t in favour of illicit
distilling, albeit the temptation to do so gave him considerable
anxiety.

In the midst of his perplexity, Deputy-Marshal Woodward concluded that
it would be better for the Government, and better for his own peace of
mind, if he allowed Sis Poteet to ride home without an escort; and for
several days he left her severely alone, while he attended to his
duties, as became a young fellow of fair business habits.

But one afternoon, as he sat on the piazza of the hotel nursing his
confusion and discontent, Sis Poteet rode by. It was a tantalising
vision, though a fleeting one. It seemed to be merely the flash of a
red feather, the wave of a white hand, to which Woodward lifted his
hat; but these were sufficient. The red feather nodded gaily to him,
the white hand invited. His horse stood near, and in a few moments he
was galloping toward the mountain with the Moonshiner's daughter.

When the night fell at Teague Poteet's on this particular evening, it
found a fiddle going. The boys and girls of the mountain, to the number
of a dozen or more, had gathered for a frolic--a frolic that shook the
foundations of Poteet's castle, and aroused echoes familiar enough to
the good souls who are fond of the cotillon in its primitive shape. The
old folks who had accompanied the youngsters sat in the kitchen with
Teague and his wife, and here Woodward also sat, listening with
interest to the gossip of what seemed to be a remote era--the war and
the period preceding it.

The activity of Sis Poteet found ample scope, and, whether lingering
for a moment at her father's side like a bird poised in flight, or
moving lightly through the figures of the cotillon, she never appeared
to better advantage.

Toward midnight, when the frolic was at its height, an unexpected
visitor announced himself. It was Uncle Jake Norris, who lived on the
far side of the mountain. The fiddler waved his bow at Uncle Jake, and
the boys and girls cried "Howdy," as the visitor stood beaming and
smiling in the doorway. To these demonstrations Uncle Jake, "a chunk
of a white man with a whole heart," as he described himself, made
cordial response, and passed on into the kitchen. The good-humour of
Mr. Norris was as prominent as his rotundity. When he was not laughing,
he was ready to laugh. He seated himself, looked around at the company,
and smiled.

"It's a long pull betwixt this an' Atlanty," he said after a while; "it
is that, certain an'