tened in silent politeness to the announcement of the
betrothal and presently he rose after a brief, unbending visit.

"Caleb," he said, "through a long lifetime me an' you hev been endurin'
friends. We aims ter go on bein', an albeit I'd done sot my hopes on
things thet hain't destined ter come ter pass, I wishes these young
folks joy."

That interview was in the nature of a public announcement, and on the
same day at Jake Crabbott's store the conclave discussed it. It was
rumoured that the two old champions of peace had differed, though not
yet in open rupture, and that the stranger, whose character was
untested, was being groomed to stand as titular leader of the Thorntons
and the Harpers. Many Rowlett and Doane faces darkened with foreboding.

"What does Bas say?" questioned some, and the answer was always the
same: "Bas hain't a-talkin' none."

But Sim Squires, who was generally accredited with a dislike of Bas
Rowlett, was circulating among those Harpers and Thorntons who bore a
wilder repute than did old Caleb, and as he talked with them he was
stressing the note of resentment that an unknown man from the hated
state of Virginia should presume to occupy so responsible a position
when others of their own blood and native-born were being overlooked.

* * * * *

One afternoon the girl and her lover sat together in the room where she
had nursed him as the western ridges turned to ashy lilac against a sky
where the sun was setting in a fanfare of delicate gorgeousness.

That evening hush that early summer knows, between the day's
full-throated orchestration and the night song of whippoorwills, held
the world in a bated stillness, and the walnut tree stood as unstirring
as some age-crowned priest with arms outstretched in evening prayer.

Hand in hand the two sat in the open window. They had been talking of
those little things that are such great things to lovers, but over them
a silence had fallen through which their hearts talked on without sound.

Slowly the sunset grew brilliant--then the foregrounds gave up their
detail in a soft veiling of purple dusk, and the tree between the house
and the road became a dark ghost-shape, etched in the unmoving majesty
of spread and stature.

"Hit hain't jest a tree," whispered the girl with an awe-touched voice,
"hit's _human_--but hit's bigger an' wiser an' stronger then a human
body."

The man nodded his head for so it seemed to him,