ce. He advanced
a pace. "Ye appear ter 'low ez ye air tellin' news--I knowed all that
whenst it happened a full year ago!"

"I reckon ye know, too, ez Loralindy hed no eyes nor ears fur ennybody
else whilst he war hyar--but then _he war_ good-lookin' an' saaft-spoken
fur true! An' now he hev writ a letter ter her!"

Crann grinned as Kinnicutt inadvertently gasped. "How do you uns know
that!" the young man hoarsely demanded, with a challenging accent of
doubt, yet prescient despair.

"'Kase, bubby, that's the way the story 'bout the lily got out. I was at
the mill this actial day. The miller hed got the letter--hevin' been
ter the post-office at the Crossroads--an' he read it ter her, bein' ez
Loralindy can't read writin'. She warn't expectin' it. He writ of his
own accord."

A sense of shadows impended vaguely over all the illuminated world, and
now and again a flicker of wings through the upper atmosphere betokened
the flight of homing birds. Crann gazed about him absently while he
permitted the statement he had made to sink deep into the jealous,
shrinking heart of the young mountaineer, and he repeated it as he
resumed.

"She warn't expectin' of the letter. She jes' stood thar by the
mill-door straight an' slim an' white an' still, like she always
be--ter my mind like she war some sort'n sperit, stiddier a sure enough
gal--with her yaller hair slick an' plain, an' that old, faded, green
cotton dress she mos' always wears, an' lookin' quiet out at the water
o' the mill-dam ter one side, with the trees a-wavin' behind her at the
open door--jes' like she always be! An' arter awhile she speaks slow
an' saaft an axes the miller ter read it aloud ter her. An' lo! old man
Bates war rej'iced an' glorified ter the bone ter be able ter git a peek
inter that letter! He jes' shet down the gates and stopped the mill
from runnin' in a jiffy, an' tole all them loafers, ez hangs round thar
mosly, ter quit thar noise. An' then he propped hisself up on a pile o'
grist, an' thar he read all the sayin's ez war writ in that letter.
An' a power o' time it tuk, an' a power o' spellin' an' bodaciously
wrastlin' with the alphabit."

He laughed lazily, as he turned his quid of tobacco in his mouth,
recollecting the turbulence of these linguistic turmoils.

"This hyar feller--this Renfrow--he called her in the letter 'My dear
friend'--he did--an' lowed he hed a right ter the word, fur ef ever a
man war befriended he hed been. He lowed