ake it I won't disturb you again, suh. Good evening." She hastened away
and was soon lost in the gloom.

David stood until he heard her footsteps no more, then turned and
entered his cabin, his mind and heart full of her. Surely he had called
her, and the sound of his call was to her like "sweet laughing." Her
face and her quaint expressions went with him into his dreams.

When he hurried down to the widow's place next morning, his mind filled
with plans which he meant to carry out and was sure, with the boyish
certainty of his nature he could compass, he heard the voice of little
Hoyle shrilly calling to old Pete: "Whoa, mule. Haw there. Haw there,
mule. What ye goin' that side fer; come 'round here."

Below the widow's house, the stream, after its riotous descent from the
fall, meandered quietly through the rich bit of meadow and field, her
inheritance for over a hundred years, establishing her claim to
distinction among her neighbors. Here Martha Caswell had lived with her
mother and her two brothers until she married and went with her young
husband over "t'other side Pisgah"; then her mother sent for them to
return, begging her son-in-law to come and care for the place. Her two
sons, reckless and wild, were allowing the land to run to waste, and the
buildings to fall in pieces through neglect.

The daughter Martha, true to her name, was thrifty and careful, and
under her influence, her gentle dreamer of a husband, who cared more for
his fiddle, his books, and his sermons, gradually redeemed the soil from
weeds and the buildings from dilapidation, until at last, with the
proceeds of her weaving and his own hard labor, they saved enough to buy
out the brothers' interests.

By that time the younger son had fallen a victim to his wild life, and
the other moved down into the low country among his wife's people. Thus
were the Merlins left alone on their primitive estate. Here they lived
contentedly with Cassandra, their only child, and her father's constant
companion, until the tragedy which she had so simply related to David.

Her father's learning had been peculiar. Only a little classic lore,
treasured where schools were none and books were few, handed down from
grandfather to grandson. His Greek he had learned from the two small
books the widow had so carefully preserved, their marginal notes his
only lexicon. They and his Bible and a copy of Bunyan's _Pilgrim's
Progress_ were all that were left of his treasures.