When the bear had been dragged home, skinned and cut up, the work of dividing with the nearest neighbors was begun. John took a choice roast over to Mrs. Forest, whose overflowing expressions of thanks quite embarrassed him, but Eva came forward with such frankness of manner that his confusion was put to instant flight.

"Come into the other room," said the girl, "and let me show you some of my books."

He followed her into a room situated at the end of a gallery that ran the full length of the old log house. The collection numbered but a few volumes, but John opened his eyes in great astonishment.

"You haven't read all these here, have you?" he asked.

"Oh, yes, some of them many times. It doesn't take long to read them all. After awhile I will lend them to you."

"I will take good care of them."

"Oh, I know that. Anyone who would not take care of a book is not worthy of the slightest trust."

Mrs. Forest came to the door. "Eva," she said, "yonder comes that good-for-nothing Bob Juckels. I wish he would stay at home. Look; he threw a stone at the calf. I could wring his good-for-nothing neck."

Eva and John went out onto the gallery. Bob Juckels climbed over the fence, though the gate was near, and, in a skulking and "scuffing" manner, approached. He was just old enough to be "gawky," and was not intelligent enough to understand even the demands of the uncouth politeness of the neighborhood. His face was covered with red freckles, his teeth protruded, and his dingy hair looked as though it might, at some time, have been chewed by a calf.

"Hi, folks," he said, as he stepped upon the gallery. "'Lowed I'd drap in an' see you erwhile. Pap wanted me ter chop sprouts outen the corners uv the fence ter-day, but I don't feel like it. Ain't this here John Lucas?"

"Yes," John replied.

"That's whut I 'lowed. I was over at ole Lucas' house one time; drapped in ter git a drink uv water, an' hanged ef that wife uv hizen didn't skeer me putty nigh ter death. I ain't been thar sense, fur it's sorter outen my range, anyhow. Eva, have you got any fresh water handy?"

"Some there in the bucket, I think," the girl replied.

"Sho it's fresh?"

"If it isn't, you know where the well is," said Mrs. Forest.

"Yas, ought ter. John, is that yo' hoss hitched out thar?"

"Yes."

"'Lowed so. Sorter looks like you—haw! haw! Say, ef you'll go my way I'll ride behind you?"

"I'm not goin' your way; but you shouldn't ride behind me if you was goin' mine."

"Reckon we'd see erbout that."

"Well, I must go," said John, addressing Mrs. Forest and Eva.

"Don't be snatched," Juckles replied.

John gave the fellow a contemptuous look; and then, after shaking hands with the ladies, and especially after listening with gratitude to their sincere declarations that he would ever be a welcome visitor at their house, mounted his horse and rode away. He had not gone far when his saddle-girth broke. He dismounted, and while he was mending it with a string, Bob Juckles climbed over a fence, and approached him.

"'Lowed I'd cut across the field an' beat you," said Bob. "That ain't much uv a nag you've got, nohow. Don't look like he could pull er settin' hen offen her nest."

"He's putty strong," John replied, "but there air some things he can't pull. He couldn't pull the truth out of you, for instance."

"Oh, you air gettin' mighty high up sense you been 'sociatin' with that ole nigger an' that big red-headed feller. I've hearn all erbout you."

"I expect you have hearn more about us than anybody cares to hear about you."

"Keep on that er way," Bob replied, "an' you'll be sharp ernuff ter drive in the ground airter while."

"Juckels, go on erway now and leave me alone. I don't like you, and I don't want to have anything to do with you."

"How do you know whuther you like me ur not, when you don't know much erbout me?"

"I know enough about you. I've seen you a number of times. Alf knows you, too."

"Alf's er ole fool."

"Go on away, now."

"Say," said Juckels, "what made you go over thar ter the wider's?"

"None of your business."

"Fine-lookin' gal they've got over thar, ain't she? Ken make er putty fair article uv pie, too, I tell you. Say, I bet I ken outrassle you fur that coat you've got on."

"I told you to go away."

"Wall, then, I ken outbox you fur that ar hat."

John had mended the girth and was trimming a switch that he had cut from a hickory sapling.

"Did you hear whut I said?" Juckels remarked.

John, without replying, was preparing to mount his horse, when Juckels took hold of his arm. John wheeled about, and with the switch gave the intruder so sharp a cut across the face that he roared with pain. "Never mind," he yelled as John rode away, "this ain't the last day in the world. You'll hear frum me one uv these days in a way that'll make you squeal."

John, upon arriving home, found his uncle and aunt. Old Jeff was wheezy with a cold which he had caught some time before, while tying fodder at night in the dew. He and his wife had met Alf, who was on his way to take them a piece of bear meat, had faced him about and compelled him to go back with them, declaring that they could take the meat home themselves.

"I never was mo' s'prized in my life than when I found you folks had suthin' ter eat over here," said Mrs. Lucas. "My consceounce alive, I wush I may never stir agin, ef I didn't 'spect ter find you all starved ter death."

Potter looked up with a broad smile, and attempted to make some sort of a pleasant reply, but had no sooner said "madam" than the old woman, using an illustration afterward employed by Alf, "fairly fluttered." "Oh don't call me er madam," she exclaimed. "Gracious knows I didn't come all the way over here ter be madamed. When a man calls a woman madam, he thinks he's done the biggest sorter day's work. Now thar's Jeff grinnin' jest like er 'possum. Do b'le've in my soul he would grin ef the woods was afire."

"I mout ef I had ter go through 'em" old Jeff replied.

"Yes, I'll be bound you would," she answered, giving, as a recognition of his reply, a sort of savage nod. "Wall, we kaint be settin' 'round here allus, Jeff. Let's be gittin' on home, fur it'll be night 'fo' we git thar, nohow."

Winter came. Snowbirds fluttered on the smoking ground where the hogs were fed. The dry and cupped leaf of the hornbeam tree floated down the shivering rivulet, carrying as a cargo the lifeless body of a cricket.

As the weather grew colder, Alf's daughter seemed to grow weaker. She spoke not of the pain she must have suffered, but all day, when the wind howled, she sat in a corner near the fire, with her wasted hands clasped and with musing gaze fixed upon the glowing coals. In the night, when the sharp sleet rattled against the window—when some homeless and abused dog howled dismally on the hill-side—old Alf would take her in his arms and walk the floor with her, whispering the while soft words of love's encouragement. The winter would soon be gone; the dry and stiffened twig would soon again be "velveted" with buds. He told her to think of the garden that he was going to clear for her in the edge of the woods.

"Doan talk erbout gittin' weaker ever' day, little angel," he would say. "W'y bless me, chile, you's gittin' heavier all time. Huh, airter while it will take er man ez strong ez Mr. Potter ter lif' you roun'." But when he would put her down and turn away from her, tears would start from his eyes. One night, after a physician had gravely shaken his head and gone away, Alf called Potter and John.

"Come in yere er minit, genermen," he said.

They followed him. A large stove had been placed in Alf's room. Two holes in the stove glared like two red eyes.

"Can we do anything for her?" Potter asked.

"I'se erfeered not; but I kaint think, sah, dat she's so much wus ter day. Yeres de genermen, Jule. You wanted me to call 'em."

She smiled in reply. Alf knelt beside the bed. "You doan feel so much wus, does you, honey?"

"No, sah; I feels much better."

"Thank de Lawd fur dat. Set down, genermen. Oh, I tole you dat doctor didn' know whut he talkin' 'bout. Is you sufferin' much pain, little gal?"

"No, sah; none er tall. Whut time is it?"

"Bout 12 o'clock."

"I thought it wuz day. Ain't dat de sun shinin' dar ergin de wall?"

"No; dat's de light frum dem holes in de stove."

"I thought de fire wuz out," she replied. "It's so col' in yere."

"Oh, no; we got er monst'us good fire. I put in some hickory chunks jes' now."

"I wush I could see de sun."

"You ken termor' mornin', honey. It's been cloudy, you know, fur two or three days, but it's cl'ar now, fur when I looked out jes' now, er thousan' stars wuz er winkin' at each uder, thinkin' dat da got er good joke on de weather."

"De moon ain't shinin', is it?" she asked.

"No. It sorter 'pears like she's got tangled up in de underbresh way over yander on de uder side de hill, but termor' mornin' de sun gwine git up early, an' fling er bushel o' gold right inter dis yere room."

"Daddy?"

"Yas, honey."

"You won't feel too bad ef I tell you suthin', will you?"

"No, darlin'."

"Daddy?"

"Yes."

"I'se dyin'."

"Oh, doan say dat." He took her hands. "My God, genermen," he exclaimed, "she is cold. Oh, fur God's sake, kain't you he'p me? John, kain't—Oh, Hebenly Father——"

"Daddy?"

"Yas, angel."

"Didn' you tell me erbout de good man dat died? Daddy, I—oh, I'se so happy—I——"

"My God, she's gone!" exclaimed the old negro; "gone, gone. Oh, God, have mercy on my po' ole heart. Genermen, leave me yere er little while."

Potter and John went out into the night. The thousand stars were still winking at each other. Without speaking the two friends turned down toward the river.

"What noise is that?" Potter asked suddenly stopping.

It was the wild wailing of Alf's fiddle. The old man was pouring out his grief.