The next day I took a "turn" of corn to the water-mill, far down the stream. The old man had not been off the place since Alf went to jail, and the office of attending to all outside affairs was conferred upon me. Guinea came out to the corn-crib and stood at the door, looking in upon me as I tied the mouth of the bag. The old man was not far off, calling his hogs; a sad cry at any time, but growing sadder, it seemed to me, as the days wore along.

"Old Moll will have a load," the girl said; "you and that bag."

"Yes, if I were to ride on the bag like a boy, but I'm going to walk and lead her."

"Oh, that will be nice," she cried. "Nice for Moll. I wish I could go with you. It's beautiful all down that way; high rocks and pools with fish in them. It isn't so awfully far, either. I have walked it many a time."

"Alone?" I asked, tugging at the string.

"That doesn't matter. It's the distance I'm talking about. Why, you haven't asked me to go."

"But I ask you now," I said, dragging the bag toward the door.

"No, I won't go now," she replied, making way for me to come out.

"Won't you, please?"

"No, not since I have come to think about it. I'd have to walk along all the time with my hands to my ears, for I just know you'd say something I don't want to hear. You are as cruel as you can be, lately."

I had taken up the bag to throw it across the mare, but I dropped it upon the log step.

"You'll burst it if you don't mind, Mr. Hawes."

"But I handle it more tenderly than you do my heart!" I cried. "You have thrown my heart down in the dust and are trying to burst it."

Her hands flew to her ears. "Oh, I knew you were going to say something mean. But I can't hear you now. Isn't it an advantage to say what you please and not hear a word? You can do this way if you want to. No, I won't go—really, I can't. I mustn't leave mother."

She ran away toward the house, and I stood watching her until she was hidden behind the old man's "stockade." Torturer she was, sometimes with her dignity, but worse with her whimsical, childish ways, when she seemed to dance on the outer edge of my life, daring me to catch her in my arms. But was it not my size that made her feel like a child? It must have been, for whenever she spoke of Chyd she was deeply serious. I was resentful as I led the old mare toward the mill. Oh, I understood it all. She had seen that I sought to punish her, had read me as we sat together at the table, and now she was torturing me. Well, I would give her no further opportunity; I would let her lead young Lundsford into her mind and out again, just as it suited her fancy.

The coves and nooks and quiet pools that lay along the stream were dreamful; there was not a mighty rock nor bold surprising bluff to startle one with its grandeur, but at the end of every view was the promise of a resting place and never was the fancy led to disappointment. Now gurgle and drip, now perfect calm, the elm leaf motionless, the bird dreaming. And had history marched down that quiet vale a thousand years ago and tinged the water with the blood of man, how sweetly verse would sing its beauty, from what distances would come the poet and the artist, the rich man seeking rest—all would flock to marvel and to praise. Ah, we care but little for what nature has done, until man has placed his stamp upon it.

I loitered and mused upon going to the mill and upon returning home. And when I came within sight of the house I halted suddenly, wondering whether I had forgotten something. Yes, I had. I had forgotten my resolve to be cool and dignified under the reading eyes of that girl. I led the mare to the rear end of the passage and had taken off the bag of meal when Guinea came out.

"Mr. Hawes," she said, "I wish you would forgive me for the way I acted last night and this morning. Now let us be good friends, friends in trouble, and let us hereafter talk with sense and without restraint. I am going to be frank with you, for I don't see why I should be cramped. I am not going to pretend not to know—know something, and you must wait; we must all wait for—for anything that is to come. I hardly know what I am saying, but you understand me."

She held out her hand, and I took it, tremulously at first, but I held it with a firm and manly honesty as I looked into her eyes. "Yes, I understand you, and it shall be as you say. I have been strong with every one but you, and I am going to show you that I can be your friend. Wait a moment. You know what I think, but I will not hint at it again. It was mean of me—yes, I must say it—it was mean of me to jibe you. But I'll not do it again. If you only knew what my early life was. I was the victim of size, an awkward boy, the jest of a neighborhood; and while I might have outlived some of my awkwardness, I am still sensitive, for I carry scars."

"Awkward," she laughed. "Why, I don't see how you could have been called awkward. Everybody at the General's spoke of how graceful you were, and really it would make you vain if I were to tell you all that was said."

The old man came round the house, and Guinea sprang back. I was still holding her hand. "Hah," he grunted. "Got home all right, eh? Parker was over here just now and said that the trial had been set for next Thursday, not quite a week from now, you understand. He seems to think we are goin' to pull through all right; said that you've made friends with everybody in the town. That's good, both for now and also for after a while, when you set in as a lawyer. I tell you, Parker's visit helped us mightily, and Susan has eat a right smart snack, and I didn't know how hungry I was till right then. You better go to town to-morrow."

I went in early the next morning and found nothing to serve as a basis for the hopefulness that Parker had given the old people. Conkwright was busy with the case, frowning over his papers, but he had no words of encouragement, except to say that he was going to do the best he could. But after a while he flashed a gleam of hope by remarking that there was one important factor in our favor. And eagerly I asked him what it was.

"It won't do to talk it around," said he, "but we can count on the judge doing the square thing. He is comparatively new in our district, and the Stuart influence hasn't taken hold on him—has had no cause to. His favor, or, at least, his lack of a cause to be directly against us, will mean a good deal; it will enable us to secure a new trial at any rate."

As I entered the corridor of the jail I saw Alf's face brighten behind the bars. "Have you seen Millie?" he asked.

"No, your sister commanded me not to go near the General's house."

His countenance fell, but he said: "I reckon she's right. And I didn't mean that you should make a dead-set call, you know—didn't know but you might happen to meet her. That preacher, the one I told you about, has been round again, and he declares that I must come into his church. They do pull and haul a fellow when they get him into a corner, don't they? Well, I don't see what else can be done now except to go into court and have the thing over with. I know as well as I know my name that he would have killed me if I hadn't killed him; not that night, of course, but some time. I am sorry, though, that I stood there in the road, waiting for him, for that does look like murder, Bill. But look how he had drawn his sight between my eyes and abused me for everything he could think of. And whenever I see him now, there he sits on his horse, with one eye half shut and the other one looking down the barrel of his revolver at me. I can see his lips moving and can hear every word he says."

I went home that day earlier than usual, resolved to keep the old people in the atmosphere of encouragement which the deputy sheriff had breathed about them, and I told them that the presiding judge was our friend, and that old woman put her worn hands in mine and gave me a look of trustful gratitude. "God rewards the man that seeks to ease an old mother's heart," she said; and the old man, standing there, with his sleeves rolled up, threw the droop out of his shoulders, the droop that had remained with him since that early morning when he stood at the gate of his "stockade," fumbling with the chain. "And, Susan," he spoke up, "if we've got two judges on our side we're all right. Let him set down there, now. Let him set down, I tell you. When a woman gets hold of a man she never knows when to turn him loose. I'm tempted now to go and see him. No," he added, shaking his head, "can't do it—couldn't bear to see a son of mine locked up like a thief. But it won't be for long. That judge will say, 'turn that boy loose,' and then—oh, it's all right, Susan, and a year from now we'll almost forget that it ever took place."

His wife began to cry, for in this trouble her heart demanded that he should lean upon her for support, and it appeared to me that whenever he straightened up to stand alone, she felt that her office was gone.

"Susan, don't take on that way. Jest as we see our way clear of the woods, you act like you are lost. Smile, till you find the path, and then you want to cry. Act like you want the Lord to do it all—don't want the circuit jedge to do nothin'. That's it, brighten up there now, and, Guinea, you go out and tell that nigger woman to cook enough for a dozen folks. Hawes, I've got them chickens down to a p'int that would make your eyes bulge out."

"I believe that Bob came very near making one of yours bulge out," I replied.

"Ah, didn't he, the old scoundrel. But Sam pecked a grain of corn out of my mouth this mornin' and never teched a tooth. That's what they call art, ain't it? Come out with me."

"Limuel, let him stay with me, won't you?" his wife pleaded."Of course, Susan, but don't you reckon a man wants to unstring himself once in a while? They can't understand us, Hawes. Women know all about the heart, but they are sometimes off on the soul."

"You think more of those old chickens than you do of me, anyhow," his wife whimpered, still resentful that he was not leaning upon her for support.

"Did you hear that, Hawes? By jings, sir, you've got to be foolish or a woman will think you've ceased to love her. The minute you are strong she thinks you have forgotten her. About the happiest woman I ever saw was one that had to support a bed-ridden husband. Fact, as sure as I'm standin' right here. She was the kindest and sweetest thing you ever saw, but when the feller got up finally and got strong enough to go about, blamed if she didn't jump on him every time he come in sight."

"Now, Limuel, you know you are makin' up every word of that."

"It's the truth, I tell you—knowed the man well."

"Well, who was he?"

"Oh, he lived away over yonder on the branch, out of your range."

"He didn't live anywhere; that's the truth of it."

"But, Susan, he might have lived anywhere. His name is man and his wife's name is woman. What, you goin' to cry about it? Now, there, it's all right. No, there never was such a man. I'm an old liar, that's what's the matter with me. Never was a man fitten to live with a good woman. Why, bless your life, what would I be without you? Why, you've been the makin' of me. And a long time ago, when I used to drink licker and fight, you'd set up and wait for me and you never scolded me, and that very fact turned me agin licker, for I jest nachully thought that it was too much work for you to keep up a show of good humor all the time. Yes, it's all right, and that boy's comin' out of there without a scar on him, and I'll pay back the money that I owe the General——" He hastened out of the room, and we heard him yelling at his chickens.