so if I war ez big a sinner ez you-uns," he returned.

"The woods air afire," the old woman declared, in a shrill voice.

"They be a-soakin' with las' night's rain," he retorted, gruffly.

The mare was standing near the porch. Suddenly he mounted her and rode
hastily off, without a word of his intention to the staring women in the
doorway.

He left freedom of speech behind him. "Take yer bones along, then, ye
tongue-tied catamount!" his wife's mother apostrophized him, with all
the acrimony of long repression. "Got no mo' politeness 'n a settin'
hen," she muttered, as she turned back into the room.

The young woman lingered wistfully. "I wisht he wouldn't go a-ridin' off
that thar way 'thout lettin' we-uns know whar he air bound fur, an' when
he'll kern back. He mought git hurt some ways roun' that thar fire--git
overtook by it, mebbe."

"Ef he war roasted 'twould be mighty peaceful round in Lonesome," the
old crone exclaimed, rancorously.

Her daughter stood for a moment with the bar of the door in her hand,
still gazing out at the flare in the sky. The unwonted emotion had
conjured a change in the stereotyped patience in her face--even anxiety,
even the acuteness of fear, seemed a less pathetic expression than that
meek monotony bespeaking a broken spirit. As she lifted her eyes to the
mountain one might wonder to see that they were so blue. In the many
haggard lines drawn upon her face the effect of the straight lineaments
was lost; but just now, embellished with a flush, she looked young--as
young as her years.

As she buttoned the door and put up the bar her mother's attention was
caught by the change. Peering at her critically, and shading her eyes
with her hand from the uncertain flicker of the tallow dip, she broke
out, passionately: "Wa'al, 'Genie, who would ever hev thought ez yer
cake would be _all_ dough? Sech a laffin', plump, spry gal ez ye useter
be--fur all the wort' like a fresky young deer! An' sech a pack o' men
ez ye hed the choice amongst! An' ter pick out Tobe Gryce an' marry him,
an' kem 'way down hyar ter live along o' him in Lonesome Cove!"

She chuckled aloud, not that she relished her mirth, but the
harlequinade of fate constrained a laugh for its antics. The words
recalled the past to Eugenia; it rose visibly before her. She had
had scant leisure to reflect that her life might have been ordered
differently. In her widening eyes were new depths, a vague terror, a
wild speculation, a