread it over the table.

As she moved about she talked.

“When are you goin' to begin school?”

“Monday morning,” replied the man. “Word ought to be sent 'round.”

“I think the children will come.”

“They'll come when they know it, an' they'll know it purty soon; news travels powerful fast. We looked for you yesterday.”

“Yes.”

“Somethin' kept you back, I s'pose.”

“Yes.”

“Well, there's allers somethin' to happen. You won't have much of a school, I expect. The big boys have all gone off to the sawmills, an' the big girls are helpin' with the work. It's a mighty busy time.”

“I would rather have the little children.”

“They're a heap of bother.”

“I don't think I shall mind the bother.”

“Don't you? Most people do. They're harder to teach than the big ones, ain't they?”

“I think they are easier to teach.”

“Do you? What makes you think they're easier to teach?”

“They understand me better,” replied the man.

The woman had taken down an old glass bowl with a notched glass cover from the top shelf of the cupboard, rinsed it with water, wiped it carefully and set it on the table. In this she had placed a comb of red, mountain honey. She continued to talk.

“I want Martha to go to school. She's a-goin' on nine. I can't spare her very well, but I don't want to keep her back. She saves me a good many steps. She's gone after the cow. She ought to be comin'.”

The woman was busy at the stove.

“I don't see why a cow can't learn somethin', can't learn to come home at night, anyway. Everything else learns to come home at night. Ketch a dog forgittin' it. I 'spose old Bloss has gone as fur as she could git, an' you can't allears hear the bell. But Martha'll find her.”

The woman came from the stove to the table.

“Martha can read, an' she can spell out of the spellin' book. She's real smart.”

A stone jar sat on a bench in the corner of the room, beside it was a yellow gourd with a long handle, the bowl of the gourd cut out to form a dipper. The woman got a plate out of the cupboard. A very old plate, somewhat chipped, with quaint little flowers painted on it in bright colors. The plate had not been used for a long time. It was covered with white dust. She carried the plate over to the jar, dipped up some water with the gourd, and holding the plate over a bucket, poured on the water, then she polished the plate carefully with a cloth and set it on the table. Her conversation continued.

“The schoolhouse is old, but it's got a good roof on it. It'll turn the weather. Ole man Dix put that roof on three years ago. The clapboards are all smoothed with a drawin' knife. He was so slow that it made you tired jest to see him workin', but he done a good job. He used to have a savin' that he got out of the Bible—when you made fun of him for bein' so slow. He must have heard it in meetin'. He couldn't read. But I've heard him say it over an' over a thousand times, I reckon—'He that believeth shall not make haste.' I don't know what he believed. I know he was never paid nothin' for puttin' on the roof.”

“How do you know that he was not paid?” said the man.

“I know it very well,” said the woman. “He was dyin' of the janders all the time. He sawed the comb of the roof the very day before he went.”

The iron skillet on which the woman was baking cakes, overheated, at this moment caught fire. She lifted it from the stove, blew out the flame, and turned the cake with a deft twist of her hand.

Engaged with the pancakes for the man's supper, her conversation became a monologue.

She reviewed the families living in the mountains, enumerated the children, named them, classed them as good or bad with a few clear strokes and attached the history of their ancestors, running on, as she moved about. Then, when she had finished, she got a little yellow bowl from the cupboard and came with it in her hand to the door.

“I wonder what's keepin' Martha,” she murmured.

At the door she came near to dropping the bowl out of her hand in her astonishment. A little figure in a red calico sun-bonnet sat beside the man on the mill porch; close beside him in the gloom of the descending night.

“Goodness!” said the woman. “How you skeered me. When did you git back?”

The child arose, laughing. In the darkness only the bonnet, the short dress, the little white legs were visible.

“While you were talkin', Mother,” she replied.

“Bless my life!” said the woman. “I didn't hear you.” She handed the child the bowl. “Run along to the spring house and git some butter.”

The woman went back into the room, got a tallow candle, squeezed it into an old brass candlestick, and set it on the table. In a moment the little girl returned with the butter. She regarded the table for a moment, then she removed the old blue plate, drew out from under the bed a store box with a lid fastened with leather hinges—evidently her private chest—took out a plate, washed it with boiling water from the teakettle, and set it on the table. It was a little, cheap, porcelain plate with the letters of the alphabet raised around the rim. The woman watched the child with a certain smiling condescension. Then she went to the door, wiped her hands on her apron, stood back by the doorpost, and spoke to the man.

“Now,” she said, “if you'll come in to supper.”

The man got up, came into the room, and sat down at the table. Before him on the clean linen cloth were honey, brown corncakes, and a goblet of milk. The light of the candle seemed to gather and illumine his face; and curiously to bring out in his brown hair those touches of living yellow which the sun had so strikingly indicated on this afternoon. And more curiously, too, there was no stain of travel, no evidence of fatigue on the man. Instead of it, there was an abiding glow of fresh, vital, alluring youth.

The woman moved about, setting the room in order, the little girl stood by the man's chair.

Presently the woman finished and came over to the table, bringing with her a heavy, hickory, split-bottom chair. She stopped, snuffed the candle, and then sat down opposite the man. Her hands, as though accustomed to constant occupation, wandered to the table, smoothed the cloth by stretching the two corners, flicked away invisible dust. Finally she spoke.

“You're goin' to board around, I 'spose.”

“No,” replied the man, “I'm going to stay at Nicholas Parks' house.”

The woman dropped her hands into her lap. Her mouth opened with astonishment.

“Not with ole Nicholas!” she said. “Why, the devil couldn't live with ole Nicholas! He's the meanest man that ever drawed the breath of life! He wouldn't give you a meal's vittels if it was to save you from dying!”

She arose to her feet.

“Dear me!” she said, “that won't do at all.” She walked about the room moving articles of furniture, and crumpling her apron in her fat hands. Finally she came back to the table.

“It ain't cold,” she said, “an' if you could sleep in the mill loft, you could stay right here with us.”

She hastened to explain.

“You could help me grind on Saturdays—that's the busiest day, an' maybe, if you're handy with tools, you could patch up the mill some. The wheel needs a new paddle, an' you could board up the loft, an' you could put in some steps.”

The man listened.

“Yes,” he said, “I can work with tools; I will do these things for you.”

“Then you'll stay,” said the woman.

“I am sorry,” replied the man, “but I cannot stay.”

The woman sat down in her chair.

“How you'll git on with ole Nicholas, I don't see,” she said.

“He will not be there,” said the man.

“Not be there!” the woman repeated.

“No,” replied the man, “he is going away.”

The woman's face became, on the instant, incredulous.

The little girl, standing beside the man, saw it and shook her head. The woman, her mouth open, her chin lifted, marked the signal and respected it. She dropped her hands into her lap.

“Well!” she said, and after a moment, to establish her composure, “you can't go on to ole Nicholas' to-night,—it's dark now.”

“I am going to the schoolhouse tonight,” replied the man.

“You're more'n welcome to stay with us,” said the woman, “if you'll stay.”

The man had now finished his supper, and he rose.

“I know that,” he said, “you are very kind to me.”

The woman got up and went to the door.

“Dear me,” she said, “I hate to see you goin' out in the night.”

The man stopped to kiss the little girl.

“I don't mind the night,” he said. “I have some things to do.”

“The schoolhouse will need cleanin' up,” said the woman, “an' to-morrow's Sunday. I ought to a-helped you clean it.”

“You have already helped me more than you realize,” replied the man. “If I need further help, another will help me.”

Then he went down into the road. There was no moon, but under the brilliant stars, the road became a vague white way, leading the stranger up into the deeps of the forest.

The woman remained standing in the door. Presently the little girl spoke.

“Mother,” she said, “the Teacher has no clothes, he didn't even have a little bundle.”

The woman came back to the table. She stood a moment with her hand resting on her hip.

“That's so,” she said. “I reckon he didn't bring any. Carryin' things gits powerful tiresome, when you come a long ways.”

Then the dominant quality in the woman—the instinct to find a resource for every condition that arose, moved her. She went over to the fireplace, above which, on the high mantel shelf sat an ancient clock. She stood on her tiptoes, opened the clock door, and took out a little brass key, then she crossed to the foot of the bed, stooped and dragged a little old horsehide trunk out into the floor. She fitted the key into the lock, but it was rusted and would not turn. The trunk had not been opened for many years. She came back to the table and rubbed the key with melted tallow from the candle.

“There are some fine shirts in that trunk that we could give him,” she said. “Your grandma give them to your pap at our infair. She made them herself. But he never wore them. He said, they was too fine to skuff out. An' they've laid there for ten years. They're a heap too big for the Teacher. Your pap was twice as big as he is. But I can cut off the sleeves and take up the neckband, so he can wear them. They're good linen. Your grandma was mighty handy.”

The little girl had removed the dishes from the table, while the woman was opening the trunk. She now came and held the horsehide lid, while her mother searched for the articles. Finally the woman found the shirts. She found also, at the bottom of the trunk, a folded piece of linen, as though that one making the shirts had used only a portion of her material.

“Well, upon my word,” she said, “if here ain't a big piece that your grandma didn't make up.”

She brought the shirts over to the table where the candle stood. She regarded them with surprise and admiration.

“Bless my life, they're nice,” she said, “not a yaller spot on them.”

A moment she stood in rapt appreciation of the beautiful, snowy linen. Then she caught up one of the shirts and spread the neckband with her fingers.

“Well! Upon my soul!” she said. “Upon my soul!”

She held the shirt up and measured it from shoulder to shoulder, and from the neckband to the wrist.

“Why, they'll fit him! They'll fit him just as good as if they'd been made for him. If that don't beat all! Your pap was over six feet, and long armed. Now, how in the name of common sense did your grandma ever make such a mistake? It ain't like your grandma—she always sewed by pinnin' and measurin'.”

The little girl was not listening. She had gone out onto the mill porch. She now spoke, but not in reply to these exclamations.

“There are lights up at the schoolhouse, Mother.”

The woman, still under her surprise, replied without looking up.

“I reckon the Teacher's cleanin' the schoolhouse.”

“But the lights look like they went up an' down through the tree tops.”

“I suppose he's carryin' water down from the spring on the mountain,” replied the woman, still bending over the shirts that lay spread out on the table.