"He's coming now; he'll be in presently, as soon as he washes his hands
and face on the porch. No, sit down, Mr. Simpson; he needs no
directions. We were speaking of the sacrifices that people make for one
another, and it reminds me of a very pretty story that I must tell you."

The old man sank into his chair, but his look wandered to the door. It
seemed to Harley that light sounds came from the other part of the
house, and the old man, too, seemed for a moment to be listening, but
Jimmy Grayson at once began his story, and Simpson's attention came
back.

"This is a story of the mountains of eastern Kentucky," began the
candidate, "and it is a love story--a very pretty one, I think."

Simpson moved in his chair, and a sudden wondering look appeared in his
eyes at the words "eastern Kentucky." The old woman, too, slightly
raised her bent form and gazed eagerly at the candidate. But Jimmy
Grayson took no notice, and continued.

"This," he said, "is the love story of two people who were young then,
but who are old now. Yet I am sure there is much affection and
tenderness in their hearts, and often they must think fondly of those
old days. The youth lived on the side of a mountain, and the girl lived
on the side of another mountain not far away. He was tall, strong, and
brave; she, too, was tall, as slender as one of the mountain saplings,
with glorious brown hair and eyes, and a voice as musical as a mountain
echo. Well, they met and they loved, loved truly and deeply. It might
seem that the way was easy now for them to marry and go to a house of
their own, but it was not. There was a bar."

"A feud!" breathed the old man. The old woman put her hands to her eyes.

"Yes, a feud; they seem strange things to us here, but to those distant
people in the mountains they seem the most natural thing in the world.
The youth and the girl belonged to families that were at war with each
other, and marriage between them would have been considered by all their
relatives a mortal sin."

The old man's eyes were fastened upon Jimmy Grayson's, but his look for
the moment was distant, as if it were held by old memories. The woman
was crying softly. Again the soft shuffle of feet in the other part of
the house came to Harley's ears, but the old couple did not hear; the
driver was forgotten; for all Simpson and his wife remembered, he might
still be finishing his morning toilet on the porch.

"They were compelled to meet in secret,"