re the creek leaped into freedom; the mouth
grew a little firmer, the eyes laughed more, the keel grated on pebbles,
and the boat ran its nose into the withered sedge on the Stetson shore.

A tall gray figure was pouring grain into the hopper when she reached
the door of the mill. She stopped abruptly, Rome Stetson turned, and
again the two were face to face. No greeting passed. The girl lifted
her head with a little toss that deepened the set look about the
mountaineer's mouth; her lax figure grew tense as though strung suddenly
against some coming harm, and her eyes searched the shadows without once
resting on him.

"Whar's Uncle Gabe?" She spoke shortly, and as to a stranger.

"Gone to town," said Rome, composedly. "He had schooled himself for this
meeting."

"When's he comm' back?"

"Not 'fore night, I reckon."

"Whar's Isom?"

"Isom's sick."

"Well, who's tendin' this mill?"

For answer he tossed the empty bag into the corner and, without looking
at her, picked up another bag.

"I reckon ye see me, don't ye?" he asked, coolly. "Hev a cheer, and
rest a spell. Hit's a purty long climb whar you come from."

The girl was confused. She stayed in the doorway, a little helpless
and suspicious. What was Rome Stetson doing here? His mastery of the
situation, his easy confidence, puzzled and irritated her. Should she
leave? The mountaineer was a Stetson, a worm to tread on if it crawled
across the path. It would be like backing down before an enemy. He might
laugh at her after she was gone, and, at that thought, she sat down in
the chair with composed face, looking through the door at the tumbling
water, which broke with a thousand tints under the sun, but able still
to see Rome, sidewise, as he moved about the hopper, whistling softly.

Once she looked around, fancying she saw a smile on his sober face.
Their eyes came near meeting, and she turned quite away.

"Ever seed a body out'n his head?"

The girl's eyes rounded with a start of surprise.

"Well, it's plumb cur'us. Isom's been that way lately. Isom's sick, ye
know. Uncle Gabe's got the rheumatiz, 'n' Isom's mighty fond o' Uncle
Gabe, 'n' the boy pestered me till I come down to he'p him. Hit p'int'ly
air strange to hear him talkin'. He's jes a-ravin' 'bout hell 'n'
heaven, 'n' the sin o' killin' folks. You'd ha' thought he hed been
convicted, though none o' our fambly hev been much atter religion. He
says as how the wrath uv a livin' God is a-goin' t