was great
when it was proposed to pay a visit to Neighbor Case, whose house was in
the nearest valley, and with whose sons Captain Smith had lain in
concealment for some weeks on a former visit to the mountains. I was
curious to see his sons, who were famous outliers. From safe cover they
delighted to pick off a recruiting officer or a tax-in-kind collector,
or tumble out of their saddles the last drivers of a wagon-train. These
lively young men had been in unusual demand of late, and their
hiding-place was not known even to the faithful, so I was condemned to
the society of an outlier of a less picturesque variety. Pink Bishop was
a blacksmith, and just the man to forge me a set of shoes from the
leather Neighbor Case had already provided. The little still-shed,
concealed from the road only by a low hill, was considered an unsafe
harbor, on account of a fresh fall of snow with its sensibility to
tell-tale impressions. So, we set up our shoe-factory in a deserted
cabin, well back on the mountain and just astride of that imaginary line
which divides the Carolinas. From the fireplace we dug away the
corn-stalks, heaping the displaced bundles against broken windows and
windy cracks, and otherwise secured our retreat against frost and
enemies. Then ensued three days of primitive shoemaking. As may be
inferred, the shoes made no pretension to style. I sewed the short seams
at the sides, and split the pegs from a section of seasoned maple.
Rudely constructed as these shoes were, they bore their wearer
triumphantly into the promised land.

[Illustration: PINK BISHOP AT THE STILL.]

I restrained my eagerness to be going until Monday night, the time
agreed upon, when, my disabled companion not putting in an appearance, I
set out for my old friend's in Casher's Valley. I got safety over a long
wooden bridge within half a mile of a garrisoned town. I left the road,
and turned, as I believed, away from the town; but I was absolutely lost
in the darkness of a snow-storm, and forced to seek counsel as well as
shelter. In this plight I pressed on toward a light glimmering faintly
through the blinding snow. It led me into the shelter of the porch to a
small brown house, cut deeply beneath the low eaves, and protected at
the sides by flanking bedrooms. My knock was answered by a girlish
voice, and from the ensuing parley, through the closed door, I learned
that she was the daughter of a Baptist exhorter, and that she was alone
in the