y, when suddenly Mrs. Poteet raised
her hands--

"_Sh-h-h!_"

The notes of a horn--short, sharp, and strenuous--broke in upon the
stillness of the night. Once, twice, thrice! once, twice, thrice! once,
twice, thrice! It was an alarm that did not need to be interpreted to
the sensitive ear of Hog Mountain. The faces of the old women became
curiously impassive. The firelight carried their shadows from the floor
to the rafters, where they seemed to engage in a wild dance,--whirling,
bowing, jumping, quivering; but the women themselves sat as still as
statues. They were evidently waiting for something. They did not wait
long. In a little while the sharp notes of the horn made themselves
heard again--once, twice, thrice! once, twice, thrice! once, twice,
thrice!

Then the old women arose from their low chairs, shook out their frocks,
and filed into the room where Mr. Philip Woodward, late of the revenue
service, was sitting. There would have been a good deal of constraint
on both sides, but before there could be any manifestation of this
sort, Sis came in. She seemed to be crushed and helpless, nay, even
humiliated.

"Why, my goodness, Sis!" exclaimed Mrs. Hightower, "you look natchully
fagged out. A body 'ud think you'd bin an' taken a run up the mountain.
We all 'lowed you wuz in here lookin' airter your comp'ny. Wher'd you
git the news?"

"From this gentleman here," Sis replied, indicating Woodward without
looking at him. She was pale as death, and her voice was low and
gentle.

Woodward would have explained, but the apparent unconcern of the women
gave him no opportunity.

"I declare, Sis," exclaimed her mother, with a fond, apologetic little
laugh; "ef you hain't a plum sight, I hain't never seed none."

"She's thes es much like her Gran'pap Poteet," said Mrs. Hightower, "ez
ef he'd 'a' spit'er right out'n his mouth--that she is."

This led to a series of reminiscences more or less entertaining, until
after a while, Sis, who had been growing more and more restless, rose
and said--

"Good night, folks; I'm tired and sleepy. The clock has struck
eleven."

"Yes," said Mrs. Poteet, "an' the clock's too fast, bekaze it hain't
skacely bin more'u a minnit sence the chickens crowed for ten."

This remark contained the essence of hospitality, for it was intended
to convey to Mrs. Poteet's guests the information that if they were not
ready to retire, she was prepared to discredit her clock in their
interests. Bu