broken panes of the other were stuffed with rags and paper.

In contrast to such a dwelling the brown house in the swamp might have
stood for the home of plenty.

As the buggy drew up two or three mongrel dogs jumped out of the
twilight with a great barking, and a young man slouched to the door and
stood there staring. In the twilight Charity saw that his face had the
same sodden look as Bash Hyatt's, the day she had seen him sleeping
by the stove. He made no effort to silence the dogs, but leaned in the
door, as if roused from a drunken lethargy, while Mr. Miles got out of
the buggy.

"Is it here?" the clergyman asked Liff in a low voice; and Liff nodded.

Mr. Miles turned to Charity. "Just hold the horse a minute, my dear:
I'll go in first," he said, putting the reins in her hands. She took
them passively, and sat staring straight ahead of her at the darkening
scene while Mr. Miles and Liff Hyatt went up to the house. They stood
a few minutes talking with the man in the door, and then Mr. Miles came
back. As he came close, Charity saw that his smooth pink face wore a
frightened solemn look.

"Your mother is dead, Charity; you'd better come with me," he said.

She got down and followed him while Liff led the horse away. As
she approached the door she said to herself: "This is where I was
born... this is where I belong...." She had said it to herself often
enough as she looked across the sunlit valleys at the Mountain; but it
had meant nothing then, and now it had become a reality. Mr. Miles took
her gently by the arm, and they entered what appeared to be the only
room in the house. It was so dark that she could just discern a group
of a dozen people sitting or sprawling about a table made of boards laid
across two barrels. They looked up listlessly as Mr. Miles and Charity
came in, and a woman's thick voice said: "Here's the preacher." But no
one moved.

Mr. Miles paused and looked about him; then he turned to the young man
who had met them at the door.

"Is the body here?" he asked.

The young man, instead of answering, turned his head toward the group.
"Where's the candle? I tole yer to bring a candle," he said with sudden
harshness to a girl who was lolling against the table. She did not
answer, but another man got up and took from some corner a candle stuck
into a bottle.

"How'll I light it? The stove's out," the girl grumbled.

Mr. Miles fumbled under his heavy wrappings and drew out a match-box.
H