man, drawing himself up a trifle
straighter, "we're pore folks, but we're proud ter hev ye enjoy what
little we've got. This hyar's my son, Turner Stacy."

Then Bear Cat spoke for the first time. "I reckon ye be leg-weary, Mr.
Henderson. I'll fotch yore contraptions ter ther house."

There remained to the splendidly resilient powers of Bear Cat's
physical endowment no trace of last night's debauch except that
invisible aftermath of desperate chagrin and mortification. As he
lifted the pack which Henderson had put down something like admiring
wonderment awoke in him. Here was a man born like himself in the hills,
reared in crude places, who yet bore himself with the air of one
familiar with the world, and who spoke with the fluency of education.

As the wearied traveler trudged along with his two hosts, he had
glowing before his eyes the final fires of sunset over hills that grew
awesomely somber and majestic under the radiance of gold and ash of
rose. Then they reached a gate, where a horse stood hitched, and before
them bulked the dark shape of a house whose open door was a yellow slab
of lamplight.

From the porch as they came up, rose a gray figure in the neutrality of
the dying light; a man with a patriarchal beard that fell over his
breast and an upper lip clean shaven, like a Mormon elder. Even in that
dimness a rude dignity seemed inherent to this man and as Henderson
glanced at him he heard Lone Stacy declaring, "Brother Fulkerson, ye're
welcome. This hyar is Mr. Henderson." Then turning to the guest, the
householder explained. "Brother Fulkerson air ther preacher of God's
Word hyarabouts. He's a friend ter every Christian an' a mighty
wrastler with sin."

As the stranger acknowledged this presentation he glanced up and,
standing in the light from the door, found himself face to face with
yet another figure; the figure of a girl who was silhouetted there in
profile, for the moment seemingly frozen motionless by astonishment.
Her face was flooded with the pinkness of a deep blush, and her slender
beauty was as undeniable as an axiom.

Lone Stacy turned with an amused laugh, "An' this, Mr. Henderson," he
went on, "air Brother Fulkerson's gal, Blossom. I reckon ye two hev met
afore--albeit ye didn't, in a way of speakin', make yore manners ther
fust time."

Blossom bowed, then she laughed shyly but with a delicious quality of
music in her voice.

"I reckon ye 'lowed I didn't know nothin'--I mean anything