ain farm. He was
as independent there as at home; more so, because the social demands
upon him were as nothing. But no money and no food meant that he must
work for a wage, and that galled him. Then, at this season of the year,
what work was there to be done? No one needed extra laborers.

It looked very much as if he were brought face to face with starvation,
and a man of thirty-five does not encounter such a prospect as gayly as
a youth.

Fortunately for his further catechism, the idea of coffee appealed to
Mrs. Morgan, and von Rittenheim set about making it, secretly wondering
what his breakfast would be like without it, but preparing it none the
less cheerfully.

"I gr-rieve, dear Frau Mor-rgan," he said, as he offered her the cup,
"that I have not cr-ream for you,--or sugar, either," he added, peering
into a bowl that he knew to be empty. He brightened as he picked up a
little pitcher. "But molasses; may I give to you molasses?"

"Yes, indeed," returned Mrs. Morgan, cordially. "Ah like them just as
well as sugar. Just a few, now," as she held out her cup.

"Shall it be coffee for you, Herr Doctor, or whisky? See, I have a jug
of corn whisky which I myself made."

"No need to ask me, sir. Whisky, of course," and the Doctor's eyes
twinkled under their shaggy brows. "Not bad fo' new whisky," he
commented, as he swallowed the fiery stuff. "How do you make it, Baron?
Ah didn't know you had a still."

"Nor have I, except a little affair in a bucket, with a bit of r-rubber
hose for a worm. It makes enough for me. It is not a pleasant drink,"
he added, quaintly.

"But better than nothing, eh?" returned the Doctor, jovially, and then
was sorry that he had said it, for his glance had fallen within the
cupboard, and had spied out the emptiness of the larder. To cover his
mistake, he added,--

"Mind you-all don't sell any. It's against the law, you know."

"A very str-range law. If I from my corn make meal or hominy, or what
you call 'r-roughness,' for the cattle to eat, I may sell them. But if
I make whisky, I must dr-rink it all myself, eh?"

"Yes, or give it to me! You see they must tax us on something, and
while they class whisky as a luxury--"

"Cor-rn whisky?" interrupted Friedrich, incredulous.

"--they know it's enough of a necessity with us North Carolina
mountaineers, at any rate, to return some revenue."

"My sympathy is with the moonshiners, I confess, Herr Doctor; though it
is also with men who t