iver, alive and boastful and
fearless, had sat that morning when she had brought him hot coffee and
cornbread while he kept an eye out for the posse, the self-appointed
citizens who later killed the Tolliver leader and his three companions.

The flickering light of the oil lamp fell upon the ghastly faces of the
dead men.

For a moment the old woman gazed at the still forms. Then suddenly her
glance fixed itself upon the face of Craig Tolliver.

Slowly the lashes of Craig's right eye moved ever so slightly.

Phronie was sure of it. She gripped the back of the chair on which she
stood to steady herself, for now the lid of the dead man's eye twitched
convulsively. As the trembling old woman gaped, the eye of the slain
feudist opened and shut. Not once, but three times, quick as a wink.

"God-a-mighty!" shrieked Phronie, "he ain't dead! Craig Tolliver ain't
dead!" She leaped from the chair and ran fast as her crooked old limbs
would carry her, shrieking as she went, "Craig Tolliver ain't dead!"

Some say it was just the notion of an old woman gone suddenly raving
crazy, though others, half believing, still tell the story of the
winking corpse.

THE HOUSE WITH THE GREEN GABLES

About halfway between the thriving, up-to-date, electrically lighted
City of Ashland, Boyd County, Kentucky, with its million-dollar steel
mills, and Grayson, the county seat of Carter County, Kentucky, there
stands on the hillside a few rods from the modern highway U. S. 60, a
little white cottage with green gables.

Within a mile or so of the place unusual road signs catch your eye.
White posts, each surmounted by a white open scroll. There are ten of
them, put there, no doubt, by some devoted pilgrim. There is one for
each of the Ten Commandments. You read carefully one after the other.
The one nearest the point where you turn off on a dirt road that leads
to the white house with the green gables reads

Honor Thy Father and Thy Mother.

You leave your car at the side of the dirt road near U. S. 60, and go on
foot the rest of the way.

You wonder, as you look at the beauty of the well-kept lawn, the
carefully planted hedge and cedars, the step stone walk that leads up
the sloping hill to the door, at the silence of the place. As you draw
nearer, you wonder at the uncurtained windows, neat, small-paned
casements with neither shade nor frill.

You learn that the place has stood untenanted for ye