dered as they were by the wild cribs of the woman, to a reasonable
basis.

By the time he had been helped to his feet, and had discovered that the
bullet from Mrs. Bonner's rifle had merely grazed the fleshy part of
his shoulder, Teague and a number of his friends had arrived upon the
scene. There was nothing to be said, nothing to be done, except to move
up the mountain to Poteet's.

"Ah, pore woman!" exclaimed Uncle Jake. "Pore mizerbul creetur! Come
wi' us, Sister Jane Bonner, come wi' us. Ther's a warm place at
Teague's h'a'th fer sech ez you."

The woman followed readily, keeping close to Woodward. To her
distracted eyes he took the shape of her murdered son. Poteet was
strangely reticent. His tremendous stride carried him ahead of the
horses, and he walked with his head held down, as if reflecting. Once
he turned and spoke to Parmalee--

"Oh, Sid!"

"Ah-yi?"

'S'posen it had thes a bin a man?'

"Good-bye, Mr. Man!"

It is not necessary to describe the marriage of Sis and Woodward, or to
recite here the beautiful folk-songs that served for the wedding music.
As Mrs. Poteet remarked after it was all over, "They wer'n't a bobble
frum beginnin' to en';" and when the wedding party started down the
mountain in the early hours of the morning to take conveyances at
Gullettsville for the railroad station, thirty miles away, Uncle Jake
Norris was sober enough to stand squarely on his feet as he held Sis's
hand.

"Ez St. Paul says, I prophesy in perportion to my faith. You all is
obleege to be happy. Take keer of thish 'ere gal, Cap!"

Teague Poteet went down the mountain a little way, and returned after a
while like a man in a dream. He paused at a point that overlooked the
valley and took off his hat. The morning breeze, roused from its sleep,
stirred his hair. The world, plunging swiftly and steadily through its
shadow, could not rid itself of a star that burned and quivered in the
east. It seemed to be another world toward which Sis was going.

An old woman, grey-haired, haggard, and sallow, who had been drawn from
the neighbourhood of Hog Mountain by the managers of the Atlanta Cotton
Exposition to aid in illustrating the startling contrasts that the
energy and progress of man have produced, had but one vivid remembrance
of that remarkable display. She had but one story to tell, and, after
the Exposition was over, she rode forty miles on horseback, in the mud
and rain, to tell it at Teague Poteet's.