he had
seen the fire and zeal of the South. He had been at Frankfort, too,
and he had seen how the gathering force of the massive North had refused
to be moved. His father and his friends, with all their skill and force,
strengthened by the power of kinship and sentiment, had been unable to
take Kentucky out of the Union.

Harry was so thoroughly absorbed in these thoughts that he did not
realize how very long he remained silent. He was sitting in the stern
of the boat, with a face naturally joyous, heavily overcast. Jarvis
and Ike were rowing and with innate delicacy they did not disturb him.
They, too, said nothing. But they were powerful oarsmen, and they sent
the heavy skiff shooting up the stream. The Kentucky, a deep river at
any time, was high from the spring floods, and the current offered but
little resistance. The man of mighty sinews and the boy of sinews
almost as mighty, pulled a long and regular stroke, without any
quickening of the breath.

The dawn deepened into the full morning. The silver of the river became
blue, with a filmy gold mist spread over it by the rising sun. High
banks crested with green enclosed them on either side, and beyond lay
higher hills, their slopes and summits all living green. The singing
of birds came from the bushes on the banks, and a sudden flash of flame
told where a scarlet tanager had crossed.

The last house of Frankfort dropped behind them, and soon the boat
was shooting along the deep channel cut by the Kentucky through the
Bluegrass, then the richest and most beautiful region of the west,
abounding in famous men and in the height of its glory. It had never
looked more splendid. The grass was deeply luxuriant and young flowers
bloomed at the water's edge. The fields were divided by neat stone
fences and far off Harry saw men working on the slopes.

Jarvis and Ike were still silent. The man glanced at Harry and saw that
he had not yet come from his absorption, but Samuel Jarvis was a joyous
soul. He was forty years old, and he had lived forty happy years.
The money for his lumber was in his pocket, he did not know ache or pain,
and he was going back to his home in an inmost recess of the mountains,
from which high point he could view the civil war passing around him
and far below. He could restrain himself no longer, and lifting up his
voice he sang.

But the song, like nearly all songs the mountaineers sing, had a
melancholy note.

"'N