THE SOWING OF 
 ALDERSONCREE 
 
 ET P MONTAGU
 
 <&&**
 
 THE 
 SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE
 
 I THE SOWING OF I 
 
 ALDERSON CREE 
 
 BY 
 
 MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 
 
 Author of " The Poet, Miss Kate and I " 
 
 & & 
 
 ^j. With Frontispiece by <fy 
 
 W. T. BENDA 
 
 . NEW YORK 
 
 THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY 
 9* 
 
 ^v UNION SQUARE NORTH
 
 Copyright, 1907, by 
 MARGARET PRESCOTT MONTAGUE 
 
 Published, March, 1907 
 
 The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
 
 MY FATHER AND MOTHER
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Ax THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 9 
 
 II. AMABEL LAMFIRE 30 
 
 III. THE MOULDING OF JUDITH CREE 41 
 
 IV. FIGHTING FIRE 52 
 
 V. ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS His CORN .... 70 
 
 VI. A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 94 
 
 VII. IN THE BACKWATERS OF LIFE 106 
 
 VIII. A DREAM OF FRESH EARTH 122 
 
 IX. A HAPPY MAN 135 
 
 X. THE SHADOW 148 
 
 XI. ANOTHER CORN-FIELD 160 
 
 XII. THE DRAFT GOES TO PREACHING 176 
 
 XIII. THE MEETING 189 
 
 XIV. ADRIAN BLAIR FLINGS DOWN HIS GLOVE . . . 205 
 XV. A MATCH FOR LOVE 216 
 
 XVI. HATE PLAYS A CARD 230 
 
 XVII. ELLEN DAW SAYS FAREWELL 243 
 
 XVIII. THE REASON FOR THE HOUSE 260 
 
 XIX. THE PLAYERS 274 
 
 XX. THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 283 
 
 XXI. THE VICTOR 308 
 
 XXII. THE END OF THE GAME 325
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 TT was early, early of an October morning in the 
 -* Jumping Creek Draft a certain little lost valley 
 cuddled away among the West Virginia mountains; 
 so little and so lost that by day it showed as hardly 
 more than a wrinkle in the genial old face of the blue 
 Alleghanies. Day had not yet begun to break, but 
 already the air was touched with the smell of dawn, 
 and the vigorous promise of oncoming light and vivac 
 ity. The moon, in its splendour of autumnal fullness, 
 swung low in the West, attended by one lone star 
 which flashed a glorious defiance to the prospective 
 morning. If it had been light, and the landscape not 
 blotted out in fog, one could have seen the valley 
 checker-boarded all over with tumbled worm fences 
 their outlines blurred with blackberry vines and sassa 
 fras growth which separated the small holdings one 
 from another, with here and there a sombre little 
 cabin the kernel of its homestead glimpsed at 
 through a haze of apple trees and improved fruit. 
 
 And if a giant had taken his great thumb and rubbed 
 all the trees off the mountains, as a ruthless child 
 brushes the fuzz from a butterfly s wing, he would have 
 
 9
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 laid bare many more of these little dwellings, hidden in 
 the hollows and clinging to the tops of the mountains; 
 but on some of the ridges, the wildest and loneliest, he 
 might have rubbed very long before uncovering any 
 thing (and doubtless in the end his thumb would have 
 been very full of prickles). 
 
 On this particular morning, upon the small porch 
 of one of the cabins, whose hewn logs had weathered 
 long since to a soft greyness, the giant might have seen, 
 without troubling himself to rub away many trees, for 
 the house hung upon a somewhat bare prominence, a 
 little boy jumping up and down in the moonlight and 
 kicking his toes copper-rimmed stogey toes they were 
 together, for this before- daylight atmosphere was 
 chill. 
 
 It was Alderson Cree s cabin, and the active figure 
 of boyhood dancing there was David Cree, sent out to 
 the porch to await his father, who settled indoors with 
 Kip Ryerson before taking David on the deer hunt 
 promised for that morning. 
 
 Of all boy-ages perhaps twelve is the least interesting, 
 being the intermediate stage after babyhood, and before 
 any of the future possibilities of manhood have devel 
 oped themselves. And I do not know that David Cree 
 was any exception to this general rule; yet perhaps 
 some people would have been struck, in the first place, 
 by the sturdiness of his small figure, giving promise of 
 great strength to come, and then by the alertness of 
 his face, and flash of his quick dark eyes. 
 
 A faded slouch hat sat upon the back of his head, 
 
 10
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 and a cotton shirt of the hickory variety disappeared 
 into blue overalls, which in turn were tucked into the 
 stogey boots ; a costume, on the whole, none too warm 
 for a nippy morning before sun-up. David, however, 
 had his own opinion of boys who took to coats before 
 the middle of October, and much preferred for warmth 
 the jumping up and down method. 
 
 In couples the boy held by a chain two perfectly 
 matched hounds, of the rather rare blue-speckled colour 
 ing, much esteemed in the Jumping Creek Draft; while 
 tied to the yard fence was another great dog white, 
 this one with tan spots who yawned chilly now and 
 again, and seemed scarcely interested in anything that 
 might be about to happen. 
 
 In front of the boy and dogs the valley lay steeped 
 in mists of a silver fleeciness, and across all that won 
 derful opal tinting the Drupe Mountains opposite, big 
 and little, shouldered each other darkly in the moon 
 light. At the back Peter s Ridge drew a fierce, straight 
 line across the sky. Suddenly from this ridge, cutting 
 the clear air vibrant with the expectancy of sound, and 
 breaking, as it spread among the hollows into a rainbow 
 of scattered echoes, came the exquisite full note of a 
 hunter s horn. The three hounds sprang against their 
 collars, choked, coughed, and then gave tongue joy 
 ously. The boy put his own cow s horn, hanging 
 across his shoulder, to his lips, and sent a glorious 
 response across and across the valley, to be pursued by 
 the wild baying of his dogs, and of others upon the 
 ridge. 
 
 u
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Impatient as the aroused hounds, David danced 
 again. Why couldn t his father get done with Kip 
 and come on? There were the Henderson boys on 
 the way to their stand now, and there yes, there was 
 Silas Blair blowing up at the Divide, that was Rosy 
 and Ring answering and there were the squeaky 
 young voices of Silas s two pups. David knew every 
 dog s mouth all up and down the Draft, almost as 
 well as he knew the mouths of his own three. 
 
 Well, they might bring out any dog they pleased, he d 
 bet they couldn t any of them outrun old Buck, and 
 he cast an affectionate glance at the great dog by the 
 fence. As he did so there came suddenly from within 
 the house a burst of men s voices sharp with anger, 
 and all at once the door behind him was dashed open 
 and Kip Ryerson flung out his evil face more 
 sneaking and wicked than ever. David caught his 
 black look and grinned in malicious triumph, for he 
 hated Ryerson, and was not afraid of him. He was 
 answered by an appalling oath from the man as he 
 passed him and slouched out of the yard. Instantly 
 the boy s face went white and his eyes burnt. Like a 
 streak he leaped from the porch and caught up a jagged 
 wicked-looking stone. But it never flew at the man s 
 unconscious back, for as David s hand went back 
 swiftly his wrist was caught in a sudden grasp. Tighter 
 and tighter the grip closed upon him, until slowly his 
 fingers opened, and the stone dropped harmlessly to 
 the ground. 
 
 In a fury David whirled upon his father. "He 
 12
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 cussed me!" he cried. "He cussed me!" his voice 
 shrilling with anger. 
 
 "An I ll skin yer ef I ever ketch yer thro win er 
 stone at er feller s back ergin. Don t ever do anything 
 ter er man till yer big enough ter do hit ter his face." 
 His father s voice was low and somewhat heavy, but it 
 held no lack of purpose. 
 
 For a moment they looked into each other s eyes, 
 the two faces, man s and child s, singularly alike, and 
 singularly determined in expression. Then Alderson 
 Cree dropped his son s wrist and turned away, realizing, 
 perhaps for the first time, what a duplicate of himself 
 the boy was. Taking up a clumsy, old-fashioned rifle 
 which leaned against the door-jamb, he dropped it to 
 his shoulder, and stepped off the porch. 
 
 "Come on," he said briefly; and the boy and dogs 
 fell in obediently behind. As they took their way 
 Indian file up the rugged little path leading to the top 
 of Peter s Ridge, David watched Ryerson s loose figure 
 fade into the heavy mist. 
 
 "Reckon he won t come back an skeer mammy an 
 ther kids?" he ventured. 
 
 "Reckon he d better not," his father answered in 
 the same slow, heavy voice, yet somehow David held 
 no longer any fear for his mother and the children. 
 He had the same confidence in his father that he had 
 in himself, and at that time his confidence in himself 
 was unbounded. 
 
 There was something in the man s arrogant unafraid- 
 ness and physical power that found answer in the
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 boy, and he felt a keen exultation in his father, and 
 wished eagerly that he might have been in the house 
 when the settlement with Ryerson had taken place. 
 But at the beginning of it all, his mother had hastily 
 given him his noon snack, and a sharp push towards 
 the door, a push not to be disregarded. 
 
 It was a settlement that had promised for weeks past ; 
 ever since Alderson Cree found out the character of 
 the man he had consented to board. And when, the 
 night before, David had returned with his father and 
 mother from preaching to find Ryerson in a drunken 
 sleep upon the kitchen floor, and the younger children 
 who had been left at home almost hysterical with fright, 
 he had known that the settlement would come next 
 morning. And so it had. And oh! but he was glad! 
 Glad that Ryerson s weak, hateful face would not be 
 there to leer across the supper table at him to-night. 
 
 For a whole month Ryerson had boarded with the 
 Crees, and for a whole month David had hated him. 
 Why, childlike, he never troubled himself to ask; but 
 there were good enough reasons for his aversion. In 
 the first place Ryerson came from Rattle Snake Run, 
 which lay on the other side of Peter s Ridge, somewhere 
 among the Clear Creek Mountains, the inhabitants of 
 which were a whole cut below the people of the Jump 
 ing Creek Draft, or at least so the Draft people thought, 
 and perhaps in their heart of hearts the Rattle Snake 
 Run folks thought the same. 
 
 Ryerson had been tempted over into the Jumping 
 Creek neighbourhood to work at Ed McAdams s saw- 
 
 14
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 mill an institution which had brought in several 
 curious characters, and had carried out very many 
 noble trees. 
 
 That he was an alien from his own home draft 
 would have been cause enough for hatred with an 
 intense little nature like David s, but more than that, 
 after the first day or so, David knew like a flash that 
 his father also disliked him. Added to all this there 
 was as well a far-away rumour that Ryerson was wanted 
 in Virginia, where he had worked before, for the killing 
 of a man. But that was away over in Virginia, and 
 was nothing more than a rumour anyway. Yet Ryer- 
 son s personality was not one to carry off such a report, 
 and perhaps public sentiment was best voiced by 
 George Hedrick, the storekeeper, when he said, "Ef 
 Kip Ryerson ain t er murderer I ll be mightily diser- 
 pinted, fer I certainly would hate ter think er honest 
 feller could look so powerful like er raskil." 
 
 But now it was all over and he was gone he was 
 gone ! David s heart sang it in jubilation, and he gave 
 a little caper of sheer relief and squared his sturdy 
 young shoulders, for he felt that a hateful burden had 
 lifted from them, and a black cloud swept away from 
 his immediate horizon. Besides, day was breaking 
 gloriously on this hunting morning and he was a boy, 
 and alive! 
 
 The moon had faded to a pale wanness when they 
 topped the ridge, and emerging into a cleared field 
 caught sight of her once more, and the attendant star 
 had lost all its gay defiance.
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 All at once, somewhere in the still woods, in its 
 sleep, a little bird fell from its perch, and with a startled 
 squeak awoke, and behold, it was daylight! That 
 astonishing, that triumphant thing daylight! And the 
 bird filled its throat ecstatically and poured forth all its 
 astonishment and delight in a glorious solo. In a 
 moment its voice woke its slumbering neighbours and 
 each in turn took up its chant of surprise and jubilation 
 that the wonderful event of dawn should really have 
 occurred once more! 
 
 And there in the path before them David and his 
 father found Orin Snyder and the two Henderson boys, 
 who were to be the drivers on the hunt that day, 
 waiting for Bet and Bounder, and the old dog Buck. 
 David turned his dogs over to them and fell into a 
 choppy little trot behind the men s long steps, which 
 soon brought them up to the main body of the hunters 
 on their way to the different stands along the ridge. 
 
 The men greeted one another carelessly with familiar 
 "Howdys" as men who saw each other almost daily, 
 in their usual occupations, and dropped into desultory 
 conversation as they swung along in the heavy, uneven 
 mountain gait. For the most part they were of the 
 long and lank mountain type, angular and slouching 
 but strong when the need came with a certain wiry, 
 unlooked-for strength. Most of them carried hunter s 
 horns, and all had their firearms, such as they were 
 a heterogeneous collection of old-fashioned muzzle- 
 loading rifles and more newly acquired shotguns. 
 
 There were the two McClintic boys silent brothers 
 16
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 whose farm joined Alderson Cree s where it ran up 
 Peter s Ridge; Silas Blair and his small brother Adrian, 
 a year or the like older than David, and George Hed- 
 rick, who preferred hunting to storekeeping, besides 
 the Henderson boys and Orin Snyder, the drivers. 
 
 There were four stands filled on Peter s Ridge that 
 morning, three men who drove, and eight dogs in the 
 pack; Silas Blair s brace of pups on their first trial, 
 and his older dogs, Rosy and Ring, David s three, and 
 the storekeeper s little Venus. 
 
 For years afterwards any inhabitant of the Jumping 
 Creek Draft could have told just the placing of each 
 man upon the stands, and all the littlest details of that 
 hunt there were reasons why the details burnt 
 themselves upon men s minds. 
 
 At the notch in the mountain, where a path takes 
 down the ridge and crosses to the Clear Creek range, 
 the drivers struck off with the dogs, leaving the others 
 to make their way to the different stands along the 
 top of the mountain, for the course of a deer started 
 on Clear Creek is over Peter s Ridge at some one of 
 its low places, and across the Jumping Creek Draft, 
 to the Drupe Mountains, at the foot of whose western 
 slope the hunted thing seeks sanctuary in the Drupe 
 River. 
 
 At the same notch where the drivers left them, Blair 
 and his small brother stayed, for it was the Blue 
 Swamp stand. At the Divide the storekeeper dropped 
 out, while half a mile or so further on David and his 
 father settled themselves at the Maple Spring, leaving
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 the two McClintics to make their way lonesomely to 
 the low place at the foot of Hare Hill. 
 
 At the Maple Spring the first long rays of sunshine 
 crept across from the Clear Creek Mountains and 
 touched the frost with a silver sheen. The stand was a 
 warm little cup in the ridge where the mountain dipped 
 so low as to be hardly more than a high hill. So warm 
 and sheltered a place was it, that here the very earliest 
 hepaticas opened their spring eyes, with blood root 
 and claytonias treading hard upon their heels. And 
 doubtless the desirability of the situation went abroad 
 through all the woods, for every year more and more 
 flower families came trooping in, making the place in 
 spring and summer a very miracle of bloom and 
 fragrance. 
 
 But now of all that wealth of blossom, only the 
 ghosts of the crosier golden-rod were left to tell the tale, 
 and a few late and dilapidated asters, over which a bee 
 or two buzzed complainingly, for it was really too 
 unreasonable of the flowers to expect any bee to go 
 honey-gathering after frost. Left alone, David and 
 his father dropped silently to their posts, opposite ends 
 of a fallen chestnut oak tree, denuded long since of its 
 tan bark. The man with his gun across his knees, 
 and his eyes growing vacant as his face settled into 
 lines of thought; the boy, with his hunter s horn, in 
 lieu of gun, in his lap, his ears pricked for the first 
 faint yelp of the hounds, and his eyes looking away to 
 range upon range of the Clear Creek Mountains, 
 drifting off into indistinct outlines where the sky and 
 
 18
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 mountains met and faded to a blue haze. And there 
 away and away over there, David knew were the 
 mountains of Virginia. The mountains of Virginia! 
 What words to conjure with! They had always a 
 certain magic ring for the boy why he scarcely knew. 
 Only, "Over in Virginia" were words to unlock doors 
 leading into mysteiy and wonderment. Over in Vir 
 ginia were romance and history. There was a fat and 
 fertile land, from whence came watermelons, and where 
 persimmons whatever they might be fell down in 
 the autumn, mellowed by frost. Whenever the boy 
 dreamed, though in truth his busy little life found 
 small time for dreams, his fancy always passed first 
 through the gate of words "Over in Virginia," and 
 once through ran riot in fields of watermelons, and 
 under persimmon trees. It was his delectable land, 
 this land seen from the mountain windows of his home 
 valley. When he was grown perhaps he would go 
 there perhaps yet after all wasn t it almost better 
 to lie upon a slope of his own hills and speculate upon 
 those far-away blue ones? 
 
 He lay back now against some stout undergrowth, 
 and from its yielding arms, under dropped lids, took 
 in the scene before him. It was that time in the year 
 when the splendour and glory of the hills catch the 
 breath, and when to each of us are "The Mountains 
 of Virginia," be they what they may, most desirable 
 and most touched with the joyous, illusive flavour of 
 romance. 
 
 As the sun rose, he flared the near hillsides into
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 burning colours, set off and cooled by the dark ever 
 greens, and the oaks deeper hue, rich as the bronze 
 of a wild turkey s plumage; while from the distant 
 hills he dissipated the last little clouds and shreds of 
 mist. Over on one of the far mountains arose a blue 
 curl that was not mist. David sniffed the air. A 
 faint smell of burning woods mingled with the odour of 
 dying leaves. 
 
 "Reckon we ll hev ter fight fire soon," he ventured. 
 
 His father made no response, and it was as though 
 he had not heard; the lines even of his face did not 
 relax, and glancing at him David knew that his thoughts 
 dwelt on Kip Ryerson, and that he was still in a silent 
 passion of anger. Again David wished that he had 
 been in at the settlement. That it had been bitter for 
 Ryerson he guessed well enough, familiar with his 
 father s arrogance. In his younger days before his 
 marriage, Alderson Cree had been known for the 
 readiest fighter all up and down the Draft, and men 
 still said of him "Alderson ain t hed ter take his 
 coat off fer er right smart while, but I reckon ef hit 
 was ter come er feller d find ther same ole man inside 
 hit." 
 
 It was probably this reputation that had put the 
 sting of insolence into Cree s settlement with Ryerson, 
 and doubtless, it was this also, that had made the latter 
 take the settlement in sullen unresistance. David 
 waited a little space, watching his father for an answer 
 to his remark, and getting none, at length drifted back 
 into his own thoughts. 
 
 20
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 It was almost his first deer stand, and if his pulses 
 jumped with the excitement of it, what wonder, when 
 at times even the oldest hunters take "buck ague"? 
 
 Eagerly he strained his ears for every sound. The 
 occasional far-away cry of a hound made him start, 
 and the murmur of the little creek at the foot of the 
 ridge might be a deer running. After a time he got 
 out his knife stealthily, and began with silent patience 
 to pare and scrape his horn, making long curled 
 shavings to the notched mouthpiece for here the 
 horn should be infinitely thin, and then to be perfect 
 it should be polished and darkened by many a long 
 wait on deer stands. David had cast envious eyes on 
 Adrian Blair s horn that morning, it was better than 
 his, darker and thinner, but then Adrian, living on 
 the top of Drupe Mountain, belonged to a hunting 
 family, and had been on many more stands than he. 
 Only that fall he had killed all alone his first deer. 
 David remembered the other boy s excited face when 
 he came off the hunt all streaked with the dead animal s 
 blood, done by the older hunters to show it was his 
 first. And he wondered how soon they would let him 
 keep a stand alone. 
 
 The day wore on toward nine o clock; it was clear 
 and getting hot. The boy began to feel drowsy in the 
 warm stillness. He thought vaguely that it was just 
 as well that his father and he had come hunting, as it 
 would have been too dry anyway to go on with their 
 corn-shucking. 
 
 Presently he was thirsty. Across the dip of the hollow 
 21
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 a maple tree, sending its roots deep, had tapped a 
 spring, and the cool waters bubbled out deliciously 
 from under the tree, giving to the stand its name of 
 the "Maple Spring," and adding their gurgling con 
 tribution to the little creek at the foot of the ridge. 
 
 David glanced at his father; the man still sat in the 
 same statue-like pose. 
 
 "Reckon I ll git er drink," he said, rising stiffly. 
 Again the man made no reply, and the boy, hardly 
 expecting any, crossed over to the spring. 
 
 The maple tree was old and its leaves had turned 
 early and fallen before the rest of the trees had dropped 
 theirs, like some aged person, tired by the weight of 
 years, and ready for bed and slumber, the first of all. 
 David stepped carefully among its dead leaves, trying 
 not to wake their sharp rustle. Disturbed by his feet 
 they gave up a hot, dry fragrance of sunshine and fall 
 weather, and afterwards the remembrance of that day 
 always leaped back upon him with the perfume of 
 dying leaves. 
 
 At the spring he flung himself down and was just 
 about to set his lips to the water when his ears caught 
 the joytius burst of the hounds running in full cry 
 they had jumped a deer on Clear Creek. David s 
 heart gave a great bound that almost choked him, yet 
 in spite of his excitement he stooped again to the 
 spring. There was a moment in which he might 
 snatch his drink, and yet get back to his post by his 
 father in time, for the dogs were not near yet. 
 
 For a few moments he drank eagerly, then suddenly, 
 22
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 unexpectedly he stopped a wave of paralyzing fear 
 swept over him. He had not seen anything, he had 
 not heard anything, yet all at once the stillness in the 
 woods was ominous of something horrible, something 
 appalling. Terrified he lay upon the brink of the 
 little spring, slightly raised by his two hands, and 
 waited; hearing nothing but the tonguing of the dogs 
 and seeing nothing but his own frightened face, which 
 the water gave back. Then it came a sharp report, 
 a cry, and something fleeing through the crashing 
 underbrush. With an answering scream David leaped 
 to his feet and looked. His father had slipped from 
 the log on which he sat and lay a huddled heap upon 
 the ground, shot in the back. 
 
 David sprang toward him, "Pappy, Pappy!" he 
 cried. He had not seen any one, yet in the distance 
 he still heard heavy feet tearing through the under 
 growth as something fled desperately down the ridge. 
 
 As David stooped over him, his father opened his 
 eyes, vacantly at first, but gradually meaning and hate 
 grew in them. He caught his breath in hard gasps, 
 and his gaze centred upon David. With an effort he 
 raised one hand and dropped it to the boy s trembling 
 shoulder, but from there it slipped down his arm until 
 the weakening fingers closed on his wrist at the same 
 spot where they had gripped him in the morning ; the 
 place was still sore and bruised. 
 
 "It was Ryerson done hit," he panted. "Ryerson 
 done hit. I ain t seen him but I know he done hit. 
 He s killed yer Pappy" he paused, fighting for 
 
 2 3
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 breath. "He s killed yer Pappy," he repeated; then 
 "Ef ther law don t kill him, promise me you will." 
 He stopped again for breath, his terrible dying eyes 
 searching David s face. For a moment the boy hesi 
 tated, too dazed by it all to understand. 
 
 Again the fingers twitched his wrist, and the insistent 
 voice went on, "He s killed yer Pappy, he s killed yer 
 Pappy, would yer let him live?" 
 
 All at once David s stunned senses woke, and hatred, 
 more awful than that upon the man s dying face, 
 stamped itself upon the boy s. Alderson Cree saw the 
 look and his voice rose almost to a scream, 
 
 "Promise, promise!" he cried, "promise " 
 
 The words were lost in a sudden overpowering burst 
 of sound, as the hounds in full cry topped a nearby 
 ridge. 
 
 At the same instant a great frightened buck swept 
 across the little runlet and sprang past up the moun 
 tain, almost trampling upon the man and boy. A 
 moment later the hounds burst upon them and David 
 noted, unconscious that he did so, that old Buck led 
 them all, little Venus hard upon him, and Silas Blair s 
 puppies running pantingly in the rear. 
 
 "Promise, promise!" his father s voice took up its 
 burden out of the chaos of sound as the hunt swept 
 away. 
 
 "Oh! I do, I do!" David cried, passionately. "I 
 promise yer, Pappy, I promise!" 
 
 At the words his father s fingers loosed their hold, 
 and dropped satisfied to the ground. 
 
 24
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 "Tell ther fellers," he gasped, and shut his eyes. 
 
 David tore his heavy boots from his feet and with 
 one last look at his father fled down the uneven and 
 rocky path to the storekeeper s stand, running as he 
 had never run before in all his life, his eyes starting 
 wildly from his blanched face, and his heart leaping 
 as though it would leap out of his body. 
 
 Peter s Ridge is traced all over with faint, indefinite 
 little paths, made, some by cattle, and some worn in 
 a winter by a few patient school children walking 
 Indian file; and some seem made by hobgoblins for the 
 purpose of misleading mortal feet, for after many a 
 devious twist and turn they grow gradually more 
 indistinct until suddenly one finds that they have faded 
 altogether into the green undergrowth so that it 
 behooves only the initiated to tread the maze of this 
 ridge. 
 
 Along one of these side paths, better marked than 
 most, and which eventually dips close to the Maple 
 Spring, a sombre little figure moved in and out through 
 the golden light of that October morning; a little 
 withered old woman, her head bound in a black 
 handkerchief and again covered by a sunbonnet of the 
 same indistinct colouring as the rest of her dress, which 
 had all faded long since into one indeterminate hue. 
 In one thin little hard hand she carried a tin pail, 
 from which occasional splashes of buttermilk spilled 
 to the ground, in the other she clutched a roll of quilt 
 pieces. She walked unevenly, for she was feeble, though 
 not as old as she looked, and all the wonderful play of 
 
 25
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 light across the path, and the autumn perfumes, did 
 not affect her in the least; for with nature always 
 present in her existence, and people rarely, naturally 
 the latter claimed her keenest interest, and now as she 
 walked along past moss-grown stones, and little green 
 patches of wild grass, this old Martha Lamfire was 
 thinking only of her visit to Mrs. Henderson, and of 
 the quilt pieces she had given her, as well as the butter 
 milk. As her thoughts ran on she occasionally mum 
 bled them half out loud to herself, and when she 
 presently neared the Maple Spring, she murmured an 
 intention of getting a drink there. A little later, how 
 ever, when she would have pushed the undergrowth 
 aside to emerge upon the spring, a deep- caught groan 
 arrested her. At the unexpected sound the old woman 
 jumped back as instinctively as she would have done 
 at the whirr of a rattle-snake, and it was characteristic, 
 that before looking forward again, she first looked 
 back. Assured that no one observed her, she carefully 
 pushed the branches aside and peered into the hollow, 
 her faded sunbonnet poking through with the alert 
 inquiry of an old turkey hen. Leaning thus eagerly 
 forward, she caught sight of Alderson Cree s huddled 
 figure. For a space she looked at him in bewilderment, 
 then with a low murmur of compassion she would have 
 moved toward him, but at the moment the man writhed 
 slightly to one side and she saw his face, which until 
 then had been turned from her. Instantly she checked 
 her forward movement and the pity in her own face 
 went out. For a space again she stood still, looking at 
 
 26
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 him lying there in the tragic little hollow; then cau 
 tiously step by step she began to draw back; but all 
 at once she stopped to listen the man was pray 
 ing, his voice sounding strange and broken in the 
 sunny stillness of the woods. 
 
 The words came with a sudden burst - 
 
 "Oh! Lord," he cried, "let me just live ter tell 
 Dave hit don t matter. Lord, I didn t think, I didn t 
 know then, I didn t understan . Let me jest live ter 
 make him take back his promise." And again "O 
 Lord, send me ter Heaven or Hell, but jest let me tell 
 Dave not ter kill Kip Ryerson." 
 
 Where dying thoughts wander, who can guess? 
 Surely they move quickly at the last. Certainly Alder- 
 son Cree s, faced by Eternity, had flashed far from the 
 grim promise he had exacted from his son such a short 
 while ago. 
 
 As he prayed, the old woman, standing waist deep in 
 the painted undergrowth, pressed the roll of quilt pieces 
 hard against her lips to still their mumbling, but a dry 
 twig snapped and she caught her breath too quickly. 
 The man heard and cried out: 
 
 "Who s that?" 
 
 The old woman neither moved nor answered. 
 
 "Who s there?" he cried again sharply, and would 
 have turned in her direction, only he could not. Yet 
 he felt that some one was there, some one who stood 
 silently in the bushes and watched him. 
 
 "Come here so s I kin see yer. Come here," he 
 begged pantingly. Still the old woman did not move. 
 
 27
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 The man waited hopefully an instant and then cried 
 piteously, "Per God s sake come here!" 
 
 She did not come, yet he heard her breathing distinctly 
 now. 
 
 "Ef yer won t come ter er dying man," he cried 
 desperately, "take my word ter David. Tell him I 
 say not ter kill Kip Ryerson ef ther law don t git him. 
 I ll not last ter tell him myself. Tell him hit don t 
 matter, I didn t think. Oh! tell him! Tell him." 
 The voice broke and trailed away into silence. Still 
 no answer, and still the person was there. 
 
 Then fury rose in Alderson Cree, and with all his 
 dying strength he cursed. 
 
 "Yer devil!" he cried, "whoever yer aire, give my 
 word ter David, or by I ll be er waitin fer yer on 
 ther doorstep of Hell when yer come." 
 
 At the awful words the trembling old woman, with 
 horror in her eyes, turned and fled away down the path, 
 spilling the buttermilk in long white streaks, the pieces 
 still pressed to her mouth, and the broken, dying voice 
 wailing after her: 
 
 "I ll be er waitin fer yer. I ll be waitin ." 
 
 Thus at the last Alderson Cree sought to take his 
 hand from the plough of vengeance he had started, but 
 an old woman, for a reason forgotten by all save her 
 self, laid hers to it, eager to furrow out a revenge of her 
 own. 
 
 When the two Blairs and the storekeeper with David 
 reached the hollow, running hard, Cree was speechless, 
 but as they started to lift him, his dying eyes arrested 
 
 28
 
 AT THE MAPLE SPRING STAND 
 
 them. Dimly they flashed over the group and settled 
 on his son. 
 
 "He s got somethin ter say ter yer, Davy," the 
 storekeeper said quickly. "Po feller, he s mos 
 gone." 
 
 "Don t Cree managed to gasp, with a fierce 
 effort, "Don t But then there was a gurgle in his 
 throat, he choked and stopped, the blood running from 
 his lips in a red line. But David flung himself beside 
 him, crying passionately: 
 
 "I won t fergit, I won t fergit! I ve promised yer 
 Pappy, I ve promised." 
 
 And so, with the boy s reiterated promise in his 
 ears, Alderson Cree died. 
 
 29
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 AMABEL LAMFIRE 
 
 WHEN old Martha Lamfire reached her own little 
 log doorstep, after her wild stumbling run through the 
 undergrowth of Peter s Ridge, she sank down on it 
 panting and exhausted, and vaguely glad of the familiar 
 aspect of things; for, deeply shaken as she was from 
 her usual routine of thought, she was as confused and 
 stupefied as some mole suddenly torn from its accus 
 tomed dark runways. She had snagged an immense 
 hole in her skirt, and almost all the buttermilk was 
 spilt, but these mishaps went unheeded as she sat 
 staring uncertainly across the dazzling sunlight of the 
 yard. Her lips mumbled more than ever, and every 
 now and again she shook her head in bewilderment, 
 and muttered, "Alderson Cree! O Lord, Alderson 
 Cree!" as though the thing were unbelievable. 
 
 To her it was so, for her thoughts swept back to 
 fourteen years ago when Alderson Cree, in all his vigour 
 of youth, had first come stepping up to that same door 
 step to see Amabel Lamfire. 
 
 That Martha Lamfire, married rather late in life, 
 and already drawn and withered by rough work, 
 should have a daughter of a startling and unusual 
 
 3
 
 AMABEL LAMFIRE 
 
 dark beauty, was a source of wonderment to the 
 Jumping Creek neighbourhood to Martha herself it 
 was nothing short of a miracle. From the first the 
 child was to her a being exalted and set apart ; the only 
 beautiful thing her life had ever realized. For her 
 husband she had never cared particularly, and when 
 he died, slipping away as unobtrusive in death as he 
 had been in life, his decease was almost a relief to 
 Martha, for it left her sole and undisputed possessor 
 of Amabel, her marvel of beauty and delight. 
 
 All alone the two lived together in the Mossy Run 
 Hollow. Their little log cabin, of one room with a 
 half loft above, backed darkly against a northern arm 
 of Peter s Ridge. 
 
 "Lonesome? Wai, I reckon," George Hedrick was 
 wont to say. "Great Day! Ef I was goin ter ther 
 penitentiary, I d steal somethin sure nough an git 
 sent there right. Er side office like ther Mossy Holler 
 wouldn t satisfy me." 
 
 But it satisfied Martha Lamfire. From it she some 
 how wrung a living for herself and Amabel. Two 
 tolerably well-fed cows, a bunch of chickens, a little 
 patch of ground, and a harness -galled and rickety old 
 horse, together with a pig or two, made up their source 
 of income; and if the girls down further in the Draft, 
 where the valley opened into broader fields, and the 
 mountains pressed less hard upon one, and life alto 
 gether was sunnier and more genial, had hands coars 
 ened by work, and figures bent before their time by 
 carrying heavy baby sisters and brothers, Amabel 
 
 3 1
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Lamfire, treasured in her dark and lonely hollow, led 
 the life of a mountain princess. People marvelled at 
 the fury of work the old woman for at forty the 
 women are old in the Draft laid upon herself, in 
 order that Amabel should know only the soft side of 
 life; and the amount spent on the girl s clothes was a 
 scandal to the whole community. George Hedrick, 
 always the distributor of local gossip, could tell of the 
 fall Martha brought a butchered pig to the store to 
 trade in goods. 
 
 "It was a right nice fat hog, an when I tole her 
 how much hit weighed, she ses right out, Well, now, 
 I jist want all er thet hog ter go right on my Amabel s 
 back, an her eyes were jest er shinin . An there was 
 Ammy standin back jest as quiet an pretty lookin , 
 an not mo en ther pint er her chin showin under her 
 sunbonnet poke don know s I ever reely seed 
 her face thout stoopin down an lookin right into her 
 bonnet but bet yer Alderson Cree knows ther colour 
 er her eyes all right." 
 
 Always gentle and sweet- natured, Amabel, too, led as 
 contented a life as her mother. Happy in the summers 
 with her little patch of flowers, and what light work 
 her mother let her undertake, and in the winter doing 
 little odd jobs of sewing, her sweet, slow smiles making 
 up the sunshine of the old woman s existence. Placid 
 and contented, Amabel s life was nevertheless negative, 
 until that day in early autumn when Alderson Cree 
 came along their path, up the hollow, past the spring, 
 and over the yard fence, and pausing on the doorstep 
 
 32
 
 AMABEL LAMFIRE 
 
 asked Amabel to go to preaching with him the next 
 Sunday. 
 
 After that first Sunday, all through the winter and 
 spring Alderson went with her. And in those days, 
 just turned seventeen, Amabel Lamfire s indefiniteness 
 dropped from her, and she awoke. She was spirit, she 
 was fire, she was life and incarnate happiness. 
 
 At first old Martha was proud that Alderson Cree, 
 the likeliest man in the Draft, with the inheritance of 
 the old Cree Place to back him, should be going with 
 her Ammy, though she considered it nothing more than 
 the girl s due, and not to be wondered at that the best 
 should be hers; but presently, after the first flush of 
 triumph over the other mothers of the Draft, and as* 
 she saw the lights flash up in Amabel s face at Alder- 
 son s coming, and fade with his departure, the old 
 woman began to be assailed with stabs of sudden 
 jealousy. Her child could never again be her very 
 own, all in all, as she had been. Already the vital 
 part of her was Alderson s. This little thing for whom 
 she had toiled, and whom she had guarded with all 
 the devotion of her fierce nature, was given to another, 
 before, it seemed to her, her own love had had fairly a 
 taste of her. As her jealousy grew, for days together 
 Martha Lamfire had silent fits of sullenness, or only 
 spoke to break out upon Alderson in vituperation; and 
 once started her old tongue laid itself to many a sharp 
 thing, making Amabel wince and look at her pleadingly, 
 as Alderson s face whitened with suppressed anger. 
 For a long time he stood her abuse well enough, held 
 
 33
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 in check by the girl s beseeching eyes, but at last there 
 came a day when jealousy whipped the old woman into 
 a very fury, and her words leaped all the bounds of self- 
 control. Stung beyond endurance, Alderson Cree 
 turned upon Amabel and swore she should choose 
 between himself and her mother. 
 
 "Ef yer keer fer me," he said, "we ll git married 
 termorrow. But it s got ter be me er her, fer I ll never 
 come under the same roof with thet old wildcat 
 ergin." 
 
 "Oh! don t, don t!" the girl cried piteously, and 
 would have put her arms about his neck, but he held 
 her away from him sternly, crying, "Make yer choice!" 
 . Amabel loved Alderson Cree with her very soul, but 
 in that moment his face was hard even to her, and she 
 looked across to her mother. The old woman, all at 
 once realizing the disaster her unbridled tongue had 
 wrought, stood in a white fear, expecting to see her 
 child slip from her forever. Looking at her, it swept 
 suddenly over the girl what they two had been to each 
 other, in all the lonesome years of the little hollow, 
 with never anybody to come between. For a moment 
 she wavered, imploring Alderson with dark, tragic eyes ; 
 then as his look showed no softness, she turned and 
 went over to Martha with a set little face, as though in 
 that moment her thoughts leaped forward and read 
 the calamity that her mother s very love had brought 
 upon her. At the sight Alderson Cree flung out of 
 the house, and once again Martha Lamfire had sole 
 possession of her treasure. 
 
 34
 
 AMABEL LAMFIRE 
 
 But the lights were out and the spirit was gone from 
 Amabel. Never by word or deed did she reproach her 
 mother, but her lifeless face was a constant daily stab 
 to the old woman, and sometimes in very irritation of 
 love she would break out upon her for her want of 
 spirit. Amabel never answered her, indeed she gave 
 no sign of hearing, save occasionally to look at her 
 mother with a sad little tolerant smile. It was not a 
 week before Martha, unknown to her daughter, went 
 to Alderson Cree and begged him to come back. 
 
 "I know hit was all my fault, because I allers did 
 hev sech er tumble tongue, but jest come back this 
 onct an I ll never speak yer er cross word ergin," she 
 pleaded. 
 
 But Alderson was a narrow man and a hard one, 
 once the boundary of his toleration was overleaped, 
 and his only answer was: 
 
 "Tell Ammy I ll marry her termorrow ef she ll hev 
 me, but tell her hit s got ter be me er you onct fer 
 all." 
 
 Martha went back hopelessly, and even gave Amabel 
 Alderson s message, but the girl shook her head and 
 crept close to her mother. 
 
 "You an me ll never be parted, will we, Mammy?" 
 she said, and again pressing closer, "You an me s been 
 best friends, ain t we?" she said. 
 
 Two weeks afterwards Alderson took up with Judy 
 Leister, a little red-haired thing who had sprung quite 
 suddenly from bare-footed childhood into womanhood. 
 
 Amabel had no lack for other suitors, but there was 
 35
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 no power to respond left in her. Her first great 
 passion was her only one, and she was left no more 
 than a shell of her glorified self, like some rare 
 flower whose vitality is exhausted in the one perfect 
 blossom. 
 
 People of the Jumping Creek Draft do not die of 
 heart-break they have no time for it but when the 
 soul has gone out of things the littlest and lightest 
 occupations are heavy, and the slightest blow over 
 whelming. When the fall came a year from the 
 fall when Alderson Cree first came stepping up their 
 little hollow and the fever was prevalent through 
 the Draft, Amabel found no spirit in her to resist it, 
 and went down like a frost-nipped flower. 
 
 A week later Martha Lamfire, with hard-clinched 
 hands, peered out of the darkness into Mack Leister s 
 cheery little cabin, with Alderson and Judy Leister 
 sitting side by side roasting chestnuts at the fire. 
 Presently in all that firelight coziness the man was 
 conscious of some one calling his name. 
 
 "Alderson, Alderson Cree!" 
 
 He rose hastily and went out, drawing the door to 
 after him. 
 
 "Who wants me?" he said, half fearfully to the 
 darkness. A voice answered out of the shadows, and 
 he narrowed his eyes to catch sight of Martha. 
 
 "Alderson," she begged, "my girl s dyin Ammy s 
 dyin an yer ther only person kin save her fer 
 God s sake come ter her, an I swear I ll go off some- 
 wheres erway from here an never ergin set foot nigh 
 
 36
 
 AMABEL LAMFIRE 
 
 her er you jest come ter her now, an yer kin hev 
 her fer all yer own." 
 
 The man looked at her a moment in silence, and 
 when at length he spoke his voice was almost piteous. 
 
 "I can t," he said, "I can t go ter her; me an Judy s 
 ter be married in ther mornin ." 
 
 "Then you an me ve killed her betwixt us " 
 Martha Lamfire said in a dead voice, and went away 
 into the shadows. 
 
 The next day Alderson and Judy Leister drove over 
 to Wayside, the county town, and were married, and 
 the next Sunday, just a year from the Sunday she and 
 Alderson first went to preaching together, Amabel 
 Lamfire slipped away. She died holding her mother s 
 hand, and the last conscious thing she said, with a 
 little white smile, was: 
 
 "You an me s allers been best friends, ain t we, 
 Mammy?" 
 
 But afterwards she drifted into delirium, and for a 
 long time she called Alderson Cree s name over and 
 over. 
 
 The night after they buried Amabel, Martha Lamfire 
 stole out of her house while the neighbour, who was 
 staying with her to break the first loneliness, was 
 asleep, and wandering away in the mountains was lost 
 for two nights and a day in the cold woods of late 
 October. And when at length a search party found 
 her she seemed dazed and curious, and always after 
 wards the Draft people said, "She hed er kinder crazy 
 streak in her." 
 
 37
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 And all of this had happened near upon fourteen 
 years ago. Even the Draft had almost forgotten 
 Amabel, and outside of the Draft she had never been 
 known. Her knowledge of the world and its knowledge 
 of her had all been girdled in a five- mile radius; to all 
 appearances a small enough splash of existence but 
 even the smallest splashes leave widening ripples behind 
 them. 
 
 Martha lived on, a lonesome and forlorn old woman, 
 disliked by most and feared by all, for her crazy streak 
 and for her terrible tongue, which lashed recklessly at 
 any and all her neighbours. 
 
 Sitting now in the autumn sunshine after her tumul 
 tuous flight down the mountain, the shaken old woman 
 called up the whole past in review, and again she 
 muttered in stupefaction, "Alderson Cree! O Lord, 
 Alder son Cree! I asked yer onct ter come ter my girl 
 yer didn t low then yer d ever be er beggin me fer 
 God s sake ter come ter you." And then as her 
 thoughts travelled on she muttered triumphantly 
 "Aha! Judy Leister! Reckon your boy 11 hev er tough 
 row ter hoe too!" 
 
 As she muttered the words a man stepped heavily 
 over her yard fence and stood before her; raising her 
 head she looked up into Kip Ryerson s face. With 
 almost a spring she got to her feet yet, though she 
 was startled, the little shrivelled old woman was not 
 afraid. 
 
 Ryerson was pale and his eyes held in them a queer 
 look, yet he managed his greeting naturally enough. 
 
 38
 
 AMABEL LAMFIRE 
 
 "Howdy, Mis Lamfire," he said, "I come ter see 
 could I git board with you?" 
 
 Martha regarded him in silence for a moment; at 
 length she said: 
 
 "Thought yer was boardin with ther Cree folks?" 
 
 "I was," Ryerson answered easily, "but Alderson s 
 woman don t cook ter suit me, an I lowed I d git 
 board with you it s most as nigh ter ther mill any 
 how." 
 
 Then Martha Lamfire drew her tense little figure up, 
 and setting her bony hands upon her hips, with superb 
 recklessness she shot her bow; spurred on partly 
 because she really did not care whether she lived or 
 died, and partly, perhaps, because of the crazy streak. 
 
 Ah ! Ha-a ! she said with slow scorn. So Judy 
 Cree don t cook ter please yer, an reckon ef I wa n t 
 ter cook ter suit yer neither yer d shoot me like yer 
 done Alderson Cree." 
 
 At her words Ryerson gave a great start, and his 
 hands flew forward as though to wring her skinny 
 neck; but he checked himself and fell back a step or 
 two. 
 
 "You old devil! 1 he cried. "What do yer mean?" 
 
 "I mean jest what I say," she screamed her voice 
 cracking to shrillness. "I ain t seen yer kill Alderson 
 Cree, an reckon nobody else has, an maybe ther law 
 won t git yer, but ef hit don t David Cree an Hell 
 will, an I ll not hev yer stayin round here while they re 
 er waitin fer yer!" 
 
 And carried away by her fury the old woman made 
 39
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 a spring at him and shook her fist in Ryerson s very 
 face. 
 
 It was such a passionate and unexpected attack, and 
 so sudden, that the man s nerve went down before it, 
 and without resistance or reply he turned and fled out 
 of the yard appalled. 
 
 And old Martha Lamfire dropped down again to her 
 doorstep, the lights going out of her eyes, and her face 
 settling once more to its look of a dead winter leaf. 
 
 40
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 THE MOULDING OF JUDITH CREE 
 
 IT was sunnily still, and verging on drowsiness about 
 Alderson Cree s cabin, as the morning drew on towards 
 eleven o clock. The genial air was faintly redolent 
 with wandering perfumes, and all the world seemed 
 mellowed by the lazy autumnal sunshine. One felt 
 as though the valley lay happily at rest after the bringing 
 forth of its crops, and the gathering in of the kindly 
 fruits of the earth. 
 
 In the dooryard a few chickens strolled about in 
 differently, crooning occasional idle notes to one 
 another, or, getting up a little spirit, meandered over 
 to the frost- nipped vegetable garden where the empty 
 beds offered luxurious dust baths. 
 
 Three of the Cree children, with more energy than 
 the hens, played hiding around the stacks of corn 
 fodder in the stable yard; or, when that became too 
 hot an amusement, betook themselves to the illicit joy 
 of burrowing deep into the heart of the stacks them 
 selves, making thereby delightful playhouses of a 
 dark and cavernous nature. 
 
 To Judith Cree, Alderson s wife, the world seemed 
 a pleasant place on that October morning. The
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 warmth and tranquillity of the day went to the very 
 fibres of her being, and stirred them into quick response 
 to all the joys she knew. The simple domestic round 
 of autumn "duties which her energy had accomplished, 
 reviewed by the light of that golden weather, appeared 
 blessings of almost a Heaven-sent description. The 
 contented crooning of the chickens about the doorstep; 
 the ripple of the children s play, as it surged in to her 
 now and again in waves of laughter from the stack 
 yard; the perfume of ripened apples; and the occasional 
 sharp whiff of cut fodder seemed all to her in tune 
 with the day, and things to be glad for. Every now 
 and again as she moved about the house, performing 
 her different tasks with the grace of perfect ability, she 
 smiled to herself, though why she did so she hardly 
 knew. And more than once she said to her mother 
 old Mrs. Leister, who had made her home with the 
 Crees since her husband s death that "It certainly 
 was a right pretty day." 
 
 The old woman gave but small and unenthusiastic 
 response. Perhaps the drift of Judith s remarks was 
 lost to her in the whirr of her great spinning-wheel, 
 and the incessant tramp of her own feet over the creak 
 ing floor, as going forward she attached the fleecy bats 
 of wool like uncut lambs tails to the thread, and 
 walking backwards drew them out into long white 
 strands. Presently, however, letting the thread wind 
 itself to the end about the spindle, she set the slowly 
 dying wheel aside; for it had reached that time in the 
 morning nearing eleven when the aged who rise 
 
 42
 
 THE MOULDING OF JUDITH CREE 
 
 early feel justified in snatching a few moments for their 
 pipe, and to stare vacantly into the fire, ruminating 
 upon the doings of their neighbours, before being again 
 driven to activity by the rush of the dinner hour. 
 She drew her chair up to the uneven stone hearth and 
 caught an ember dexterously on her pipe, preferring the 
 warmth of the smouldering logs reminders of the 
 early chilliness to the out-of-door sunshine. 
 
 Waked by the sudden hush of the spinning-wheel, 
 the baby set up a small cry from the cradle, stretching 
 eager arms to be taken. She was an adorable baby, 
 with the red hair of her mother and eyes of a won 
 derful misty blue, the shade of distant mountains. 
 Being the only one of the children with just the Leister 
 colouring the others having the dark eyes of the 
 Crees and being also the youngest, Judith had for 
 her an especial tenderness. As the baby felt her 
 mother s arms about her she smiled radiantly at the 
 ease of her victory, and dropped her head with a little 
 snuggling motion against Judith s shoulder. It was 
 an enchanting caress which must have been taught in 
 Heaven, for she was too young a baby to have learned 
 any of the world s blandishments, and at the touch 
 Judith caught her close to her breast, and murmuring 
 little foolishnesses turned to look out over the shining 
 landscape of the valley. 
 
 "It certainly is er pretty day," she said again. Then 
 standing in the doorway she began retailing little scraps 
 of the gossip of the neighbours industry for old Mrs. 
 Leister s benefit. 
 
 43
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "Reckon Allie Snyder must be making some 
 apple butter terday. I see er fire down in her 
 yard. Hit s nice weather fer it, but seems like she s 
 right late." 
 
 "She allers was jest erbout es triflin an no count 
 ter work es they make em," the old woman announced, 
 taking her pipe from her mouth for this conclusive 
 statement, and instantly replacing it again. 
 
 "Robert Reddin s haulin his fodder. He certainly 
 hes got er nice show er pum kins in his field," Judith 
 went on. "Lloyd s folks seem ter be workin at 
 somethin up by ther edge er ther woods. Reckon he s 
 layin him er new fence." 
 
 "Then he d better mind an git hit layed fore hit 
 comes ther dark er ther moon, er ther rails ll go in 
 ther ground; jest es sure es ef yer put on clapboards 
 in ther light er ther moon they ll cup up," grumbled 
 her mother. 
 
 "O Maw!" Judith responded tolerantly, and turned 
 again to the out-of-doors. The touch of the baby in 
 her arms, and the beauty spread before her, waked all 
 the unguessed poetry in her nature; and leaning her 
 head against the door-frame she gave herself up to a 
 few moments of happy revery, snatched from the glory 
 of the landscape, and in defiance to the multitude of 
 unattended duties which lay at her back. Looking 
 half unseeingly over the fawn-coloured fields, dotted 
 with yellow pumpkins disclosed by the cutting of the 
 corn, it came to her suddenly, as she reviewed other 
 Octobers she had known, that most of the chief events 
 
 44
 
 THE MOULDING OF JUDITH CREE 
 
 of her life had befallen her in the autumn. It was in 
 the autumn she had gone for almost a year s stay to 
 her uncle s in the Big Spring District; going there by 
 train, an event in itself. The autumn following she 
 had married, and again in the autumn, her first child, 
 David, had been born. Passing these events in review 
 she half smiled, wondering what the present October 
 might have in store for her. 
 
 Judith was conscious, too, besides her pleasure in 
 the sweetness of the weather, of a great relief over the 
 departure of Kip Ryerson, for more than once some 
 thing in the man s look and manner had terrified her, 
 and she had come near to hating him. Though looking 
 at the placid lines of her face, one would have guessed 
 that her life so far had held small taste of hate. Lean 
 ing against the door in an attitude of easy grace, her 
 baby on her arm, Judith Cree gave the impression of 
 perfect effortless tranquillity ; and in truth, in her whole 
 existence so far, there had been little to disturb her 
 serenity. The things of life which she had greatly 
 desired had almost all come to her without any supreme 
 effort on her part, leaving, as it were, the store of her 
 emotions untouched. Even her marriage had taken 
 place at that youthful period when the whole world is 
 a place of wonderment, with the miraculous lurking 
 just around the turn, so that an event as natural as 
 marriage is to be accepted as scarcely out of the 
 ordinary. 
 
 Judith loved Alderson Cree very passionately, but it 
 was with a passion that she herself hardly guessed; 
 
 45
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 for there had never been, to her knowledge, any ripple 
 in their courtship or subsequent married life to try 
 the emotions of her nature. 
 
 She had known, of course, that Alderson had been 
 going with Amabel Lamfire, but on her return to the 
 Jumping Creek Draft from her visit to her uncle, he 
 had almost immediately broken with Amabel, and 
 begun going with her. Judith was aware that she had 
 gone away a child and returned a woman, and her 
 feeling toward the other girl held no jealousy, for the 
 story of Alderson s separation from Amabel, in all its 
 truth, strangely enough, had failed to come to her. 
 And afterwards Alderson had never given her a mo 
 ment s doubt of his affection, so that her married life 
 had thus flowed happily on to its fourteenth year 
 without trying any of the keener passions of her being, 
 and indeed scarcely writing upon her face the deeper 
 lines of character. 
 
 Judith was come to her thirty-second year a hand 
 some woman still, yet already a little dimmed by work. 
 Her red hair had lost much of its brilliance, fading to 
 a rather dull mouse colour, and beginning to streak a 
 little here and there to grey. But it was time and 
 work, and not circumstances, that had aged her face, 
 and it yet remained to be seen whether events would 
 square her still indefinite chin to defiance or mould it 
 into gentle lines. 
 
 As she stood happily thus, thinking dreamily of the 
 past, Judith became all at once aware of heavy foot 
 steps approaching the house from the rear. Could 
 
 46
 
 THE MOULDING OF JUDITH CREE 
 
 David and Alderson be returning already from the 
 hunt? But there was a sound of several feet, and 
 uncertain as though men carried something heavy. 
 Possibly they were bringing home the deer, shot per 
 haps by Alderson, and they were bringing it here to 
 skin and divide. But if the hunt were over where were 
 the dogs ? Perhaps they had started another deer and 
 trailed it over into the Drupe Mountains. So Judith 
 Cree stood for a moment and played with her curiosity, 
 as people sometimes will; for in truth she was very 
 content with the baby in her arms, and was in no 
 haste to turn to other things. But suddenly a piercing 
 scream from the old woman startled her. Terrified, 
 she sprung round, the baby clutched tight, and there 
 in the dusky light of the cabin she beheld George 
 Hedrick and the two McClintic men lay Alderson 
 Cree s body upon the bed. 
 
 As the purple shadows of the afternoon lay deep in 
 the hollows, and the sun was dropping behind the 
 Drupe Mountains, its slant rays striking only the golden 
 tops of Peter s Ridge, Lloyd Johnson, Alderson Cree s 
 brother-in-law, long and lank, a man with pale blue 
 eyes, a limp wisp of beard, and a great solemnity, rode 
 up the valley to Orin Snyder s. He was mounted 
 upon an old mule of an indefinite dun colour, and in 
 his hand he carried a long peeled wand, notched about 
 a fourth of its way down. When not hunting or work 
 ing at McAdams s sawmill, Orin Snyder sometimes did 
 odd jobs as a carpenter. He came down now to the 
 
 47
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 fence to meet Johnson as he rode up. Without greeting, 
 Johnson held the wand up before him. 
 
 "This is him in length," he said, "and," turning it 
 horizontal and setting his thumb to the notch, "this is 
 him in width; neat measure, Orin, neat measure." 
 
 Solemnly as it was proffered, Snyder took the rod, 
 indicating the last measurements for Alderson Cree, 
 and with it balanced thoughtfully in one hand he 
 looked curiously at it for a few moments before resting 
 it against the fence corner. 
 
 "When ll ther funeral be?" he asked at length. 
 
 "There won t be no funeral. Brother Hanley s 
 erway holdin er meetin in Big Breshey, an wouldn t 
 git ther word in time, so they low jest ter bury him 
 termorrer at eleven," Lloyd answered. 
 
 "Reckon they ll bury him up in the old Cree buryin 
 ground?" 
 
 "Aha-a; an ther fellers what s goin ter help with 
 ther grave better show up right soon in ther mawnin , 
 fer that ground s pretty nigh all slate an terrible tough 
 diggin ." 
 
 "Why n they git commenced on hit right erway?" 
 Snyder inquired dubiously. Digging a grave in the 
 chill half-light of dawn for a man one had hunted 
 with the previous morning seemed to him a far from 
 desirable undertaking. 
 
 "There was some talk of hit, but Grandmaw Leister 
 wouldn t hear ter havin no grave she had anythin ter 
 do with kep open over night hit s sech powerful 
 bad luck." 
 
 48
 
 THE MOULDING OF JUDITH CREE 
 
 "Mis Cree takin on much?" 
 
 "She ain t takin on none. She s jest like she was 
 froze, cep she keeps ergoin an seein ter things. 
 Ther ole woman s done all ther hollerin . Only Judy 
 says she knows Kip Ryerson done hit, jest like Davy 
 says. She says Alderson an him had high words fore 
 Alderson went huntin an he made Kip clear out then, 
 an Judy jest says over an over, Kip Ryerson done 
 hit, I know he done hit. " 
 
 "Hev they ketched up with Kip yit?" 
 
 "They s still er huntin fer him. There was some 
 said they seen him on ther road ter Paine s, 
 an when I come erway ther fellers was jest startin 
 up there. Well," gathering up his reins and giving 
 the mule a preliminary dig, "I must be travellin . 
 Come up in ther mawnin ef yer git yer job done in 
 time." 
 
 Later still that afternoon men found Kip Ryerson 
 at Stephen Paine s where they had consented to board 
 him, word not having come to them of the murder on 
 Peter s Ridge. Arresting him, they carried him into 
 Wayside and placed him in the county jail, there to 
 await the sitting of the November court. 
 
 The next morning in fairness of weather the twin 
 sister of the day before they laid Alderson Cree 
 among all his Cree connection in the burying-ground 
 on the top of Cree s Hill, from whence one looked all 
 up and down the Jumping Creek Draft and its little 
 branching hollows, wrinkling away darkly into the 
 tawny yellow sides of Peter s Ridge and the Drupe 
 
 49
 
 Mountains; where had lain all the familiar pathways 
 of the man s life. 
 
 There was a large gathering, for the whole Draft 
 was present, and many came, too, from over in Clear 
 Creek. Up the tan-coloured hillside, lighted here and 
 there by low yellow hickory bushes, and the occasional 
 flare of a red sumac, the crowd toiled breathlessly, 
 following close upon the slow procession of six men 
 who laboured on in front. 
 
 At the grave old Mrs. Leister and Alderson Cree s 
 sister were seized with hysteria, and there were many 
 others of the women who wept; among them, curiously 
 enough, in sudden gusts, old Martha Lamfire. But 
 unsupported Judith Cree stood up straight and frozen 
 by the grave, her face stiffened into the look of horror 
 the morning before had stamped upon it. Dry-eyed 
 and motionless, she watched all the details of the 
 burial, from the placing of the covering boards and the 
 putting in of the two wands measures for coffin and 
 grave to the filling in, turn about, by the men, 
 and the final rounding up of the earth at the end, and 
 the laying on of a few late chrysanthemums plucked 
 from different dooryards for Alderson Cree. 
 
 David, standing by his mother, took pattern from 
 her stern presence, and his boyish face was as emotion 
 less as her own. 
 
 There was no funeral service, for the preacher being 
 away there was no one to hold it, therefore Alderson 
 Cree was committed to the yellow and black slate and 
 the assembly of his kinsfolk with only a short prayer
 
 THE MOULDING OF JUDITH CREE 
 
 and a hymn or two. After it was all over, Judith 
 walked firmly down the hill with David beside her, 
 through the groups of dispersing neighbours, across the 
 little runlet at the foot, and up the opposite hill to her 
 own house. There she picked up the blue-eyed baby 
 from the cradle, and with it held close she sat for a long 
 time, staring straight before her with blank eyes and 
 with the terrible frozen look still upon her face. When 
 at length she rose, the baby was long since asleep, and 
 laying it back in its cradle she turned herself fiercely 
 to the every-day tasks at hand, picking them up where 
 she had dropped them the morning before which 
 now seemed to have been pushed a thousand years 
 into the past.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 FIGHTING FIRE 
 
 SOME three weeks after the hunt on Peter s Ridge 
 Kip Ryerson was tried at the November court held at 
 Wayside, for the murder of Alderson Cree, and was 
 acquitted. 
 
 There was little or no evidence to show against 
 Ryerson, merely the fact of the quarrel between himself 
 and Alderson before the hunt. No weapon had been 
 found to connect him with the murder, and no one 
 testified to having seen him that day upon Peter s 
 Ridge for old Martha Lamfire kept her own bitter 
 counsel of what had befallen her. 
 
 Therefore there was no proof to show Kip Ryerson 
 a murderer, but in the hearts of the Jumping Creek 
 people there was against him a great belief. Neverthe 
 less, confident in his acquittal, Ryerson came back 
 into the Draft on the heels of the crowd which had 
 gone over to Wayside for his trial, and established 
 himself at McAdams s house ; for in the face of public 
 opinion, and perhaps of his own secret belief, McAdams 
 still held a place for him at his sawmill; for murderer 
 or no, a better hand in the woods than Kip Ryerson 
 was hard to find. 
 
 52
 
 FIGHTING FIRE 
 
 There might have been a protest that night against 
 his continued presence in the neighbourhood had not 
 the men of the Draft found upon their return an even 
 more crying need awaiting their attention. 
 
 The fire which for weeks had burned fitfully in the 
 Clear Creek Mountains, sending a faint blue haze over 
 the country, and making even the near mountains show 
 a blurred and indistinct outline, had crept down from 
 Clear Creek upon this last day of the trial, when most of 
 the men of the Draft were absent at Wayside, and with 
 a sudden high wind at its back had sprung across to 
 an outstretched arm of Peter s Ridge. There it left a 
 red serpent of destruction, and again with the wind to 
 back it, at the Narrows, where a spur of Peter s Ridge 
 and Round Top of the Drupe range almost brush 
 shoulders, it jumped again in little sparks and tongues 
 of flame, and fell upon the seven years garnered fuel 
 of this section of the Drupe Mountain. Where it 
 lighted, three years before had been a sawmill, which 
 had left, on its departure, a rich hoard of hewn limbs 
 and branches, old stumps, and scattered slabs, all 
 seasoned and desiccated to a quick inflammability, 
 and overlaid with drifts of dead leaves. When the 
 fire s creeping, red fingers first clutched this treasure- 
 trove, it drew a long, low, ominous breath, then, still 
 fanned by its ally the wind, it brightened to an intense 
 glow, and bursting into a great roar like that of falling 
 waters it leaped up the mountain s side in a red sheet 
 of flame, flinging up its thick columns of smoke to 
 high Heaven in grey clouds, shot through with flecks 
 
 53
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 of dancing white and black cinders; while the under 
 growth sent up a crackling scream of anguish as the 
 fire s hot fangs struck into it. 
 
 Up the mountain in front flew the little advance 
 fires, their smoke streaming out in wisps from their 
 red centres, like the blown grey hair about the flame 
 faces of the Furies. On they fled in great leaps, those 
 little wild old women, a race for life with them, for 
 behind the ravenous whole swept hard upon them, 
 seeking in its lustful course to devour its own children. 
 Theirs was an agonized flight, but a braver existence 
 than that of the rear flames, left to play shrinkingly up 
 and down dead trees and old stumps, where the main 
 fire had but bitten and leaped on like jackals con 
 tent to make a meal of the tiger s leavings. 
 
 Thus the wind and fire held high carnival on the 
 ramparts of the valley that day, and returning in the late 
 afternoon the men of the Draft found panel after panel 
 of toilsomely laid fencing had been licked up, and much 
 more in danger; and even little cabins in obscure 
 hollows threatened, where the now dangerous woods 
 flung its arms too closely about them. So, that instead 
 of settling tiredly to their supper and minute descrip 
 tions of the court s proceedings, after their nine long 
 miles to and from Wayside, the men went out in little 
 black groups to match their strength against God s 
 elements, as men have done from forgotten times, and 
 as they will do to the end. 
 
 That night from the McClintic s farm on Peter s 
 Ridge, whence one could see the Clear Creek Moun- 
 
 54
 
 FIGHTING FIRE 
 
 tains to the east, and in the west those of the Drupe 
 range, with even a glimpse of the northern head of 
 Peter s Ridge itself, watchers said "It looked like ther 
 world was erfire." Mountains blazed in all directions; 
 not as usual, with a single fiery serpent creeping its 
 way over the hillside, with little scattered sparks and 
 flames twinkling behind to mark its trail; here instead, 
 on the racked sides of the Drupe Mountains particu 
 larly, whole acres flung up their crimson banners of 
 smoke and flame. And where the fire had past on a 
 thousand sparks lit the hillside as though a city lay 
 out there in the dark. 
 
 The next day the smoke lay over the Jumping Creek 
 Draft like a blue pall, so thick that objects scarcely 
 fifty yards away were lost in it. It hung before, 
 behind, and on each side, like an elusive curtain, and 
 one longed to take hands and push away the soft 
 oppression. The atmosphere was suffocatingly heavy, 
 making the eyes burn, and the throat catch, and every 
 where little dread black cinders floated silently down; 
 while the sun shorn of its brightness hung a red ball 
 in the sky. 
 
 With this obscuring mantle flung upon it, the valley 
 seemed detached from the outside world, and shut in 
 upon itself. And more than one man who was abroad 
 that day, feeling himself imprisoned in the intangible 
 blue walls, cast, every now and again, quick, furtive 
 glances behind, remembering the evil presence which 
 the valley still harboured, and the horror which had 
 befallen Alderson Cree even in clear daylight. 
 
 55
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 At noon of that sombre day Judith Cree came out 
 through the blue murk of smoke to the woodpile where 
 David was at work, to call him to dinner. Her face 
 had settled to the stricken look of the morning when 
 they brought Alderson Cree home, but there showed 
 now, as well, about her mouth a certain hard deter 
 mination. An expression, which had perhaps, first 
 manifested itself a few days after the burial of her 
 husband, when many of the Cree and Leister con 
 nections had met to settle her affairs for her. In the 
 minds of all it was a foregone conclusion that for her 
 to attempt carrying on the farm, with only children so 
 young for help, was an impossibility; and her uncle, 
 who had arrived from the Big Spring District, had 
 come prepared to see to the renting of the place for 
 her, and to offer a home to herself and the children, 
 he being a widower, with a comfortable small farm 
 and no woman to do for him. But to their well- 
 arranged plans the Crees and Leisters found an un 
 looked-for check. Judith had ideas of her own, and 
 the abandoning of the old Cree homestead, where had 
 been passed all her married days, found no place 
 among them. In vain did the gathering of her relations 
 in consternation fling argument after argument against 
 the bulwark of her determination; Judith met them all 
 with the calmly repeated asseveration that she and 
 David could manage with a little hired help now and 
 again, and the assistance of the younger children who 
 were already able to work a little. Through it all 
 David stood valiantly beside her, his young eyes, like 
 
 56
 
 FIGHTING FIRE 
 
 the eyes of a faithful dog, lending her brave support. 
 And when at length common sense had triumphed, 
 and all her arguments were beaten down, Judith 
 clinched the matter with a sudden burst of anger. 
 
 "An 5 ef yer all come here," she cried, "ter tell me 
 thet cos Kip Ryerson killed Alderson, me an my 
 children s got ter be run out er our home too, all I ve 
 got ter say is that ther sooner you all git back ter 
 attendin ter yer own business ther better I ll be pleased 
 an thet s my word!" 
 
 And with that she left them, and walking proudly 
 into the back room shut herself sternly away from all 
 the assembly. Looking into one another s faces the 
 Crees and Leisters read their defeat, and one after 
 another faded away to their own homes. 
 
 This crisis in her life had brought to Judith some 
 thing new. Before, a woman all gentle yielding and 
 placidity, she was become now one of a hard, almost a 
 fierce determination. But it was a determination waked, 
 not created, by her calamity; unguessed it had lain 
 always at the back of her emotions, only heretofore 
 there had been nothing to call it into being. 
 
 Watching her as she came across the yard toward 
 him, David felt the change in her, with the flashing 
 intuition possessed by some children; felt it, and child 
 like stored it in his mind as a fact, without fully knowing 
 what it was nor whence it came. 
 
 As his mother reached him and started to speak, 
 suddenly, looking past his shoulder, the words died on 
 her lips, her eyes dilated, and in her throat was a low 
 
 57
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 sound of fear and loathing, as though she had seen a 
 snake; and turning about without a word, she almost 
 ran back into the house. David spun round to look. 
 There, through the blue curtain of smoke, he made out 
 Kip Ryerson ascending the hill beside the house, 
 evidently returning to the sawmill after his noon meal. 
 At the sight David dropped the axe he held, and, his 
 whole small body stiffening with hate, he went swiftly 
 into the house after his mother. 
 
 He found her where she had dropped down on a 
 chair, looking white and shaken; and walking straight 
 up to her he laid his rough little hand on her shoulder, 
 a show of affection which was rare with him. 
 
 " He sha n t never go by this house ergin, Mammy," 
 he said in a low voice muffled by passion. " Not never 
 ergin I promise yer." 
 
 His wonderful dark eyes looked at her very young 
 and full of tenderness, but about his mouth was a 
 determined look that was years older. 
 
 That night Robert Reddin s fences were in danger, 
 and many of the men of the Draft turned out to help 
 him fight fire. With rakes and forked sticks they 
 swept a path along all his line of fencing, down to old 
 man Leatherbee s, where he and his three boys turned 
 out to meet them, and carry the path around their 
 own lines, and on until it safely joined the broad road 
 leading to the farms on the top of Drupe Mountain; 
 while the other men turned back along the path firing 
 against the wild fire as they went. 
 
 The usual dark mystery of the mountain was changed 
 58
 
 FIGHTING FIRE 
 
 that night to a blaze of lurid smoke and flame, and its 
 stillness was broken by the shouts of the men as they 
 called scraps of news to one another over the crackle 
 and roar of the fire ; by halloos, or an occasional lilt of 
 song, as when Orin Snyder, in his usual boisterous 
 spirits, heralded his approach with a snatch of " Old 
 Dan Tucker," shouted out at the top of his lungs. 
 
 "I be dogged ef it ain t ther finest show er fire I 
 ever seed," he cried jovially. "An I ve seed this ole 
 mountain lit up more n onct." 
 
 "You oughtn t ter talk that kereless way erbout this 
 here fire, Orin," Lloyd Johnson broke in, complain- 
 ingly. "I take hit this is er erfliction ther Almighty s 
 sent down on this Draft. An ef ther Lord s pleased 
 ter send us erfliction hit don t seem right fer folks ter 
 try ter git pleasure out er hit." 
 
 "Hit ain t no erfliction ter me yit," Snyder returned 
 buoyantly, "hit ain t teched er rail er my fencin so 
 fer." 
 
 "Wai, now, there s jest ther difference," a voice 
 struck in out of the near-by shadows, " hit s et up forty 
 panel er Lloyd s back fence, so he natchelly thinks 
 hit s an erfliction on ther whole Draft or was hit ther 
 whole world you said?" The voice paused in polite 
 inquiry. 
 
 "Wai I ll be dogged ef here ain t George crep out 
 er his hole ter see what er little work looks like ; reckon 
 hit mus be Groun Hog day, sure nough," cried 
 Snyder, whirling upon the shadows, which revealed the 
 storekeeper seated placidly on a log. Hedrick had no 
 
 59
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 love for fighting fire, but the excitement had drawn 
 away from the store all its usual evening assembly, and 
 there was not left even one opponent at the checker 
 board. 
 
 "A-haa!" he returned imperturbably to the circle 
 of firelight directly in front of him; "take er right good 
 look at me an yer won t see nothin mo than er man 
 tryin ter bear erfliction like ther Lord would have him 
 do." 
 
 "Reckon most fellers could bear this erfliction ef 
 they didn t hev er stick er timber, er panel er fencin , 
 ter think erbout," Lloyd Johnson retorted, stung to 
 peevishness. 
 
 Grin s simple reply was, "Oh, go ter H 1." 
 
 Hedrick kicked his feet gently against the log. 
 
 "I never visits at er gentleman s house when that 
 gentleman s erway from home," he returned sweetly 
 and pointedly to Orin s remark. 
 
 Though up and down the fire-line the men shouted 
 scraps of gossip and banter to one another, yet when 
 they drew together in close knots the talk turned 
 always on Kip Ryerson and his acquittal. For one 
 cannot shout such things above the roar of flames, and 
 besides, David might be somewhere in the shadow. 
 
 " Did yer fellers know Ed McAdams has took Kip 
 back ter work at ther mill?" Hedrick inquired, rising 
 from his log and emerging into the circle of light by 
 Lloyd and Orin. Lloyd paused with uplifted rake. 
 
 "Is that er fact?" he said. 
 
 "I knowed hit," said Orin, "an when I heered hit, 
 60
 
 FIGHTING FIRE 
 
 I d ther biggest mind in ther world ter tell Ed that ef 
 hit was murderers he was lookin fer, ther wa n t but 
 one man in ther Draft was qualified ter work fer 
 him." 
 
 " Well, whyn t yer do hit ? " Hedrick inquired. Orin 
 shook his head sadly and beat out a little tongue of 
 flame that had assayed to leap the path. 
 
 "I didn t do hit," he said, "cos I knowed er feller 
 with er wife an family ter support couldn t efford ter 
 be too smart." 
 
 "Looks like he oughtn t ter stay round here," 
 Johnson ventured feebly. 
 
 "Looks like he s goin ter jest ther same," Hedrick 
 retorted, "less some er ther fellers don t git tergether 
 an let him know he ain t wanted in this deestrict 
 no mo ." 
 
 "I wonder did he do hit?" Johnson speculated. 
 Hedrick snorted. 
 
 "Do hit?" he cried. "I know he done hit, an 
 what s mo every livin soul in this Draft knows he 
 done hit." 
 
 "Well, I wished he wouldn t er come back," said 
 Johnson, still feebly. "Seems like after what s hap 
 pened he d orter stayed erway." 
 
 "Seems like ter me ther fellers orter make him stay 
 erway," Hedrick muttered under his breath. 
 
 Men were wise when they dropped their voices in 
 talking of Kip Ryerson, for fear David might be 
 present somewhere in the shadows. Their guess was 
 right, for early in the evening saw him seated twenty 
 
 61
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 yards or so back of the firing line, watching the activity 
 before him but taking no part in it. When he had 
 first come he had been hailed by one of the small 
 Reddin boys with "Git er forked stick an come on 
 help rake." 
 
 "How long will you all be out here?" David de 
 manded. 
 
 " We s jest goin ter rake round Pappy s fences down 
 ter ole man Leatherbee s an then fire, an leave one 
 er two fellers ter see hit don t break over. Reckon 
 we ll be through by ten," the other answered, and one 
 saw that the chief burden of affairs lay upon his young 
 shoulders. 
 
 David turned off the path and dropped down on 
 the soft leaves. Seated back there in the brush he 
 watched the scene before him and waited his time. It 
 was a weird sight. The dancing firelight, the voices 
 all about, and the men s faces coming every now and 
 then out of the gloom, and over everything the rosy pall 
 of smoke. The fire the men had set burned slowly up 
 the gentle slopes towards the wild fire, but up the 
 steep ridges it raced and jumped, bounding from one 
 overhanging bush to another, and roaring to meet its 
 enemy the wild fire, and die in its fierce embrace. 
 
 Sitting back there apart from it all David expe 
 rienced a strange feeling of aloofness, as though he were 
 dead, and in spirit had come back for a moment to 
 glance at the world and his old associates. He won 
 dered suddenly if perhaps his father was not in truth 
 doing just that. It was strange to think he might be 
 
 62
 
 FIGHTING FIRE 
 
 beside him in the shadow. Strange, but not terrifying, 
 and as the thought came to him David clasped his 
 hands involuntarily and whispered, "I won t fergit, 
 Pappy, I ve promised yer," dedicating himself anew to 
 his oath. 
 
 As it neared ten o clock and the men were gathering 
 in groups preparatory to going home, David rose and 
 crept to the head of the path, and a man raking care 
 lessly there to make everything secure was startled by 
 a pair of blazing eyes and a small white face which 
 came out of the gloom. 
 
 "Why, hello, Davy!" he said in a voice a little 
 shaken, for there was something sudden and unusual 
 in the boy s appearance. David walked straight up 
 to him. 
 
 "Will yer come down ter Mr. Reddin s hay barn in 
 the near field, when yer git done here?" he demanded. 
 
 "What fer?" 
 
 "Per ter hear something I ve got ter tell yer all," 
 David returned. 
 
 The man hesitated a moment, looking at him cu 
 riously. 
 
 "I reckon," he said at length, and, satisfied, David 
 passed on down the path, bringing the same request to 
 each man he came to. Some tried to argue and 
 question him; some were half angry; and some, but 
 these were only a few, laughed; but because of some 
 thing in the boy s manner, and in view of the recent 
 happenings, they one and all came down to the old 
 hay barn, their lanterns swinging circles of light about 
 
 63
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 their legs, and the burning mountain at their back 
 sending a faint glow after them. 
 
 David waited their coming in silence, seated on an 
 abandoned piece of farm machinery. A strangely 
 small and wistful little figure, the sight of whom caused 
 more than one man a quick stab of pity. 
 
 When at length they were all there, he stepped 
 from his perch and stood up before them. 
 
 That morning when he had stood by his mother and 
 laid his hand upon her shoulder, there had been a 
 touch of his future manhood about him, but now 
 such is the fluctuation of childhood faced by all 
 those grown men, he seemed to have slipped back 
 several years and showed curiously young and appeal 
 ing, and George Hedrick, for one, caught himself 
 whispering under his breath, "Po little feller!" 
 
 He wore no hat, and his hair, damp from the night 
 air, lay heavy and dark on his forehead, beneath which 
 his black eyes burnt like sparks from the mountain 
 fire. His face was colourless from emotion, and when 
 he spoke his voice was a little uncertain and tremulous. 
 
 "I want ter tell yer all," he said simply, "that 
 McAdams has took Kip Ryerson back ter work at 
 ther mill." 
 
 The men were silent at his words, shuffling their feet 
 and looking down; it was no news to most of them. 
 David waited a moment, watching their impassive 
 faces in surprise. 
 
 "He went by our house this mawnin ; my Mammy 
 seen him," he said; surely that they would understand. 
 
 64
 
 FIGHTING FIRE 
 
 Still the men were silent. Suddenly it dawned upon 
 him with an overwhelming astonishment that these men 
 knew Kip Ryerson had been taken back at the mill 
 knew it, and had not raised one word in protest. 
 
 "Did you all know hit?" he said slowly, in bewil 
 derment. "Did you know McAdams had took him 
 back?" 
 
 There was such a hurt and stinging reproach in his 
 voice, that none of the men found anything to reply, 
 save Lloyd Johnson. 
 
 "Ther law says Kip ain t guilty," he was moved to 
 venture in defense. 
 
 David caught his breath sharply and his eyes blazed. 
 
 "You know he s guilty!" he flung back, his head 
 up and nostrils quivering. And Orin Snyder was 
 heard to mutter under his breath "Ther law? 
 H 11!" 
 
 David regarded the still silent group a moment 
 longer, half hopefully; then, as there was no response, 
 a sudden white flame of anger leaped up in his face, 
 and he beat his clinched fists hard together. 
 
 "Yer cowards!" he cried. "Every one er yer s 
 cowards, cowards! Yer know Kip Ryerson killed my 
 Pappy, what was a good friend ter all er yer. Stole 
 up on him an shot him in ther back. Yer know he 
 done hit. Every one er yer knows he done hit! An 
 yit yer let him go on stayin right here cos ther ain t 
 one er yer s got ther sand ter run him out. Yer fraid 
 er him! Fraid er him! Every one er yer s fraid er 
 him, an fraid er Ed McAdams, cos yer might lose yer 
 
 65
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 job at ther mill. Yer fraidl fraid! fraidl" he 
 screamed, mad with passion, and beating his hands 
 together at each word. " Fraid! fraid! - " suddenly 
 his voice broke in its shrillness, and choked away into 
 silence. Panting he stood before them, a shaken little 
 figure, swallowing hard, his eyes wide and bright with 
 tears, and his breath coming in long quivers, and 
 more than one man dropped his eyes, ashamed to stare 
 at the child s bared emotion. For only a moment he 
 stood thus, righting down his tears, then with a hard- 
 caught breath he took hold upon himself, and when 
 at length he spoke again his voice was low and per 
 fectly steady, and for a flash his soul looked out of 
 his eyes. 
 
 "I ll be er man some day myself," he said simply, 
 "an then I ll not be askin help of any of yer." And 
 turning with his head high, and his hands still clinched, 
 he went away into the dark, comforting arms of the 
 night, a proud, defeated little figure. 
 
 For a space silence held the group of men, then w r ith 
 a quick, stern gesture George Hedrick pulled his hat 
 hard down over his eyes. 
 
 "I ll not sleep ternight," he cried, "till ther Draft s 
 clear er that devil!" 
 
 With a whoop Orin Snyder caught up his lantern, 
 "I m with yer!" he cried. "Dogged ef I ain t, too," 
 Robert Reddin cried; and inspired by these three, in 
 a moment the men burst out of the shed like a wave, 
 heading for McAdams s house, even Lloyd Johnson 
 following in the rear. On the way they overtook 
 
 66
 
 FIGHTING FIRE 
 
 David, and Orin Snyder flung his great arm around the 
 boy s neck and swept him on with the crowd. Arrived 
 at McAdams s Robert Reddin and Orin went inside, 
 and after a short delay brought out Kip Ryerson in a 
 cursing fury of rage. 
 
 "What in H 11 der yer come here fer er draggin 
 me out er my bed?" he screamed. 
 
 "We come here," said George Hedrick, stepping 
 quietly up to him, "ter tell yer that this here little 
 Draft ain t big ernough ter hold you an us both, an 
 ther sooner you clear out er hit ther better fer you." 
 
 "Who s ter say so?" Ryerson cried defiantly. 
 
 Hedrick turned to the group at his back, and little 
 man though he was, there was suddenly something 
 superb about him. 
 
 "Who s ter say so?" he cried. "Fellers, step up 
 here an let him see who s ter say so." 
 
 At his words the men surged forward out of the 
 gloom, and spread up the steps and onto the porch of 
 McAdams s house, holding up their lanterns so that 
 the light fell on their determined faces. And as 
 Ryerson recognized man after man he knew, the 
 angry scarlet of his face fell to a sickly shade of grey. 
 
 "Now reckon yer see who s ter say so," Hedrick 
 went on arrogantly. "An reckon yer see hit ain t a 
 lot er men hidin behind masks an skeered ter death. 
 An yer jest listen ter me, Kip Ryerson," he said, 
 slowly, bringing his face close to the other s scared 
 white one, "you git cleared outer here by tomorrer 
 mawnin , er by termorrer night there ll be er place in 
 
 67
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 this Draft folks ll show where there was er lynchin like 
 they do over at Wayside, only this time hit ll be er 
 white man an not jest er nigger what was lynched." 
 
 At his words, backed by ejaculations of " Dogged ef 
 that ain t so!" "That s right!" "A-ha-a!" "Now 
 yer talkin !" from the other men, a frightened shudder 
 swept over Kip Ryerson, and he was silent. 
 
 "Now you ve got our word," Hedrick concluded, 
 "an hit s jest like I tell you, an yer d better not stay 
 round these parts study in on what we ve said too 
 long." Falling back from Ryerson, and followed by 
 the others, he stepped off the porch, and in a few 
 moments there was nothing left to tell of the visit save 
 the disappearing twinkle of lanterns, the barking of 
 the aroused dogs up and down the Draft, and in 
 Kip Ryerson s heart a great fear. 
 
 David stole away home by himself, crying all the way, 
 partly because he was unstrung, but chiefly because 
 the sight of Ryerson rent him anew with an awful, 
 sickening hatred. At home he crept to his mother s 
 bedside and told her what had happened, and after 
 wards, when he was in his own bed, he heard her, for 
 the first time since his father s death, weeping as though 
 her heart would break. 
 
 After a long time of tossing wakefulness, with the 
 blood pounding through his body in fever currents, 
 David fell asleep to dream of a sheltered, sunny spot, 
 shadowed slightly by autumn foliage; of the rushing 
 sound of a deer s anguished flight with the dogs hard 
 upon it; of the fleeing of some one through the under- 
 
 68
 
 FIGHTING FIRE 
 
 brush; and of something appalling which he could not 
 see, for it lay just out of his dream sight ; and he woke 
 himself crying again, "I won t fergit, Pappy! I won t 
 fergit!" 
 
 That night a belated thunder-storm gathered itself 
 toward morning and sweeping up the valley fell upon 
 the suffering hillsides, in the glad relief of driven sheets 
 of rain; and when next day the sun came up serenely, 
 it looked upon mountains sapphire and topaz clear, 
 freed from fire and smoke, with only here and there a 
 smouldering stump, as evidence of what had been. 
 
 And Kip Ryerson was gone, no one knew where; 
 and in the crystal atmosphere David drew a deep, 
 free breath, and his spirit leaped up in a great relief. 
 
 69
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 TEN times, on its silent journey, the sun had stolen 
 South, to set in cold winter skies of yellow and red at 
 the notch on Hope s Nob; and now for the eleventh 
 time was creeping North again, making for its sum 
 mer goal Round Top of the Drupe Mountains, since 
 that hunting day on Peter s Ridge when a single shot 
 had set Alderson Cree so suddenly on an unknown 
 pathway apparently unknown, that is, though there 
 is a chance that when he struck into it he found it 
 all at once more familiar even than the one he had 
 just left. 
 
 Ten years drifting over the Jumping Creek Draft 
 had left little enough of change to mark their passage. 
 Babies had been born; children had grown up; young 
 people married and settled to homes of their own; and 
 in the natural course of events a few old people had 
 gone to see what had become of their contemporaries. 
 A few families had moved into adjoining counties in 
 the wake of some sawmill, and one or two had even 
 gone West. The Jumping Creek had been bridged 
 where it joins the North Fork; a wagon road cut over 
 the Drupe Mountains down to the river, and now there 
 
 70
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 was even talk of a railroad to come within three miles 
 of the Draft in the near future. On Peter s Ridge 
 perhaps a few more fields stood out in cleared patches ; 
 and the velvet outline of foliage on the Drupe Moun 
 tains was also broken here and there by little farms; 
 while from more and more hollows the deadly smoke 
 of sawmills curled up in answer to the shriek of great 
 logs, as the saw s teeth bit into them. Hideous mon 
 sters, these mills, dwelling in bosky hollows amid the 
 bracken, and sending forth a baleful breath of devas 
 tation over the surrounding country, like some terrifying 
 dragon of old; while the ravished trees cry out for a 
 St. George to deliver them. 
 
 The hum of the spinning-wheel is heard in fewer of" 
 the cabins, and the looms have almost all been rele 
 gated to the lofts. But on the whole these ten years 
 have changed little in the Draft. George Hedrick, 
 gone a trifle grey on the temples, and with a somewhat 
 hunched-up stoop, still keeps the store at the cross 
 roads, dispensing the necessities of life and the general 
 gossip its luxury to all comers; and for the most 
 part the little farms look across the valley at one 
 another, with the same people toiling in their fields or 
 moving in and out of the doorways of their dwellings, 
 as of yore. Certainly the little stretch of meadow land 
 that looks over the county road at the field opposite 
 still belongs to the Crees, and the field it faces is Robert 
 Reddin s as of old. 
 
 And in this same field, on a May morning, ten years 
 and more since the funeral of Alderson Cree, Robert
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Reddin, with most of his family to help him, went 
 forth to plant his corn. 
 
 Seven o clock of a May morning in the Jumping 
 Creek Draft, and the brown earth following the plough 
 share ! 
 
 Ye gods! what a world it is! With Heaven to look 
 forward to, and every year a new earth at spring-time ! 
 For the senses, perfume and bird song, and tinkle of 
 spring waters ; garlanded fence rows, and mountains all 
 a misty green; and for the heart a wild uplifting and 
 a hidden singing. 
 
 All up and down the Draft that day, the bees and 
 butterflies were dead drunk with perfume and honey, 
 and blinded by the rainbow colours the shrubs and 
 flowers put on for them. Such a wealth of bloom 
 and ungathered honey distressed the bees exceedingly, 
 and nightfall found more than one conscientious and 
 exhausted rover down with nervous prostration. But 
 the butterflies danced intoxicated reels all day long in 
 the waves of perfumed heat, and cared not one jot 
 how much store of honey went to waste so long as 
 enough remained for their banqueting; nor what befell 
 the world in general while there was perfume and 
 sunshine left for them, with a cool green leaf to drop 
 to sleep on when night put an end to their mad day 
 of revelry. And the radiant blue sky bent over all, 
 and smiled as tenderly on the wanton butterflies as on 
 the bees; and laughed down at the absurd little shreds 
 and patches of itself that the tiny brooks and ponds 
 gave back. And for the sky s courtesy and smiles 
 
 72
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 the old earth sent up in return breaths of delicious 
 perfumes, and every now and again a little bird mes 
 senger left its mating and nest building and flew up 
 and up into the blue, with a song so bursting with 
 delight of life and love that only the sky itself was big 
 enough to hold it all. 
 
 "Nice corn-plantin weather," Ellen Daw called out 
 shyly to the Reddins, as she swung past their field on 
 her rickety old horse, making for the mill. Let her 
 words stand for the summing up of spring in the Jump 
 ing Creek Draft. "Nice corn-plantin weather " 
 Heavens! to those who know, what a glad time of pure 
 delight it is! 
 
 "Mary," said Bobbie Reddin, the youngest who 
 took the field that day, a gentleman verging on 
 eight years, who toiled faithfully after his sister, 
 dropping soup beans where she dropped corn 
 "Mary, I seed Lucy drop pretty nigh ten grains er 
 corn in one hill, an sted er stoppin ter pick em 
 out, she jest tromped em all in, so s nobody wouldn t 
 see, an went on." 
 
 Mary Reddin, from her slender height of eighteen 
 years, smiled sweetly down at the little brother s scan 
 dalized face, but she made no reply, keeping on swiftly 
 up the furrows, her delicate figure swaying over the 
 uneven ground as graceful as a young sapling in the 
 wind. The little brother s face did not lose its per 
 turbed crease. At eight years old corn-planting is a 
 matter of intense moment; at eighteen, on the contrary, 
 there are other things which appear more important, 
 
 73
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 though afterwards the seriousness of corn-planting is 
 again apt to reassert itself. 
 
 "I don t see why," he complained, "Pappy don t 
 let me drop com sted er " with bitterness "these 
 yer ole beans. I d do hit er heap sight better n Lucy 
 kin." He spoke with feeling, for in corn-planting, as 
 in most things, there is preferment, and the bean pail 
 to the young is a bitter degradation, it being the badge 
 of extreme youth and incompetence. 
 
 "Mary," he persisted, "how old was you when 
 Pappy let you commence droppin corn? An how 
 long " not stopping for an answer to his first question 
 - "will hit be fore he lets me?" 
 
 Mary turned just long enough to hold up one small 
 brown hand, measuring off half of her little finger with 
 her thumb. 
 
 "I reckon hit ll be erbout so long," she said tanta- 
 lizingly. 
 
 "Aw," he exclaimed, infinitely disgusted, for he had 
 awaited her answer as breathlessly as the faithful of 
 old awaited the answers of the oracles. "Aw pshaw! 
 Mary, how long sure nough?" 
 
 Mary s face looked down at him mischievously from 
 the pinky depths of her sunbonnet. 
 
 "When yer es strong es ther jay-bird was," she 
 replied with a great solemnity. 
 
 "Aw," he repeated suspiciously. But his curiosity 
 presently got the better of him and, " How strong was 
 he, Mary?" he demanded. 
 
 74
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 " Jay-bird pulled ther two horse plough, 
 Sparrer why not you ? 
 Legs so long an slimber, 
 I fraid er might break em in two! " 
 
 Mary chanted gaily. 
 
 " Now, honey, you jest listen ter me," she went on. 
 "Jest say ter yerself, right foot, lef foot, drop, an 
 take er step each time, an ef yer jest step out big 
 ernough hit ll bring yer right ter ther hill every time, 
 an hit s er charm ll git yer ter droppin corn most 
 d reckly." 
 
 The little brother looked at her in serious question 
 a moment, then satisfied that her intentions were good, 
 he fell obediently to repeating the magic words under 
 his breath. "Right foot, lef foot, drop; lef foot, 
 right foot, drop," and in the depths of Mary s sun- 
 bonnet a little dimple looked out of her cheek an 
 instant in triumph over the successful stemming of the 
 youngster s flow of questions, which left her leisure to 
 listen once more to a certain voice which came to her 
 musically across the fragrant field, in the soft language 
 of the plough "Whoa haw, haup! Gee! Gee! 
 Whoa haw!" 
 
 The voice was that of David Cree; and if any one 
 had told Mary Reddin that her father s voice and that 
 of her oldest brother Jack came over the field from 
 their ploughs with just the same mellowed intonation 
 as did David s, Mary would have found it hard to 
 believe. 
 
 75
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 David had only come off the log drive, which the 
 spring rains had brought down the river, the day 
 before, and finding Robert Reddin short of a hand in 
 his corn-field, had come over to put in a day s work 
 for him. He had got home late the previous night, 
 after the whole winter spent in camp, and starting in 
 early on the corn-field he and Mary had found time 
 to exchange hardly more than the usual greetings - 
 though both knew there was much waiting to be said. 
 
 From the boy of twelve, David was shot up into a 
 giant of a fellow of twenty-two. His face in its dark 
 setting of hair was strong and open, and usually 
 serenely untroubled, with the serenity of perfect physical 
 health and strength. But there were times still when 
 a sombre look crossed it, and when about his mouth 
 and in his eyes there dwelt an expression which showed 
 that he had felt more keenly the edge of life than have 
 most young men of his age. 
 
 Physically he was perfect; and among the men of 
 the neighbourhood he was accounted the strongest man 
 all up and down the Draft, as his father had been 
 before him. Even in the log camps where the strong 
 men from several counties are drawn together, and 
 where many trials of strength take place, he had not 
 found any that were quite his match. There was 
 something almost terrifying about his great strength. 
 He felt it himself, and many of his movements showed 
 a certain reserve as though he half feared to put forth 
 his whole force. Once, in camp, angered by something 
 David had said in jest, a man had suddenly drawn a 
 
 76
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 pistol upon him. For we eks afterwards David felt the 
 curious gritty snap of the man s arm under his furious 
 hands, and the choking leap of anger within himself 
 he never forgot. It was the first time that he had ever 
 really come face to face with the devil of passion and 
 strength which lay within him. It was a subduing 
 knowledge, and one that kept him out of many chance 
 fights. Fights that most men would have gone into 
 and come out of without anything more serious to 
 show than a black eye and a few bruises. But David 
 had come to know himself too well to dare to let his 
 passion out ever so little. 
 
 From twelve years old to sixteen he lived a dedicated 
 life, with one great object before him. He worked 
 hard on the farm with the strength and determination 
 of a boy much older, and when little snatches of leisure 
 gave him opportunity he went to school. But always, 
 in all his occupations, one great purpose was before 
 him, and that purpose was the carrying out of the 
 promise given his father. Sixteen, he set himself as 
 the age at which he would be old enough to face Kip 
 Ryerson, and his childish thoughts of his future always 
 stopped short at that age, as at a blank wall; beyond 
 that time he never thought or planned. This feeling, 
 as though his life came to an end then, might have had, 
 and perhaps would have had on many boys, a paralyzing 
 effect. Fortunately for David the pressing need of the 
 farm work for very daily existence was constantly 
 present to spur him to activity, and when there chanced 
 a respite from that, his eager mind drove him to school. 
 
 77
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 To some boys, too, there might have come a feeling 
 of resentment against his father that he should have 
 laid his own selfish revenge upon his young shoulders, 
 but this thought never crossed David s mind. He had 
 loved his father passionately, and his devotion held no 
 hint of the possibility of the man s wrong-doing. 
 Moreover, he and his father were cast along strangely 
 similar lines, so that what the man did was almost always 
 instinctively what the boy would have done also. Nor 
 was there ever in David s mind a desire to evade his 
 promise. When he had given his oath to his father 
 he had given it in that moment with his very soul; 
 and his father s death had clinched it. 
 
 When he came sixteen, in the hazy weather of No 
 vember, touched by a certain chill of winter, he rose 
 very early on the morning of his birthday, and pack 
 ing himself some cold store of food and leaving a 
 slip of paper for his mother, to say he had gone 
 hunting and would not be back until the next day, 
 he took his father s old rifle down from its rack on 
 the big stone chimney, and crept out of the house 
 long before it was light, or any one awake to be aware 
 of his departure. 
 
 The first grey streaks of dawn found him almost at 
 the Maple Spring. To pass the Maple Spring was one 
 way to go to Rattle Snake Run. There was another 
 which was slightly shorter, but on that morning David 
 chose to go by way of the spring. 
 
 When he reached the lonely little hollow lying so 
 breathlessly in the still woods of early dawn, he crossed 
 
 78
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 over to the log on which he and his father had sat 
 together on that hunting morning four years before, 
 and in the dull grey light, through which the trees and 
 low bushes showed faint and cold, he dropped down 
 on his knees and took off his hat. 
 
 "Pappy!" he whispered, "I promised yer, an I m 
 goin now. I promised yer an I ain t never forgot, 
 Pappy." 
 
 For a moment longer he knelt out there in the mys 
 terious dip in the mountain side, where it seemed to 
 him were only his father and himself of all the world. 
 Then he rose and went over to the spring, and again 
 the dried leaves crashed under his feet, and when he 
 flung himself down at its edge to drink he had a strange 
 feeling that the four intervening years had dropped 
 from him, and that he was again but twelve years old, 
 with his father sitting back there on the log, his eyes 
 away on the distant mountains and his thoughts on 
 Kip Ryerson; and as he put his lips to the water he 
 seemed almost to hear the faint far-away cry of the 
 dogs on the opposite ridge, and again to feel that sudden 
 apprehension of something appalling about to happen. 
 A curious sensation stole upon him as though there 
 were no past or future, both being lost in one vast 
 overwhelming present; for it was all infinitely strange 
 and uncanny in the uncertain light, and the still lone 
 liness of the woods. 
 
 But in a moment he laid stern hold upon himself, 
 and rising, stole out of the hollow and took his way 
 along the path in the direction of the Rattle Snake Run. 
 
 79
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 He walked with the mountaineer s swinging stride, 
 which carried him well over the ground, and he was 
 already some distance on his journey before the sun 
 came out in feeble rays that glinted faintly on the 
 metal of his rifle, and cast a long, thin shadow of 
 himself on the golden leaves. And as he went he had 
 an ever-present feeling that this was his last day of 
 life. His ideas of the law were hazy, and he did not 
 know what would become of him after he had accom 
 plished his intention, but imprisonment either in jail 
 or reform school was to him as much death as actual 
 hanging. Of his possible escape he thought little, and 
 in fact he had made, strangely enough, no plans for it. 
 He had a curiously detached feeling about himself, 
 and his chief concern was simply the fulfilling of his 
 promise. That was the great thing, and probably he 
 would know at the time how to act in the face of the 
 events which followed. 
 
 It was a thirty-mile tramp to the Rattle Snake Run, 
 and noon found the boy with still a weary distance 
 before him. He stopped by a little brook, and drank 
 deep, and ate some of his store of food; afterwards he 
 rested for a time, and then looking carefully to the 
 loading of his rifle took up his steady, swinging gait 
 once more. 
 
 Occasionally he stopped to ask his way of people at 
 work on the different small farms which he passed; 
 and once or twice the road led him by small log school- 
 houses, from the windows of which child faces watched 
 him eagerly, glad of any outside diversion from the 
 
 80
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 monotony of study within. But for the most part his 
 road was a lonely one, and sometimes for miles it lay 
 through the mountains, where he met no one, and 
 travelled only with his own thoughts for company. 
 Once a strange cur attached itself to him for a short 
 distance, and created a diversion by its wild and 
 excited excursions into the undergrowth. But soon a 
 startled rabbit led it with bounds and squeaks of 
 delight far out of David s pathway, and again the boy 
 went on alone. 
 
 About four in the afternoon, the path, which for 
 some time had lain between steep and rock-slabbed 
 mountains, opened out slightly into a long, gentle slope 
 downward, and David guessed he was come to the 
 head of Rattle Snake Run. Keeping on a little further, 
 he presently espied a desolate-looking farm with a 
 small grey cabin cocked on a grassy hillside in the 
 middle of it. 
 
 He left the road and struck a narrow beaten path across 
 a dried-up stream, which presently led him to the house. 
 In the yard a shiftless-looking man was at work on a 
 chicken-coop, while three unkempt women, two with 
 babies in their arms, watched him with dull interest. 
 As David approached, the dogs set up an excited 
 barking and the man stopped his hammering and turned 
 around. At sight of David he jerked his head in 
 salutation but did not speak. 
 
 "Howdy," said David, "kin you tell me where 
 erbouts in this Draft I would be likely ter find Kip 
 Ryerson? I come over ter see him." 
 
 81
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 The man regarded him a moment longer in silence, 
 then he said slowly: 
 
 "You ll hev ter travel er right smart farther than 
 this Draft ef yer want ter find Kip Ryerson." 
 
 "How s that?" said David. I thought he lived over 
 in here." 
 
 "He don t live nowhere no mo ," said the man, 
 expectorating with deliberation, and turning back to 
 his work. "He went out West two year ergo, an 
 word come las summer that he got kilt in er rail 
 road rick. Where mought you be from?" he in 
 quired, turning around again with some show of 
 interest. 
 
 "I come from over in Jumpin Creek," David 
 answered dully. He was stunned by the suddenness 
 with which the possibility of carrying out his promise 
 had been swept away from him. 
 
 "Ah-aa," said the man, "Kip Ryerson was over in 
 ther fer er spell. We heerd he d shot er feller ther 
 what was his name?" 
 
 "Alderson Cree," said David. 
 
 "And what mought your name be, stranger?" the 
 man persisted. 
 
 "David Cree," the boy answered simply. 
 
 At his words the man looked at him quickly and at 
 his rifle. 
 
 "An you come over huntin fer Kip Ryerson?" he 
 said. "Lord!" 
 
 The tone roused David and brought him back 
 somewhat to his surroundings, and with a muttered, 
 
 82
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 "Well, reckon I must be travelling," he left the yard, 
 and struck into the road again, turning mechanically 
 back over the way he had come. 
 
 For a couple of miles he walked in a sort of dream, 
 bewildered by the abruptness with which his whole 
 outlook had been changed. Then he collected himself 
 somewhat, and taking out his supply of food he ate a 
 few biscuits as he walked along debating where he 
 should spend the night. He remembered having passed 
 two dilapidated haystacks in one of the small fields 
 at the head of the valley, and in them he decided to 
 take shelter until the morning, for somehow he desired 
 to be alone, and shrank from asking to be taken in at 
 any of the cabins he had passed. In a short time, 
 walking steadily up the valley, he came again to the 
 haystacks, as the November night was closing down 
 cold and still; wearily he clambered over the fence 
 into the field, and pausing a moment shot the load 
 from his rifle, with a curious feeling, as the echoes 
 went rattling away among the mountains, that with 
 the action a door had slammed suddenly between his 
 past and his present. Then he burrowed a hole deep 
 into the heart of one of the musty little stacks and 
 crept in feet foremost, dragging the rifle after him out 
 of the evening s damp. Twisting and turning, he 
 made himself comfortable, and presently dropped his 
 head upon one arm and lay still, and with his stillness 
 a sense of his utter weariness swept over him. He 
 was physically tired from his long tramp, but that was 
 nothing to his mental prostration. He had not realized 
 
 83
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 what the strain of the day had been to him, but now, 
 as mind and body relaxed, he felt as though the strain 
 not only of that overwrought day, but of the four 
 years since his promise, as well, came upon him all at 
 once and engulfed him in an abyss of absolute exhaus 
 tion. For only a short time, however, he lay conscious 
 of his fatigue, then slowly his mind became detached, 
 and presently he drifted away into the soft blackness 
 of deep sleep. 
 
 In the morning, when he awoke, he was stiff and 
 cramped from his position, and his mind was still 
 languid, but there was a refreshing vigour and glory in 
 the air, and he dimly realized that his life was opening 
 out before him, and was, as it were, given to him anew; 
 his plans and forward thoughts need no longer end 
 now with his sixteenth year. 
 
 He had tried faithfully to fulfil his oath, and the 
 power to do so had been snatched from him, and he 
 might now stretch forth his hands to take fearlessly 
 the newness of life which had come to him. 
 
 Late in the afternoon he reached home. His mother 
 was seated before the fire, and turned expectantly 
 toward him at his entrance. Without greeting he 
 stepped over to the mantelpiece and laid his father s 
 rifle back upon its rack. 
 
 "Kip Ryerson s dead," he said quietly. His mother 
 leaped to her feet and clutched his arm, looking into 
 his face. 
 
 "No," he said, answering her look, for she had not 
 spoken. "I ain t done hit. I went over ter do hit
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 like I promised, but he went West and got kilt last 
 summer in er railroad rick." 
 
 Slowly his mother s hands fell from his arm and she 
 sank down again into her chair, but she made no 
 comment on either his expedition or the news with 
 which he had returned. 
 
 In the face of this frozen woman, that Judith Cree 
 had become, it required an effort on David s part to 
 call to mind what she had been in the days before his 
 father s death; and the younger children knew her 
 only as a pillar of strength and determination on whom 
 they might entirely rely, but from whom all lightness 
 and show of tenderness had vanished. And David 
 knew that every struggle and burden of life that came 
 upon them in the years after Alderson s death his 
 mother laid to Kip Ryerson s door with a bitter accum 
 ulation of hate though his name or that of her 
 husband never crossed her lips. 
 
 And the years had been hard, and at times almost 
 past endurance, but thanks to Judith s indomitable 
 will and David s energy they had managed always to 
 pull through somehow, to the constant surprise of all 
 the Crees and Leisters; and now were come to easy 
 years, with David twenty-two, and the other boys 
 almost grown and able to manage the farm while 
 David worked in the log camps. 
 
 In the years that followed his sixteenth, David shook 
 off much of the sombreness which the shock of his 
 father s death had laid upon him, and being now able 
 to look into the future, he found life and its possibilities 
 
 85
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 very pleasant; and at twenty-one or so, looking about 
 him, he found that for him Mary Reddin was growing 
 up to be quite the most attractive possibility which his 
 life held. 
 
 At dinner time, in the corn-field that May morning, 
 Robert Reddin looked back with satisfaction over more 
 than half of his brown field in which the secret treasure 
 of golden grains and white beans were safely hidden; 
 and when the soft grey-blue note of the dinner horn 
 came pleasantly across from the house, he gave quite 
 a jovial halloo in response, and shouted to his gang of 
 planters to knock off. 
 
 Bobbie, the youngest Reddin, looked into the depths 
 of his bean pail with a long-drawn sigh of satisfaction 
 and self-congratulation. It had been filled three times, 
 and for the fourth time the beans were beginning to 
 look sparse in the bottom, with the black tin of the pail 
 showing between their fat, white sides ; and the youngest 
 Reddin felt that he had served a faithful apprenticeship 
 in beans, and might safely hope for a glorious promo 
 tion to corn in the near future. Unfortunately, he 
 delayed too long over the sweets of self-congratulation 
 and the dear thought of future greatness, for when he 
 took his tow-coloured head out of the bean pail he 
 saw r with a pang of dismay that already the three 
 next older Reddins had pre-empted the plough horses, 
 and with clanking harness and flying elbows were 
 plunging gaily across the fields toward home and 
 dinner. At the sight, with piercing howls, he of the 
 future greatness flung himself over the furrows in mad 
 
 86
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 pursuit ; albeit his bare feet flashed somewhat timorously 
 over the hidden stones, for they had not long been 
 turned out of their protection of shoes and stockings, 
 and their tender whiteness bore little resemblance to 
 the brown and brier-scratched pair which had gone 
 into winter retirement the previous October. 
 
 It is a hard world, and the bitterness of it came 
 home that morning to the youngest Reddin; and with 
 what breath he could spare from running he complained 
 to high heaven of the wickedness of mankind in general 
 and of the three next older Reddins in particular. 
 High heaven smiled sweetly down upon his lamentations 
 and lost no whit of its gay serenity; and I am inclined 
 to think that in all probability it was not the first time 
 it had been called upon to notice the perfidy of 
 mankind. But if heaven turned a deaf ear, Mary, 
 who was a nearer providence, strolling lightly across 
 the field with David, heard the sounds of woe and 
 turned. And David, drawing on his own young 
 experiences, took in the situation at a glance, and 
 with a quick movement laid hold upon one of the 
 careering horses and brought its reluctant rider to a 
 standstill. 
 
 "Now ain t you shamed ter run erway from er 
 little feller like that?" Mary said severely to the giggling 
 rider. 
 
 "Come on, honey," she called to the injured one, 
 "an I ll put yer up." 
 
 The youngest Reddin arrived, red-faced and out of 
 breath, but keenly alive to his wrongs. 
 
 87
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "They d oughtn t ter treat me that erway, ought 
 they, Mary?" he appealed. 
 
 "That they oughtn t," she answered, consolingly, 
 bending over him sweetly, though at the back of her 
 eyes there was a spark of laughter. 
 
 But Bobbie failed to catch the laughter, and satisfied 
 that his cause was championed he cast a triumphant 
 look at his brother, his face already beginning to clear. 
 And when David swung him up to a place on the back 
 of the much enduring horse, he curled his toes joyously, 
 and drawing a quivering breath or two burst into 
 a sunshine of smiles, once more well pleased with the 
 world; though it must be admitted he laid hold upon 
 his brother with somewhat ungentle hands, accompa 
 nied by a pinch or two and an excursionary finger up 
 and down the ribs, which occasioned howls and squirms 
 from his victim, and cries of "Aw, quit now." But in 
 the face of what had happened, and when only one 
 thickness of cotton shirt lies between revengeful fingers 
 and the bare skin, not to tickle or pinch was more 
 than could be expected of poor frail human nature. 
 
 In the wake of the riders, David and Mary went 
 on their way again across the field. Mary had 
 pushed her pinky sunbonnet with its white ruffles 
 back off her head, leaving it to hang from her neck by 
 its strings. For sunbonnets are the creations of the 
 middle-aged, who find nothing particularly interesting 
 outside of themselves, and are to the young, who care 
 to see and hear, the very invention of the evil one. 
 Therefore, now that there were other things to see 
 
 88
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 besides the long brown furrow studded with yellow 
 corn grains, Mary thrust her sweet face out of her 
 sunbonnet s gloom, daring the sun and wind to do 
 their worst; feeling, as she emerged, as though she had 
 suddenly entered a new world of light and vivacity, 
 like a butterfly bursting from its chrysalis. 
 
 Mary was the acknowledged beauty of the Draft. 
 In the words of Joe Snyder, Mary Reddin "was jest 
 that pretty hit kinder hurt yer eyes ter look at her"; 
 and he voiced the sentiment of most of the young 
 fellows of the Draft. For there was, in truth, some 
 thing about the purity and sparkle of the girl s face 
 that was almost dazzling. 
 
 Her whole physical makeup was slender, though 
 she was tall, and strong, too, with a delicate supple 
 strength that adapted itself easily enough to all her 
 daily tasks. Her hair was a misty yellow, and swept 
 back from her forehead in little curls and arches, as 
 though each strand half turned to catch another glimpse 
 over its shoulder of the beauty of her face. Her eyes, 
 strangely enough in that fair setting, were very dark, 
 and usually they flashed with an illusive humorous 
 light, matched by the curve of her mouth; but there 
 were times, too, when they took on a mysterious 
 softness, and then, as well, the mouth matched them 
 in tenderness, and at these times Mary Reddin was 
 irresistible. 
 
 Looking at her beside him that heavenly May day, 
 David, who had not seen her for six long months, felt 
 his heart leap up within him, and with a sudden surge 
 
 89
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 of tenderness he longed but there ! What under the 
 sun was the use of longing for anything, with a 
 younger sister all eyes, and an older brother all 
 facetiousness, and a father, trailing over the field be 
 side them, and making silly, trivial remarks about 
 the weather, and who had their corn in and who 
 hadn t? In the face of so many spectators David 
 had to content himself with helping Mary carefully 
 across the little streams and over all the fences. As 
 he jumped her across the last fence, and she came to 
 the ground with airy grace, Mary, who daily climbed 
 these same fences and skipped across these streams 
 unaided, turned to him with mischief in her eyes. 
 
 "I certainly am erbliged ter yer, David," she said 
 demurely. "I dunno s I d ever er got home without 
 yer help." 
 
 At her words Jack Reddin and the younger sister 
 tittered, and flushing hotly David turned a quick look 
 on her, but in the depths of her eyes he read a tender 
 ness beneath the mockery which the others failed to 
 see, and which somehow for him took all the sting out 
 of her words. 
 
 "Aw Mary," he said deprecatingly; and then added 
 in a whisper, "I m lookin fer ther time when I ll be 
 at hand ter help yer over all ther hard places." 
 
 But Mary was in a provoking mood. 
 
 "What was hit yer said?" she asked, with tanta 
 lizing politeness. "I didn t quite ketch hit. Say hit 
 ter Jack, my sunbonnet ruffles tickles my years so s 
 I can t hear nothin hardly." 
 
 90
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 "Never mind," said David with a meaning that 
 silenced her; "I ll wait an say hit ergin ter yer when 
 I kin say hit loud ernough ter make yer hear me sure 
 nough." 
 
 As Mary stepped on to the little porch of the Reddins 
 house, she paused a moment before entering to pat the 
 old hound that lay contentedly stretched in the sun 
 light. He thumped his tail heavily against the boards 
 and smiled idiotically up at her in response, and 
 having assured him of her good-will, she passed on 
 into the house with David beside her. At her entrance 
 the baby, who was seated upon a quilt on the floor, 
 and surrounded by a miscellaneous collection of play 
 things, among which a small hammer and an old cow 
 bell ran a neck-and-neck race for the place of favourite, 
 set up a howl and waved his fat arms to be taken up. 
 Mrs. Reddin, warm but smiling, came in from the 
 kitchen and shook hands with David. 
 
 "I m mighty glad ter see yer back, Dave," she said, 
 cordially, "yer bin well?" 
 
 David assured her that he had. 
 
 "Well, I m glad ter hear hit," she returned. "I 
 heerd ther was er heap er sickness in camp this year. 
 Ain t hit awful warm?" she went on, gasping slightly 
 with the remembrance of her steaming kitchen. She 
 was a large, fair woman with a serene countenance 
 and the remains of a good deal of beauty. From her 
 Mary inherited her regular features, but the girl s face 
 was touched with an individuality and poetry lacking 
 in the older woman s; or perhaps her face had once
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 had it, and the care of a husband and eleven children, 
 to say nothing of every year s crop of chickens, and 
 abandoned lambs, had transformed the poetry into a 
 general large-hearted motherliness on the whole a 
 very good middle-aged substitute for poetry. 
 
 "I jest wished you d take that young un over ter 
 ther corn-field an keep him there, he s pretty nigh run 
 me distracted this mawnin ," she said to Mary as the 
 latter picked the baby up from the floor. 
 
 "What makes hit so bad?" Mary inquired of the 
 baby with pretended severity. But the baby, undis 
 turbed by its reputation for wickedness, smiled serenely 
 in a large and comprehensive manner in which a few 
 newly arrived teeth figured prominently. 
 
 "Why, hit s got another tooth," Mary exclaimed, 
 rubbing a slender, inquiring finger along the expansive 
 gums. Be it known that all the babies of the Draft 
 are "it," irrespective of name or sex, until they are 
 dispossessed of the title by the arrival of another sister 
 or brother, upon which they are promoted to the dignity 
 of their own names which have been awaiting them; 
 while the new arrival, slipping into the promoted one s 
 rights and privileges, not to mention certain of its 
 discarded clothes, begins its own lordly reign of "it." 
 
 "See me chop," a small voice made itself energeti 
 cally heard at Mary s feet, and a young person, still in 
 dresses, and but shortly dispossessed of the baby title, 
 came down with gusto upon a small stick of wood, 
 with a long-handled hatchet, perilously near his own 
 bare foot. His mother regarded him calmly. 
 
 92
 
 ROBERT REDDIN PLANTS HIS CORN 
 
 "You cut yer toe off," she remarked mildly, explain 
 ing the situation to him. But Mary, with a fine show 
 of discipline, swooped down and deprived him of the 
 hatchet, making at the same time such an enchantingly 
 grotesque face, and giving him a series of such irre 
 sistible pokes in the ribs, that he immediately collapsed 
 upon the floor limp with delight, and it was several 
 minutes before he realized that she had robbed him 
 of his dearest possession ; and fortunately, at the moment 
 of his discovery, his thoughts were happily diverted by 
 the arrival of his father and older brother from the 
 stable where they had gone to feed the horses upon 
 which every one tramped hungrily out to dinner. 
 
 At dinner Mary and her mother did not sit down 
 with the others, but busied themselves waiting upon 
 the rest, and as David watched Mary s slender figure 
 moving about the table serving her small brothers, in 
 his mind s eyes all the brothers and sisters, and even 
 Mr. and Mrs. Reddin, were suddenly swept away, and 
 at the table he and Mary sat, facing each other alone, 
 with no one else in all the world to bother about. 
 
 " An how was ther drive this spring ? " Robert Reddin 
 asked, taking a deep draught of coffee, and settling to 
 minute inquiries of timber, river, ark, and hands; and 
 with an inward sigh David saw his dream-table disap 
 pear and resigned himself to the patient answering of 
 innumerable questions. 
 
 93
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 IT was hard for David Cree to turn his mind from 
 the vision of that delightful dream-table, where only 
 himself and Mary Reddin sat, and give his attention to 
 her father s endless questions; all the harder, because 
 when his mind went wandering off along those prim 
 rose paths of romance his heart kept it joyful 
 company, whereas, when he turned it to the matter 
 of log drives, that always unaccountable member sud 
 denly refused to follow there, but stayed instead 
 like a runaway child, playing by itself among the 
 primroses, and giving little absurd bounds of pure 
 delight every time Mary s voice or her low ripple of 
 laughter cut across Robert Reddin s conversation. 
 Nevertheless, David answered the questions faithfully, 
 and late in the afternoon of that planting day he had 
 his reward. 
 
 It was almost six o clock before the last yellow corn 
 grains were laid snugly in their furrows, and the coverlet 
 of brown earth rippled over them, to lie so lightly upon 
 them, and, with the sun and quickening spring rains, 
 to whisper to the little seeds such strange, unbelievable 
 prophecies of green blade, golden dusted tassels, and 
 
 94
 
 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 final glad fulfilment of the ripe ear. Such obviously 
 strange and unbelievable prophecies that more than 
 once, in the days that followed, the little grains wished 
 petulantly that the warm breath of the earth, and the 
 whisper of the rains, would cease tantalizing them with 
 such haunting impossibilities, and let them lie quiet in 
 the ground in their half-asleep existence, which surely 
 was the only thing that corn grains had ever been 
 intended for. But that mysterious and disturbing 
 whisper of the earth and rain went on in spite of their 
 fretful desire to be let alone; and finally, just to escape 
 a little further from the rain s teasing, the grains shifted 
 uneasily, and then sent forth little pale, groping rootlets 
 to burrow away deeper into the dark. But with the 
 roots that sought thus to escape there came out, too, 
 tiny buds of things that said, "Perhaps the earth and 
 rain spoke true after all perhaps," turning it over 
 within themselves and again "perhaps." And 
 when the little buds went as far as to admit a per 
 haps, it was not many days before a green army of 
 fairy banners leaped into the sunshine of Robert Red- 
 din s brown field. 
 
 But before that wave of greenery arrived, a good 
 many things had happened in the Jumping Creek 
 Draft; and the thing which happened first of all was 
 that Mrs. Reddin s spotted heifer pushed down the 
 fence at the edge of the woods, and sought to run 
 away into the hollows of Drupe Mountain, prompted 
 thereto by the irresistible spring hunger for budding 
 juicy things. Mary was the first to see her manoeuvre 
 
 95
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 as she stood in the group of congratulatory Reddins at 
 the upper end of the finished field. 
 
 "There s Spotty tryin ter break erway ergin," she 
 exclaimed; "ef I don t git her turned back she ll not 
 come in fore momin "; and so saying she sped swiftly 
 after the delinquent heifer. 
 
 "I ll help yer!" David cried, and without a moment s 
 hesitation raced after her slender, flying figure ; and the 
 further away from the general assembly of the Reddin 
 family that Spotty led her pursuers, David Cree felt in 
 his heart the better would he be pleased. 
 
 Though a spring day in the Jumping Creek may 
 have been breathlessly hot through the noon hours, 
 there comes always with the falling of the evening a 
 grateful cool wave of energy that puts fresh inspiration 
 into the air and makes one feel, even with a long day s 
 work at the back, a mad desire for more physical 
 exertion. 
 
 That freshness had touched the air now, and Mary 
 ran with pink cheeks and the glad joy of swift motion 
 in her eyes; and David, a half minute behind her, put 
 forth more than his usual energy before he finally 
 overtook her. 
 
 Mary threw him a laughing, radiant glance over her 
 shoulder, but she did not check her speed until the 
 steep rise of the hill, as it sprung from the valley up 
 into the Drupe Mountain, forced her to do so, out of 
 breath. Here she dropped to a walk, but it was not 
 a slow one, and, "We gotter hurry er she ll git clean 
 erway," she panted breathlessly to David. "You jest 
 
 96
 
 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 wait here," David commanded, as they came to the 
 broken-down fence. "Yer all outer breath an I ll git 
 ther ole raskil turned round in er second"; and so 
 saying he plunged into the waving undergrowth, and 
 in a few minutes, accompanied by much shouting and 
 trampling, Spotty broke out of the woods, and with 
 many awkward and defiant gambols, high-flung hind 
 legs, and stiffly quirked tail, went plunging away down 
 the hill toward the stable and the other cattle, who 
 had cautiously awaited the result of her manoeuvre 
 before attempting it themselves, and who now, on her 
 ignominious return, doubtless congratulated themselves 
 mightily upon their conservative stay-at-home attitude. 
 
 David came back in triumph to the fence where 
 Mary waited. From where they stood the valley lay 
 below them in the slant rays of afternoon sunlight, all 
 golden brown with upturned earth, save where the 
 spring wheat and pasture lands made spots of mellowed 
 green. 
 
 Cheek by jowl below them the Reddin and Cree 
 farms lay looking at each other across the county 
 road; and in the air was that heavenly inspiration of 
 evening coolness. David came close up to Mary 
 Reddin. 
 
 "I ve turned yer heifer back fer yer, an now what 
 are yer goin ter do fer me?" he demanded softly. 
 
 Mary looked at him with round eyes of innocence. 
 
 "O Dave!" she said, "I certainly am erbliged ter 
 yer, an I m goin ter do er heap fer yer." 
 
 "What is hit yer goin ter do?" he persisted. 
 97
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Mary swooped away from him with a quick, butterfly 
 movement, and caught up the lower rail of the fence. 
 "I m er goin ter let yer help me lay up this fence," 
 she answered, with a saucy look at him, and an en 
 chanting gurgle of irrepressible laughter. 
 
 David laughed, too, in spite of his defeat; and joyous 
 dancing lights flashed in his dark eyes, answering the 
 witchery of her own. 
 
 "All right, Mistress Mary," he said; "but mind, hit 
 don t take very long ter lay up er fence, an then 
 there ll hev ter be ernother settlin ," he added with 
 meaning. 
 
 In truth, judging from the way in which he fell to 
 work, it would not take long, and Mary, as she watched 
 him, felt a sudden little half fearful thrill go over her. 
 
 She knew very well that David loved her, and had 
 done so for more than a year; but in all that time she 
 had managed by her quick wit to hold him off, so that 
 he had never actually wooed her. Why she thus 
 fenced with him Mary hardly knew herself, for in her 
 own heart she was very well aware that she loved him. 
 But it was all such a strange new feeling, that somehow 
 it prompted her always to put up quick, defensive 
 barriers of speech whenever they were alone together. 
 
 And David had let himself be held off, for he had 
 had nothing to offer her. But now, after a long winter 
 of scrupulous saving in camp, things were different; 
 and watching his determined face, as he toiled over 
 the fence, Mary realized all at once that he was no 
 longer to be baffled, and with the realization she felt 
 
 98
 
 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 herself shaken softly like a spring leaf shivering in the 
 April winds. 
 
 And even as she watched him, David laid the top 
 rail upon the fence and turning suddenly caught both 
 her hands in his. 
 
 For a long moment he looked down at her in silence, 
 and Mary s eyes fell before his. 
 
 "Mary," he said at length, softly, "do you know 
 why I come outer camp?" 
 
 At the question Mary s old quick wit rose to the 
 defence, and though she knew it was no good now, she 
 nevertheless flung out a laughing retort. 
 
 "Reckon yer come out cause everybody else did, 
 and it d be kind er lonesome out there in the mountains 
 all by yerself," she said. 
 
 David laughed tenderly, but with a ring of exultation. 
 
 " No, that wa n t ther reason," he answered. " Sides, 
 everybody didn t come out. There s er cuttin crew 
 up in ther yit; an I could er stayed with them ef I d 
 er wanted ter. But I had er reason fer comin out an 
 you know what hit is." 
 
 " Deed ef I do," she answered quickly. 
 
 "Then I ll hev ter tell yer!" David cried, with a 
 sudden nearer movement toward her. 
 
 Mary sprang back, and tugged to get her hands 
 free. 
 
 " I ain t got no time ter listen ter yer that s Mammy 
 now, calling ther cows," she cried breathlessly. 
 
 But David held her fast. "Yer ll not go till I tell 
 yer," he said, in a low, passionate voice, and all at 
 
 99
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 once he caught her in his arms and covered her face 
 with kisses. 
 
 "Now do yer know!" he cried, panting. "Now do 
 yer know?" Mary struggled in his embrace, half 
 frightened. 
 
 "Oh, let me go, let me go, David Cree," she cried. 
 
 "Not till yer say yer know why I come outer camp," 
 he answered hotly. 
 
 "Oh, I do! I do!" she gasped at length, lying still in 
 his arms and almost sobbing. 
 
 And with one last kiss David opened his arms and 
 let her go, and Mary skimmed down the hillside 
 toward home like a frightened bird. 
 
 Yet, when she reached the house and stepped across 
 the porch, the frightened look had left her face and 
 another expression was there. 
 
 David stood still, leaning against the fence, and 
 watched her dainty figure leap down the hillside and 
 disappear from sight, and only one other thing in all 
 his life had ever so moved the very foundations of his 
 soul as had the sudden overpowering rush of his love, 
 and the touch of Mary s little fluttering figure, that 
 had at length lain still in his arms and the other 
 thing that had moved him had not been love. 
 
 Shaken and awed, he stood looking down upon the 
 mellowed landscape below him, his heart leaping in 
 great bounds and all his pulses on fire. And in the 
 face of his own strength of passion he paused in 
 wonderment and almost in fear. That he could hate 
 deeply, circumstances had shown him. But what the 
 
 100
 
 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 power of love was he had not guessed until that mo 
 ment. His was not a subtle nature, nor one given to 
 inward speculation, but in that moment he realized 
 that he had come face to face with a hitherto unguessed 
 flood of emotion and strength, bursting open, as it 
 were, the doors of a new universe. 
 
 He turned at length from his position by the fence, 
 and coming slowly down the hill skirted the Red- 
 dins field and made across the bottom lands toward 
 his own home. 
 
 As he swung himself over the last fence and dropped 
 into the county road, he met Ellen Daw, on her slow 
 return from her day spent at the grist mill at Linden 
 the little post-office village some five miles from the 
 head of the Jumping Creek Draft. 
 
 In the light of his great knowledge all women 
 seemed to David, just then, beings set apart and 
 exalted, sanctified by his love for one. Therefore, 
 he stopped and spoke to Ellen with extra politeness, 
 though as a rule the girl s wistful, dark visage, with 
 its eager look as though she searched every face 
 anew, with a fresh upspringing of hope for a thing 
 that she had somehow missed did not particularly 
 attract him. 
 
 "Howdy, Miss Ellen," he said, putting out his hand 
 to her as she sat above him on her old horse, her bag 
 of milling swung at the back of her saddle. 
 
 With a quick gesture the girl pushed her rusty black 
 sunbonnet off her head that she might see the better, 
 and then dropped her work-hardened hand into his 
 
 101
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 outstretched one with a certain shy awkwardness; while 
 a slow, dark colour went all over her face. 
 
 "Howdy," she said, briefly; and it seemed as though 
 it was hard for her to say even that. 
 
 "How you bin makin hit?" David persisted. 
 
 "Oh, jest tolerble," she answered. 
 
 "How s yer Paw?" he inquired. 
 
 "He s so crippled up with ther rheumatiz this spring 
 that he ain t able ter do er lick er work," she answered, 
 still with the same constrained manner. Then she 
 added in a lower tone, as though to herself, "Hit keeps 
 me right hard worked." 
 
 A sudden realization of how hard worked a lonely 
 girl might be on the top of Drupe Mountain, with two 
 disabled old people to look after, flashed over David 
 in the light of his own past struggles, and he answered 
 her low words warmly. 
 
 "I jest bet hit is hard," he said, a touch of sympathy 
 in his voice that brought a quick mist to the girl s 
 eyes and a tightening to her throat. She fumbled with 
 her reins a little blindly. 
 
 "Well, reckon I must be travelling" she murmured, 
 confusedly; but she paused a moment longer, looking 
 searchingly down into his face. 
 
 "You bin well?" she inquired, and another man 
 might have noticed a certain eagerness that underlay 
 the constraint of her manner. But David missed the 
 eagerness, and was aware only of the constraint, which 
 threw something of awkwardness into his own reply. 
 
 "Oh, yes, well s common," he answered; and was 
 102
 
 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 glad that with that she again gathered up her reins, 
 and with a couple of jerks got her horse once more 
 started in its shuffling, uneven gait. 
 
 For a moment David watched her go slowly up the 
 road, her figure in its forlornly faded calico swaying 
 slightly from side to side as the old mare rolled along, 
 and in his heart he was conscious of a vague pity for 
 the girl. 
 
 But directly the realization of his own wonderful 
 new happiness swept back upon him, and throwing 
 his head up he poured forth a soft, sweet whistle of 
 pure ecstasy, swinging along at a jubilant pace through 
 the delicate perfumed light of the vanishing day; and 
 Ellen Daw and her hardships speedily vanished into 
 the background of his mind. 
 
 As he neared home his little sister Ellie, the blue-eyed 
 baby of ten years ago, with flying hair shining about 
 her head in a red-gold haze as the last rays of sunlight 
 touched it, came racing down the hill to meet him. 
 
 "O Dave, Dave!" she cried, landing in his out 
 stretched arms, and quite breathless; "I ve found the 
 ole white turkey s nest! She s settin on eight eggs; 
 an Mammy ses I kin hev half er all ther turkeys she 
 raises fer findin ther nest." 
 
 "Well, I declar!" cried David, with proper admira 
 tion; "ain t you er smart girl?" And stooping he 
 caught her up and set her lightly on his shoulder, and 
 with her arm round his neck, and both her slender, 
 bare ankles clasped in one of his hands, he proceeded 
 gaily up the slope to the house. 
 
 103
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 This little sister was grown into an airy witch of a 
 thing, all dancing vivacity and gay unconsciousness; 
 with little elfish turns of speech and gesture which 
 were a constant source of wonder and fascination to 
 the other children of the Draft. 
 
 Slipping from David s shoulder at the house she 
 landed upon her restless bare feet like a bit of blown 
 milkweed down, and in a moment was off to the barn 
 on some other eager quest; for she flitted from one 
 delightful pursuit to another, like a swallow swooping 
 and darting through grey evening skies, now in this 
 direction, now in that. 
 
 David watched her go with a smile, for she was the 
 pet of all her brothers; then striking once more into his 
 gay whistle, he passed through the main room of the 
 house and out to the kitchen lean-to at the back, where 
 he found his mother busy getting supper. 
 
 At his entrance she glanced up from her kneading- 
 board, in greeting, but she did not speak, for her words 
 now were always few. 
 
 Her face still wore the expression it had caught, 
 when, ten years ago Alderson Cree had been brought 
 home from his last hunt. The face was old now, 
 wrinkled and worn by the past hard years, but the 
 look stayed always new, with a freshness of horror, as 
 though the blow had fallen but the day before. 
 
 Used as David was to that live tragedy, it came to 
 him that afternoon, in the face of his new happiness, 
 with a reawakening of distress, as though a phantom 
 out of the grim past had risen suddenly to mock him; 
 
 104
 
 A YOUNG MAN S FANCY 
 
 and with a sense that the sunlight of his happiness had 
 been suddenly blighted by a cloud, he caught the tin 
 wash basin from its nail on the wall, and turned out 
 to the well, to make his evening ablutions, with a 
 restless feeling almost of irritation toward his mother. 
 
 105
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 IN THE BACKWATERS OF LIFE 
 
 WITH the remembrance of her meeting with David 
 Cree still warmly fresh in her mind, Ellen Daw rode 
 slowly on her homeward way, following the main road 
 of the Draft, as it meandered through the ever nar 
 rowing valley, between zig-zag fence rows, burdened 
 with clouds of tender green leaf, white blossom of 
 thorn, and ethereal pink of the crab-apple. The road 
 ran between the small farms and cleared hillsides of 
 the valley; and from the occasional dooryards neigh 
 bours called greetings to her as they went about their 
 evening chores; and every now and then she met some 
 of the men on the road making their way homeward, 
 and exchanged a constrained "Howdy" with them, or 
 remark upon the weather. Half-way up the Draft she 
 passed the schoolhouse, a little square building of grey 
 logs and white strips of chinking and daubing, now, in 
 the idleness of spring and oncoming summer, standing 
 deserted and silent on its grassy knoll; brooding, per 
 haps, on past and gone sessions, with only an occasional 
 Sunday prayer-meeting, or preaching, to break its 
 peaceful monotony. Ellen half wondered to herself, 
 as she passed it, whether in its dreams of different 
 
 1 06
 
 IN THE BACKWATERS OF LIFE 
 
 children whom it had hovered, it ever remembered a 
 shy little gipsy-like child from off Drupe Mountain, 
 who for three winters had daily trudged the weary 
 miles from the top of the mountain to its door; and 
 who had suffered such agonies of ridicule at the hands 
 of the other children, all because her clothes were 
 shabbier and poorer than anyone s else, and because 
 she sometimes had only corn bread for her dinner. 
 Ellen hoped the schoolhouse had forgotten, and all 
 the scholars as well, that pitiful little figure of herself. 
 She could never forget it; but she could not bear to 
 think that others still remembered her forlorn, un- 
 mothered childhood. For she felt always an aching 
 pity for that thin little wistful child -self, and wished 
 that it were possible now, in her grown-up capacity, to 
 take the phantom of herself of ten years ago into her 
 empty arms, and give it the passionate caresses that a 
 mother would give caresses that neither she nor the 
 child-self had ever known; only some warm encom 
 passing affection like that, she felt, would ever take 
 the sting out of those cruel school days. 
 
 A little past the schoolhouse, Kate Sawyer, milk 
 ing her cow, of a beautiful Titian red colouring, in a 
 fence corner of the road, stopped Ellen with a request. 
 
 "Ef yer see my ole sow up erlong ther head er ther 
 Draft, wished you d give her er turn back this erway. 
 She broke loose this mornin an I m mighty fraid 
 she ll git erway out inter ther mountains," she said. 
 "Soh there! back-er-leg!" she adjured the cow; 
 and presently the soft purr of the milk frothing into 
 
 107
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 the bucket went on as before. And with a "Yes m, I 
 will," Ellen, eagerly glad of any opportunity to be 
 neighbourly, rode on her way again. 
 
 The sun had dropped behind the Drupe Range 
 in so clear a spring sky of turquoise, shading to 
 yellow, that there were no littlest clouds even, to 
 fling out banners of colour at its departure; the moun 
 tains drew in steeper and closer on either side of 
 the track; frogs chorused from all the little streams 
 and moist places in the fields, and the day seemed 
 vanishing in long drawn breaths of fainter and 
 fainter light; and in all the world only God knew 
 what a lonesome heart Ellen Daw carried with her 
 on her homeward way and in truth on all her 
 ways through the world. 
 
 A short distance past the Ford place, which was the 
 last inhabited house in the Draft, Ellen overtook Kate 
 Sawyer s delinquent sow, wallowing with luxurious 
 abandonment in a capacious mud hole, and with 
 shouts and flourishes of her maple switch got the fat 
 old lady to her feet and started her grunting and 
 scuttling down the road toward home and an anxious 
 mistress. And with a glow of satisfaction, and some 
 thing of a feeling of friendship with Kate Sawyer, at 
 least, Ellen proceeded on her way. For to even the 
 lonesomest is given the privilege of doing little bits of 
 kindness for others, which gives some slight feeling of 
 being in touch with the rest of mankind. To one who 
 has had all his or her life endless store of friendship 
 and love, this might seem a meagre enough taste of 
 
 1 08
 
 IN THE BACKWATERS OF LIFE 
 
 good fellowship; but to one who, like Ellen Daw, had 
 known real loneliness, it was unspeakably better than 
 nothing, and was, in fact, the way by which she ob 
 tained most of her feelings of companionship with her 
 neighbours. There was scarcely a person in all the 
 Jumping Creek Draft who had not at one time or 
 another received some little hidden bit of help from 
 the lonesome dark girl, who lived such a dreary, shut- 
 away life on the mountain, and who possessed such a 
 meagre portion of either the thoughts or hearts of the 
 neighbours whom she so eagerly sought to help with 
 her little secret kindnesses. 
 
 If she had done any one a service that person never 
 knew it, for she concealed the fact with a diffident 
 reserve; and if she longed with her very heart and 
 soul for the merry companionship of the young people 
 of her own age, or even for the quieter but no less 
 dear friendliness of the older people, no one ever 
 guessed that either. For, born on the top of a lone 
 some mountain, and living almost from the day of her 
 birth a solitary, unloved life, the girl had developed a 
 constrained reserve that shut her away from all human 
 fellowship more effectually than even the inaccessibility 
 of the mountain itself. 
 
 Though she saw and heard and felt like other people, 
 her shyness held her tongue in a fatal silence. When 
 people spoke to her gaily or pleasantly, her whole 
 heart leaped toward them in warm response, and she 
 would have given worlds to answer in kind, but always 
 the blank wall of her reserve and self-consciousness rose 
 
 109
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 up between, and her responses came only in difficult 
 sentences or monosyllables. 
 
 "I dunno how tis," Kate Sawyer remarked to her 
 neighbour and intimate, Allie Snyder, "but somehow 
 every time I see Ellen Daw, from off Drupe Mountain, 
 seems like she s more froze up an ever. I try ter talk 
 ter her, an give her er pleasant word, but she jest drops 
 her eyes an says No m, er Yes m, an seems like she d 
 es leave I d take er stick ter her es speak ter her." 
 
 "Well, she jest freezes me right up," Mrs. Synder 
 declared with large frankness, changing Orin Snyder s 
 smallest son and heir from one hip to the other, and 
 putting up a frowzy lock with her disengaged hand. 
 
 "An I can t say es ther s many makes me feel that 
 erway," and thereat she laughed with a mountainous 
 joviality which shook her all over, and gave to the 
 baby a foretaste of what an earthquake might be. 
 
 "Don t seem like none er ther girls er ther Draft 
 takes up with her neither," Mrs. Sawyer went on, 
 tentatively. 
 
 "That s so, they don t," agreed Mrs. Snyder. "I 
 tried ter git Lucy ter go an set by her when she comes 
 down ter preachin , but she says Ellen s so currus an 
 dumb, an wears such funny clothes, don t none er ther 
 girls want ter hev nothin ter do with her." 
 
 "Well, she may be dumb when hit comes ter talkin , 
 but tell yer one thing, she kin ever more lastingly out- 
 sing anything in this yere Draft," the other declared. 
 "An she ain t really so bad lookin when yer come ter 
 study her, sure nough. Ef she didn t wear such currus 
 
 no
 
 IN THE BACKWATERS OF LIFE 
 
 clothes an didn t look so dark an kinder skeered, 
 she d be as good lookin as most anybody." 
 
 So ran the general opinion of Ellen Daw among the 
 Draft people whenever they took the trouble to have 
 an opinion at all about her, which, in truth, was only 
 at rare intervals when a dearth of more interesting 
 gossip turned their thoughts upon those who dwelt in 
 the backwaters of life; for even the Draft has its back 
 waters, where existence seems almost at a standstill, 
 and where personalities stagnate, or develop, in their 
 lonesome aloofness, unlocked for and unnatural traits. 
 
 And in these backwaters Ellen Daw had lived her 
 whole life of twenty-two years, without ever knowing 
 what it was to have any living soul care for her, or 
 worse still, without ever having come in contact with 
 anyone, man, woman, or child, who desired any of the 
 store of affection which she was so eager yet so fearful 
 to give. 
 
 At her birth her mother had died, and her father 
 handing Ellen, the only child, over to Silas Daw and 
 his wife, for adoption, had sold his small farm on 
 Drupe Mountain, and moved away into the mining 
 district of West Virginia, where he shortly married 
 again; and in the vicissitudes of supporting a steadily 
 increasing family, probably forgot, or certainly did not 
 care to remember, the existence of his other child in 
 the Jumping Creek neighbourhood. 
 
 The brief episode of her own home life closed, Ellen 
 grew up as Ellen Daw, and most people forgot that 
 she was an adopted child. Others forgot it, but as 
 
 in
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 soon as Ellen grew old enough to know what it meant 
 it never slipped from her mind. The Daws had no 
 children of their own, and Ellen might have found a 
 small store of affection in Mrs. Daw s heart in the 
 place of her three little dead children that disease and 
 accident had ravished from her, one after the other; 
 but, unfortunately, when Ellen was still very small, 
 Mrs. Daw received a severe fall from which she was 
 long in recovering, and which left her, when she was 
 once more able to be about, physically strong, but 
 mentally almost idiotic. And by Silas Daw s sister, 
 who came to take charge of things about the house on 
 Mrs. Daw s being incapacitated, Ellen was constantly 
 reminded of the fact that she " was nothin but er little 
 throwed erway thing." 
 
 When the girl was fifteen this tyrant died, and upon 
 Ellen s shoulders fell the household cares of the farm. 
 
 For her adopted father Ellen found it impossible 
 even to pretend any affection; and certainly he had 
 none for her, for Silas Daw had never cared in all his 
 life for any soul but himself, and never for anything 
 save his own pleasures which consisted of all the 
 hunting he felt equal to, and all the whiskey he could 
 get hold of. In times past he had worked well enough 
 on the farm when not hunting or intoxicated, but now 
 in his latter years, whiskey and rheumatism had so 
 combined to disable him, that the brunt of the farm 
 work fell on Ellen, and girl though she was, her life 
 was filled with a multiplicity of hard tasks that might 
 have broken even a strong man down, and which lent 
 
 112
 
 IN THE BACKWATERS OF LIFE 
 
 to her sombre face, besides its wistfulness, a look at 
 times of utter weariness, as though no sleep could ever 
 be long enough to rest her. 
 
 Growing up in this reserved and unloved atmosphere, 
 Ellen reached out eagerly in secret and bestowed a 
 wealth of unsuspected affection upon different people 
 of the neighbourhood who chanced in some way to 
 appeal to her fancy. And once having made them, as 
 it were, her own, by her affection, she adored them 
 with the motherhood of her love; and for the happiness 
 of these her chosen people, no sacrifice on her own 
 part would have seemed to her too great. 
 
 Unfortunately, the people upon whom the spirit of 
 her love alighted never needed anything that she had 
 to give them, least of all her yearning affection, and 
 so went on their way entirely unconsicous of the 
 abundance of devotion that was theirs to take. 
 
 For love and for loveliness Ellen Daw s heart was 
 passionately hungry. Fortunately, in the desire for 
 the latter, Nature, that dear universal old woman, who 
 is sometimes a god and sometimes an infinitely close 
 friend, and at no time exclusive with the exclusiveness 
 of mankind, stepped in here and played the Fairy 
 Godmother to this lonely Cinderella; spreading always 
 before her an endless play of sunshine and cloud, and 
 subtle evening shadows; summer bloom and tender 
 tricks of blended colouring; infinite variety of music 
 and fugitive perfumes; all wrought into a marvellous 
 vast mosaic of delight, made up of sight, of sound, and 
 of ethereal fragrance, and of all the manifestations of 
 
 "3
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 the senses; having no boundaries, and no beginning or 
 end, and shot through and welded together by an upper 
 and under and all-encompassing envelopment of love, 
 and the warm sunshine of joy. 
 
 Ellen Daw had one other thing, too, to give her 
 happiness: a thing she rejoiced in, and hugged very 
 tight. She could sing. She could sing better than 
 anyone else in the Draft, or anywhere round; better 
 than anyone she had ever heard, and she knew it. 
 And when she sang, and then only, she loved herself 
 with a passionate uplifting, because then she herself 
 became the vehicle of something beautiful. 
 
 It was this eager desire for beauty in every form 
 which made her wistful affections centre with peculiar 
 intensity around Mary Reddin and David Cree, because 
 they were the two most beautiful people she knew. 
 
 Mary Reddin was a constant source of wonder and 
 delight to her. Her loveliness and gayety, and frank 
 lack of reserve, fascinated and terrified her almost 
 equally. When they were together Mary s bright 
 friendliness and playfulness more than any of the 
 other girls of the neighbourhood ever showed her 
 alike embarrassed and fascinated her, and brought out 
 all her awkward shyness; so that Mary never felt, 
 though she truly desired to be friends with Ellen, that 
 she ever got a step nearer to the silent girl. But when 
 Ellen was alone, every look of the other s lovely little 
 face, and touch of her radiant manner, came back to 
 her with overwhelming sweetness, and she felt almost 
 a maternal fierceness of protection for this joyous 
 
 114
 
 IN THE BACKWATERS OF LIFE 
 
 personality, though she was only Mary s senior by a 
 few years. 
 
 With David Cree, Ellen thought she was in love, in 
 the ordinary meaning of the expression. Never in 
 her wildest dreams did she think of his loving her; her 
 whole opinion of herself was too humble, even if her 
 long apprenticeship to indifference had failed to teach 
 her her lesson. But under down-dropped lids, that 
 never gave her secret away, she watched his every 
 movement, and the few idle words he had ever spoken 
 to her were treasured carefully in her heart. But 
 though Ellen thus deceived herself, anyone who really 
 knew her would have known that she was no more 
 truly in love with David Cree than she was with Mary 
 Reddin, or in truth with any manifestation of beauty. 
 
 At the head of the Draft, where it widens out for a 
 moment before plunging into the side of Drupe Moun 
 tain, Ellen rode splashingly into the middle of Jumping 
 Creek, where one fords it for the last time on the way 
 up the mountain, and letting the mare s head down to 
 drink she turned herself a little in her curious high- 
 pommelled old saddle, and looked with expectant eyes 
 as she always did here across the golden thread 
 of the stream to a little green knoll peppered all over 
 just now with dandelions which rose with a gracious 
 round slope out of the valley, and swept back in ascend 
 ing steeps until it lost itself in the wooded heights of 
 Peter s Ridge. And on this grassy knoll, in all its 
 glory, stood the marvel and admiration of the Jumping 
 Creek Draft. 
 
 "5
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 A neat, four- roomed brick cottage, with white porches 
 at back and front, a paling fence around it, and chicken- 
 coop and woodshed in the rear, may not seem a thing 
 to excite intense curiosity and heated speculation. 
 Nevertheless, its erection in the Draft gave good cause 
 for surprise and comment. 
 
 In the first place, it was the only brick house that 
 had ever appeared there indeed it was the only one 
 in a radius of ten miles, all the other dwellings being 
 for the most part log cabins, with an occasional more 
 pretentious frame house. 
 
 In the second place why should such finished 
 elegance and luxury be tucked away from the general 
 public in the obscurity of the head of the Draft, while, 
 had it been placed in the lower and more populous 
 part of the valley, it might daily have gladdened many 
 an eye with mingled envy and admiration? In the 
 third and last place, and most of all to be wondered 
 over why had such a nest as this been built by 
 Adrian Blair, an unmarried man, and one, moreover, 
 who was not known to be paying particular attention 
 to any of the pretty and attractive girls of the vicinity ? 
 
 Truly, when one took all these things into considera 
 tion, it was hardly surprising that the little demure 
 brick house should be food for such intensity of specu 
 lation. 
 
 For six months it had been finished; and for six 
 months it had stood empty and unfurnished here on 
 its hilltop, looking down the widening expanse of the 
 Draft, and waiting for what ? 
 
 116
 
 IN THE BACKWATERS OF LIFE 
 
 From her perch on her old mare Ellen looked eagerly 
 at it on this afternoon with the familiar delight with 
 which a child regards a much admired toy in a shop 
 window. 
 
 Every time she passed the house she paused in the 
 stream, ostensibly to water her horse, but in reality 
 that she might fill her eyes with all the charms of the 
 little dwelling. 
 
 None of its smallest details escaped her; and once, 
 when no one was about, she had hidden her horse 
 behind a clump of bushes by the roadside, and with 
 quick glances in all directions had slipped through the 
 gateway and up to the very porch of the house. 
 
 It was to her a visit to an enchanted palace. She 
 had never ventured to go again. But no second trip 
 was needed to keep fresh the remembrance of all its 
 charms, and she had only to shut her eyes to see again 
 the view down the valley from the little porch, and to 
 remember that in the morning the sun looked in at the 
 kitchen windows, and that in the afternoon it brightened 
 the ones at the front. Nor did it require any effort on 
 her part to recall the woodshed filled to overflowing 
 with cut stove wood, nor that little fenced patch of 
 ground at the back lying so ideally for a vegetable 
 garden. 
 
 As Ellen raised her eyes on this particular evening 
 to the house above her, with her usual flush of excite 
 ment, she saw that since her passing it in the morning 
 Adrian Blair had been there at work, and now two 
 little strips of fresh earth ran from the porch steps on 
 
 117
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 either side of the path down to the gate; so smooth 
 and so even, and so irresistibly attractive, that Ellen s 
 very fingers tingled to drop the necessary flower seeds 
 into their bewitching depths. 
 
 "Well, I declar," she whispered in tender delight. 
 
 To her tired and longing heart these waiting seed 
 beds seemed to give the last finishing touch to the 
 place, and now, how dear, how homelike it all was! 
 
 "Well," she whispered again to herself, "hit s nice 
 ter know there is sech pretty places in ther world. 
 Hope nobody won t ever live in hit es won t take keer 
 of hit," she added. For it seemed to her that it would 
 be real suffering for this little cuddled dwelling ever to 
 fall into careless hands. 
 
 Across the creek Ellen Daw s way left the main road 
 and struck into a steep and rocky path between two 
 sharp ridges of Drupe Mountain. Often in the early 
 spring overflowed by a torrent of rushing yellow water, 
 even now, at its best, the track was scarcely more than 
 a dried creek bed. To Ellen and the old mare, however, 
 its ruggedness was familiar enough, and neither was in 
 any way disturbed by the blundering struggles of the 
 mare as she scrambled over loose stones and up washed- 
 out banks, her progress filling the shut-in ravine with 
 crashing re-echoing sounds. 
 
 It was nearly dark now, especially so in this narrow 
 way between the ridges, and more than once Ellen 
 adjured her horse to " Git erlong now, er I won t git 
 my work done up til way in ther night." 
 
 But in truth she was in no very great hurry to get 
 118
 
 IN THE BACKWATERS OF LIFE 
 
 home, for she loved the still woods at this time of the 
 evening, and was loth to exchange their quiet and 
 delicate fragrance for the hard tasks and probable 
 scolding from her adopted father, which awaited her 
 return. 
 
 So accustomed was she to the stillness and loneliness 
 of the road it was with a quick start of surprise, 
 as her horse came upon a grass-grown stretch where 
 the hoof-beats fell almost noiselessly, that she heard 
 some one or something coming down the track ahead 
 of her, still hidden by a sharp bend of the road. At 
 the sound the girl straightened up and caught her reins 
 tighter with nervous dread, while she keyed herself to 
 listen. 
 
 On that lonely track between the mountain s black 
 sides, and in the fading still light, there was something 
 terrifying in the sound of that mysterious thing blun 
 dering down the mountain toward her; and Ellen, 
 who rarely knew what physical fear was, caught 
 herself whispering in surprise, "I I believe I m 
 skeered! " 
 
 It was an infinitely deserted road, and in case of 
 danger the girl might have shrieked in vain for help. 
 Ellen knew this only too well, and and, what was it, 
 what could it be just around the bend there ? 
 
 The sound was very close now, and she could make 
 out heavy feet clumping and blundering among the 
 loose stones, and once a pebble, kicked from the road, 
 went flying away into the undergrowth with a tiny 
 crash. 
 
 119
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 She and the thing were very close to the bend now; 
 in a moment they would round it simultaneously. 
 
 "Lord!" the girl breathed fearfully, and with the 
 ejaculation made the turn. Out of the twilight there 
 reeled toward her the slouched figure of a man. His 
 head was sunk down low between his shoulders and a 
 thick growth of beard covered most of his face. Not 
 raising his eyes, he passed the girl unseeingly, muttering 
 under his breath and slipping among the stones. 
 
 At the sudden appearance of his vague shape out of 
 the gloom, Ellen s horse had given a surprisingly quick 
 bound to one side, and then stopped with a startled 
 snort. 
 
 With a quieting word to the frightened animal, Ellen 
 turned quickly in her saddle and looked after the 
 unkempt figure, her heart beating unreasonably fast. 
 
 "Reckon hit must be one er Mr. Whitcomb s new 
 hands at ther mill," she reassured herself under her 
 breath, for she was surprised and a trifle ashamed that 
 such an ordinary occurrence should have so startled 
 her. Aleck Whitcomb s sawmill was set for the present 
 on that part of Drupe Mountain not very far from 
 the Daws place; the road to it turned off Ellen s path 
 a little distance further on, and nothing was more 
 probable than that the man who had just passed her 
 had come from there. Ellen sniffed the air "Too 
 drunk ter see where he s ergoin ," she concluded. 
 Then she gave a queer little hysterical laugh. 
 
 "I wouldn t er thought ennything d er skeered me 
 so. I d better be er gittin erlong er somethin else ll 
 
 120
 
 IN THE BACKWATERS OF LIFE 
 
 come er jumpin at me outer ther dark," she told 
 herself scornfully. But contemptuous as she was 
 over her fright, she nevertheless quickened the mare s 
 gait to such good purpose that it was not many min 
 utes before she arrived at her own home barn at 
 almost a trot. 
 
 121
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A DREAM OF FRESH EARTH 
 
 IT was the day after the planting of Robert Reddin s 
 corn-field, and the long golden fingers of afternoon 
 sunlight beckoned to Mary Reddin irresistibly with the 
 sweet allurement of out-of-doors. 
 
 " Ef you don t need me no more right now," she said 
 to her mother, "I b lieve I ll jest run over to A nt 
 Marthy Lamfire s an git ther flower seeds she s bin 
 er savin fer me. She s got some er them red beans 
 that brings these here little hummin birds; an some 
 other seeds too, an looks like termorrer s goin 
 ter be er nice day, an I d like ter git my garden 
 planted." 
 
 "I don t need yer," Mrs. Reddin answered, "but 
 Lor me, Mary, I d think you d be skeered er that ole 
 crazy woman." 
 
 "Mary ain t skeered er nufnn ," the next to the 
 smallest Reddin suddenly piped up, regarding her with 
 baby eyes of adoration. 
 
 "Oh yes, sir, I am skeered er somethin ," Mary 
 returned. 
 
 He looked at her as one looks upon the shattering of 
 a dearly loved idol. 
 
 122
 
 A DREAM OF FRESH EARTH 
 
 "Is you skeered, Mary?" he said. What is you 
 skeered of?" 
 
 "I m skeered er you" she returned, looking down 
 at him with mock eyes of terror. 
 
 A look of wonder and delight dawned in his small 
 face, and he even assayed a slight masculine swagger 
 ill suited to his skirts; but his answer came with fine 
 graciousness : 
 
 "You needn t be skeered er me, Mary, I won t do 
 anyfing ter yer," he said. 
 
 "But I am skeered," she persisted. "I m skeered 
 you ll eat me up!" and thereat she suddenly swooped 
 upon him, and gathering him up in her arms she 
 proceeded herself to devour him in the orthodox manner 
 of older sisters, and having presently reduced him to a 
 perfectly limp state of breathless gurgles, she deposited 
 him in a chair, and catching up her pinky sunbonnet 
 flitted out of the house and down the lane like a wind 
 blown streak of sunlight. 
 
 It was a couple of miles from the Reddins place to 
 the Mossy Hollow, and Mary walked quickly that she 
 might be back in time to help with the evening chores. 
 But in spite of her haste she found time to note the 
 little wild flowers rioting in the sunny corners of the 
 fence rows, and to observe a bluebird s nest in an old 
 hollow stump; and at one place where a barren, slaty 
 hillside was all a delicate haze of wild pansies she 
 lingered a few moments in delight. 
 
 "I certainly am glad ter see yer all ergin," she said, 
 nodding politely to the flowers. "Hit seems er power- 
 
 123
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 ful long time sence you was here, an I wished you d 
 stay all summer; but reckon you ll hev took off them 
 pretty blue dresses an gone ter bed ergin fore hardly 
 er month s out. I wouldn t be that lazy fer nothin ," 
 she cried with a show of scorn. But she waved her 
 hand to them as she left the pretty place, just to show 
 she was in fun, and the pansies understood perfectly 
 and their little flower faces lost none of their merry 
 sweetness at her words. 
 
 She was warm and a little flushed when she came at 
 length to the mouth of the Mossy Hollow, and glad 
 enough to be taken into its shady arms, for she had 
 walked fast, and part of the way she had even danced 
 
 for truly had she not joyous cause for dancing ? 
 A little distance up the hollow she sat down by the 
 pathway to rest and cool off. The woods were all 
 starred with pink and white trillium blossoms, and 
 here and there on the azalea, bushes were bursting buds 
 and almost full blooms of rosy colour, and in the air 
 was the subtle perfume of moist, shady woods and 
 growing things. 
 
 Mary drew a long soft breath and smiled happily. 
 She had a delicate sense of aliveness and of well-being, 
 and suddenly in the mysterious atmosphere of the woods 
 
 her thoughts winging along the golden stretches of 
 her love she felt as though she were waking into 
 communion with something wider and greater than her 
 small self, as though she half guessed at a fuller life, 
 a life not bounded by any of the trivial confines that 
 she knew, but running through all the worlds and 
 
 124
 
 A DREAM OF FRESH EARTH 
 
 more besides; and as if in answer to it faculties within 
 herself suddenly awoke and responded, and for a space 
 she was swept away on an infinite wave of existence 
 greater and more alive than anything she had ever 
 known. 
 
 For a short time only was this curious uplifting upon 
 her, then the strange illusive thing drew itself away 
 once more into the unknown from whence it had looked 
 forth, and again she was only a half -frightened girl 
 sitting alone in the green woods of May. Yet though 
 it fled, in its trail was left a great exultation and love 
 of life, and a compassion for those who were somehow 
 out of tune with it; and as she rose, the light of her 
 love and of her awed surprise still on her face, her 
 thoughts turned compassionately to the old woman 
 whom she was going to visit, and who seemed so 
 cruelly shut away from all the gladness of existence 
 by the grey walls of her own bitter thoughts. 
 
 There had been something of a tie between Martha 
 Lamfire and Mary Reddin ever since a day five or six 
 years ago when the old woman had noticed Mary for 
 the first time. 
 
 It was a winter school day, and Mary, having been 
 delayed by something, was racing down the road to 
 overtake the main bunch of the Draft children. She 
 ran lightly with her head up in the air, the stinging 
 cold making her cheeks flame, and suddenly at a turn 
 in the road she came face to face with old Martha. 
 Stepping quickly out of the narrow beaten path into 
 the deep snow, Mary would have passed with a hasty 
 
 125
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 " Howdy," for like most of the children of the 
 neighbourhood she was afraid of the old woman s 
 curious look and wild eyes. But as they came abreast 
 a skinny hand shot out all at once from under the 
 frayed plaid shawl and gripping Mary s arm brought 
 her to a sudden stand. For a moment the old woman 
 peered into the girl s rosy face with startling black 
 eyes; then "Aire you Robert Reddin s girl?" she 
 demanded. 
 
 "Yes m, Mary Reddin," Mary faltered, panting a 
 little, for she was frightened. Martha looked at her a 
 moment longer. 
 
 "Yer pretty," she said at length harshly, "so was 
 my Ammy, but hit didn t help her none," and loosing 
 the girl s arm with a fling, she went on once more upon 
 her lonely way. And Mary sped home to question her 
 mother about Ammy Lamfire. And after she heard 
 the girl s tragic little story, child though she was, she 
 felt an eager desire to be kind to the old woman, and 
 with many little acts of friendliness she wooed her at 
 length into something of an intimacy. 
 
 When Mary made her way to the lonely cabin at 
 the head of the hollow on this occasion, she found old 
 Martha at work in her garden patch, her whole shriv 
 elled personality almost of a colour with the brown 
 earth. 
 
 The last ten years had altered her little. The death 
 of Amabel had made the one great change in her life, 
 and aged and withered by that, like a blighted leaf, 
 the years afterwards had little effect upon her. In the 
 
 126
 
 A DREAM OF FRESH EARTH 
 
 dooryard a few perennials shot up out of the grass, 
 remnants of Amabel s little garden of long ago, and 
 by the corner of the porch a great bush of bridal wreath 
 was almost hidden in its own clouds of white bloom. 
 
 "Howdy, A nt Marthy," Mary called across the 
 fence to her. The old woman spun around at her 
 greeting, and whipped off her sunbonnet that she 
 might see. 
 
 "Howdy, howdy," she jerked. "Walk up onter 
 ther porch an set yerself down." And sticking her 
 unwieldy mattock into the ground she came across the 
 furrows to the girl in uneven strides. 
 
 "I come over ter see could I git ther flower seeds yer 
 promised," Mary said, dropping down to a seat on 
 the edge of the porch. 
 
 "I ll fetch em right out now," said the other, dis 
 appearing as she spoke into the cabin. 
 
 " Ef yer hadn t er come fer em terday I d er sent yer 
 word, fer ther moon s right now, an hit s time they 
 was in ther ground," she continued, presently reap 
 pearing with her hands full of little newspaper packages 
 wrapped around with thread, in which were the desired 
 seeds, together with many a withered petal. 
 
 "There," she said, dropping them all save one 
 package into Mary s lap; "them s ther coxcombs, an 
 zinnias, an balsams, an marigolds; an that big 
 package is ther red beans." 
 
 So saying she seated herself on the step by the girl, 
 and drawing her thin knees up under her chin she 
 clasped her arms about them, her back against a post 
 
 127
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 of the porch. "An now," she went on, regarding the 
 girl with bright witch eyes, "I m ergoin ter giv you 
 what I never lowed ter giv ter nobody," and un 
 clasping one hand she held up the little bundle she 
 had retained. 
 
 "This here," she said, "is some maid-in-ther-mist 
 seed, er ther same stock es some Ammy planted ther 
 year she died. I ve planted hit every year sence and 
 saved ther seed, an now I m ergoin ter giv hit ter 
 you, seein es you re a good hand with flowers, an I 
 want you ter plant hit so s ther ll be somethin left in 
 ther Draft es Ammy hed er hand in." 
 
 Mary took the seeds held out to her descendants 
 of those far-away ancestors planted almost twenty-five 
 years ago by the dead girl. 
 
 "But whyn t yer plant em yerself this spring like yer 
 allers do?" she questioned. 
 
 The old woman shook her head. 
 
 "I ll not see em bloom this year," she said. 
 
 "Lor , A nt Marthy, why not?" cried the girl. 
 
 "No, sir, I won t see em bloom," the old woman 
 went on, "I ve hed er vision er fresh earth two nights 
 runnin , an reckon I know well ernough what that 
 means." 
 
 "Lor ," Mary returned, trying to turn the words off 
 lightly. " Don t talk that erway; reckon most anybody 
 could dream er fresh earth in ther spring. I was 
 plantin corn all yesterd y an I seen er whole field er 
 fresh earth las night." 
 
 At her words the woman s eyes lit up like a flame, 
 128
 
 A DREAM OF FRESH EARTH 
 
 and she thrust her strange, crazy old face close to the 
 girl s. 
 
 "Don t yer make er mock er me, girl," she cried 
 fiercely, as Mary shrunk away from her, startled. "I 
 tell yer I ve dreamt er dream twict er fresh earth, an 
 ther ll be two graves dug in this yere Draft fore ther 
 month s out; one er them ll be mine, I reckon, an ther 
 Lord knows I don t keer ef hit is; but who ther other ll 
 be ther dream ain t said." She got up suddenly and 
 stood beside the girl, looking away down the little 
 hollow. "Aha-a," she said slowly, "two fresh graves; 
 an I ve seed er shadder in ther Draft too, what nobody 
 else ain t seed yit, but they will see hit. An hit s er 
 shadder what s follerin David Cree." 
 
 "David Cree?" screamed the girl, struggling to her 
 feet. 
 
 The old woman whirled upon her, "What s David 
 Cree ter you?" she demanded. 
 
 Mary put her hand to her breast and tried to recover 
 herself. 
 
 "He he s " she stammered and was silent. 
 
 The old woman looked at her a moment half pity 
 ingly. "O Lord, them Crees!" she cried at length, 
 passionately. "Alderson Cree broke my girl s heart, 
 an you d better mind out David don t break your n." 
 
 For a moment longer she stared wildly at the girl; 
 then she spoke in a softened tone and her look was 
 almost affectionate. 
 
 "You don t believe what I say," she said, "but ef 
 I m took sick will yer come ter me?" 
 
 129
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "Er course I will, A nt Marthy, er course," Mary 
 promised eagerly, stooping to pick up the dropped seed 
 packages, and slipping them into her pocket. 
 
 "I mus go now," she said hesitatingly, the colour 
 beginning to come back to her face, though she was 
 still frightened. 
 
 Martha stepped over to the bush of bridal wreath 
 and began breaking off long branches of the snowy 
 bloom. 
 
 "Be you goin back by ther low places, past ther 
 Hull graveyard?" she asked. 
 
 Mary wavered a moment. "I I reckon so," she 
 said at length, though she had meant to return by the 
 road, the way by which she had come. 
 
 "Then take these here ter Ammy," the other said, 
 loading her arms with the white sprays. "Put em on 
 her grave an tell her I say her mammy ll be erlong 
 soon." 
 
 Mary gathered the bridal wreath carefully in one 
 arm, and climbing over the fence set out once more 
 down the hollow, the old woman calling after her, 
 "Be sure an come when I send fer yer." 
 
 Mary walked quickly along the path, and when a 
 bend hid her from the cabin she even ran, for she had 
 been really frightened this time and she still had an 
 uncomfortable feeling that the crazy old woman might 
 be following her. But when she reached the mouth 
 of the hollow where it enters the Draft, she found this 
 wider world quite as gay and almost as sunny as when 
 she had left it, and its tranquillity reassured her some- 
 
 130
 
 A DREAM OF FRESH EARTH 
 
 what. Nevertheless she whispered half resentfully, "I 
 wish folks wouldn t go dreamin er fresh earth, an 
 talkin er shadders on er pretty day like this." But 
 then she whispered again to comfort herself, "Pshaw! 
 hit s jestther pore ole soul s craziness." And the world 
 after all, as seen from the Draft, appearing to be a safe 
 and happy place, she gave her shoulders a toss to rid 
 herself of the black fear that had settled upon her, 
 and then went on her way almost as radiantly as 
 before. 
 
 Crossing the main road of the Draft she climbed a 
 fence or two and struck into the little path leading 
 toward the Reddins farm over the low places on a 
 spur of the Drupe Mountain, which here almost cuts 
 the Draft in two. 
 
 The path was elastic with moss under her feet, and 
 the hillsides here sloped towards the south, so that 
 these woods were sunnier and warmer than those of 
 the Mossy Hollow, and in their genial hearts the very 
 essence of spring seemed rioting in bloom and un 
 curling fern fronds; as though the great spirit of the 
 woods had divided itself into a myriad of tiny person 
 alities, and become incarnated for the mere joy of 
 the earth life in springtime into all the little blue 
 and white hepaticas, the dainty claytonias, bloodroot, 
 adder s tongue, columbine, and all the assembled mul 
 titude of rainbow tint and fragrance; like a sunbeam 
 broken by the prism into its component colours. And 
 one might have imagined an undercurrent of gay 
 conversation between these delicate personalities all
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 different manifestations of one great thought; the 
 conversation in a key too ethereal for physical ears 
 which guess not of the wonderful unheard things which 
 go on above and below their scale of hearing. Or 
 perhaps, after all, the spirits of flowers communicate 
 with each other by fragrance, and hold long conver 
 sations all in perfume. 
 
 At the Hull burying-ground where Amabel Lamfire s 
 dead beauty had been laid five and twenty years before, 
 Mary turned from the pathway and stepped carefully 
 across the little uneven mounds, until she came to 
 Amabel s. There was no stone to mark it from the 
 rest of the graves, but Mary knew it by a clump of 
 jonquils at its head. Few indeed of the graves had 
 stones, the remembrance of their position being en 
 trusted to love, helped out by an occasional root of 
 some of the home flowers, taken from the dooryard 
 and planted there to make, as it were, an added tender 
 connection between the departed and their old sur 
 roundings; and among the graves that May afternoon 
 many an old-fashioned garden bloom had opened its 
 spring eyes, a little surprised, perhaps, to find itself in 
 the quiet of the shadowy woods instead of the accus 
 tomed sunniness of the dooryard where it had yearly 
 battled for existence with the all-pervading children 
 and chickens. 
 
 At Amabel s grave Mary knelt down, and taking the 
 burden of white blooms from her arm she laid them 
 over the carpet of periwinkle vine which had run riot 
 among all the graves, and as the last white spray left 
 
 132
 
 A DREAM OF FRESH EARTH 
 
 her hand she whispered softly, "Yer mammy sent yer 
 these, an she says she ll be erlong soon." Then half 
 surprised at herself she looked wondering down at the 
 heap of blooms. Why had she so naturally repeated 
 the crazy old woman s message? Just as though the 
 dead girl could really hear could she perhaps ? 
 With the thought the realization of the nearness of the 
 unseen world swept over the girl for the first time. 
 Was it possible that Amabel Lamfire, in a beauty of 
 spirit probably far more beautiful than even her 
 exquisite physical personality had been, stood by and 
 watched this other young daughter of the Draft piling 
 the white bridal wreath all over her grave the bridal 
 wreath which was never hers to wear? And if she 
 watched, what did she feel toward the girl who loved 
 Alderson Cree s son? Would she resent another s 
 happiness because her own heart had been broken? 
 With a quick fear Mary put her delicately pure face 
 down among the flowers, and whispered, "Let me an 1 
 David be happy! Oh! let me an David be happy," 
 over and over. And in her heart she meant her petition 
 only for Amabel Lamfire. 
 
 For a moment more she bent over the grave, then 
 with a last touch upon the flowers she rose to her feet 
 and stepping again across the other graves regained 
 the path, and as she did so she came suddenly face to 
 face with David Cree. 
 
 David gave a low, joyous laugh, as though the sight 
 of her was the consummation of a long train of golden 
 dreams.
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "I thought maybe you d come back this erway," he 
 said. "Mis Reddin said you d gone over ter A nt 
 Marthy s." 
 
 He stood still in the path before her without moving 
 nearer, just looking at her, as though the reality of her 
 sweet presence came to him as a fresh surprise. 
 
 Then all at once, and still in silence, he opened wide 
 his arms and held them out to her. 
 
 An instant Mary hesitated half fearfully. But there 
 was nothing now about him of the fierce passion that 
 he had showed the evening before, instead his silent 
 gesture wooed her tenderly, almost reverently. 
 
 A moment more she paused, then with the flash of 
 a bird she went into the shelter of his arms, and her 
 heart and her soul went with her. 
 
 And thus in the green aisles of the spring woods 
 David Cree and Mary Reddin made their promises to 
 one another, up by the old Hull graveyard. 
 
 134
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 A HAPPY MAN 
 
 "HAPPY is the man who has found his life s work." 
 Ah! happy indeed! But how few find it, or when 
 finding it recognize it, and know past all doubt that in 
 that occupation and in no other shall they find their 
 best fulfilment! 
 
 How many, instead, answer to every chance pipe of 
 circumstance, and dance first in one direction and then 
 in another, leaving behind a zig-zag feeble trail, in 
 place of the straight line of progress. 
 
 Finding his life s work, George Hedrick knew it, 
 and was a happy man. He loved life and the com 
 panionship of his fellow-men, women, and children; 
 he loved the gossip of things past and present, and the 
 guesses at the future; he loved a shady porch to sit 
 upon in the summer, and a warm stove to toast his 
 feet at in the winter, and always in both seasons an 
 extra chair for a friend; and all these things of his 
 desire came to him in full measure, pressed down and 
 running over, with the keeping of a cross-roads store. 
 
 "An I wouldn t trade this here little ole store for 
 ther White House," he was wont to say. "No, sir, I 
 wouldn t be President fer nothin !"
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "That s lucky," Orin Snyder was apt to cut in here, 
 "seein as nobody ain t votin fer yer." 
 
 "No," Hedrick would continue, undisturbed by the 
 other s derision; "hit s all I kin do ter take in all 
 what s goin on in this here little Draft, an do hit 
 right, an I know dog-goned well I couldn t do ther 
 whole United States jestice. Why, look at all ther 
 things what happens here jest in one week. Look at 
 week befor last first thing Monday mornin Cape 
 Johnson come in feelin powerful good an says ther s a 
 baby come ter their house; an seein hit s a boy an 
 his first one, I says reckon he knowed \vho d be President 
 in erbout forty years from now. Then Wednesday 
 word come er ther shootin scrap up at Whitcomb s 
 camp. Thursday ole Mis Woods died, an Friday 
 mornin Adrian Blair an Joe Snyder had high words 
 an come pretty nigh ter fightin right here in ther store. 
 Saturday erlong come er drummer feller an tried ter 
 sell me er whole chanst er no- count goods, an I 
 hedn t more n jest Sunday ter talk over all these things 
 when here come Monday mornin ergin an er whole 
 trail er new things er goin on. An ef so much hap 
 pens jest right eround here, hit stands ter reason that 
 ther s mo still erhappenin in all ther United States, 
 what ther President has ter see ter, an reckon that s 
 er job would run me plum distracted. No, sir! give 
 me er cross-roads store ev ry time, an any ole feller 
 kin have ther White House." 
 
 In truth, with such abundant opportunity for the 
 study of life, and sufficient for a livelihood, what more 
 
 136
 
 A HAPPY MAN 
 
 could any man desire? Certainly George Hedrick 
 wished for nothing further. Winter found him in 
 doors, meeting all comers at the checker-board; and 
 summer saw him seated on his little porch looking at 
 the face of Drupe Mountain, and giving cheerful 
 greeting to the various neighbours who meandered up 
 and down the main road of the Draft, and the one 
 that came from Clear Creek and ran up to the farms 
 on top of Drupe; the two cutting across each other at 
 his store. 
 
 Fortunately for Hedrick, almost directly in front of 
 his shop the Jumping Creek, on one of its many erratic 
 dives from one side of the valley to the other, flows at 
 this spot across the county road, making thereby a 
 sweet and shady little ford overhung by the big branches 
 of a willow tree; through which ford few travellers 
 passed without letting their horses heads down for a 
 drink. And while the horses refreshed their thirsty 
 throats, the storekeeper, in the few minutes pause, 
 refreshed their drivers with the latest tid-bits of shouted 
 news. And when there chanced hot, rainless summers 
 which dried the Jumping Creek to a mere undrinkable 
 thread of water, so that teams and equestrians alike 
 dashed through it without stopping, George Hedrick s 
 life held its nearest approach to tragedy, and his usual 
 genial nature was stung almost to pessimism. 
 
 But the spring that David Cree courted Mary Reddin 
 up by the old Hull burying-ground had had its full 
 store of quickening rain storms, and the Jumping 
 Creek splashed and tumbled over its pebbly bed with
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 almost the full gurgle of winter; and it was beyond 
 most human nature to pass through its dancing waters 
 without at least a moment s pause in the translucent 
 coolness. And more than one child from near-by 
 farms came down, surreptitiously avoiding mother eyes, 
 to dip their bare legs into the water, and dig eager 
 toes into its delicious oozy sand beds. In witness of 
 the truth whereof, behold Master Billy Tompkins, with 
 forefinger hooked in either trouser leg to hold them 
 out of harm s way, wading fearlessly into the shining 
 depths. It was still that corn-planting week in May, 
 and the weather yet held the same sweet serenity of 
 clearness that had shone so propitiously upon Robert 
 Reddin s planting and upon David Cree s courting; 
 weather that every farmer blessed upon arising, and 
 was loth to have the darkness snatch from him at eve. 
 
 "There s allers so much use fer pretty days in May," 
 Robert Reddin was wont to say, "that seems like er 
 shame ter hev ther nights come erlong an cut em in 
 two jest like they wa n t no mo use an ef they was 
 winter days." 
 
 As he waded deeper into the Jumping Creek the 
 fresh water rippled whitely about Billy s ankles, then 
 about his calves, and then it reached laughingly for 
 his knees. It was cold and it was strong, and on the 
 slippery stones there was a fearsome chance of sitting 
 abruptly down, waist deep in its chill translucency; 
 but a bluebird sang in the willow overhead, and it was 
 spring, and the sky flashed him gay encouragement 
 and daring, and just a few steps more, through the 
 
 138
 
 A HAPPY MAN 
 
 deepest part, and he would be over there in that sandy 
 still reach where were flat stones in the soft bottom, 
 under which were perhaps O joy and excitement! 
 crayfishes ! Billy took a step or two more ; in 
 spite of all his best efforts his trousers now dipped 
 gently into the water but just a few steps further 
 just a few Alas! at this expectant moment the im 
 perative tones of his older sister floated over to him 
 from the Tompkins homestead. 
 
 "Billy! Aw Bil-lee!" Billy paused a moment in 
 consideration did that long overhanging sweep of 
 the willow branch hide him from the hou3e ? or did it 
 not? 
 
 "Bil-lee!" again the voice floated over, and though 
 it only called his name, this time there was in it a cer 
 tain note of intensity which to Billy s trained ear and 
 alert conscience spoke volumes. To them it said, 
 with unmistakable clearness " Yer needn t ter think 
 I don t see yer down there er paddling in that water"; 
 therefore he decided to parley. 
 
 "What yer want?" he cried back. 
 
 " Mammy-says-fer-you-ter-quit-playin -in-that- water 
 an -come-on-here-an -git-her-some-chips," the voice 
 answered in one breath, with a rising climax. 
 
 Billy looked longingly at the flat stones the happy 
 homes of the crayfishes so nearly now within reach 
 so near. Then he braced himself for a daring 
 retort. 
 
 "Tell her ter wait," he shouted. 
 
 There was a short pause this time while the sister
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 at the house communicated this astonishing reply to 
 higher authority and received fresh instruction; then 
 again the voice came over to him. 
 
 "She-says-s/^ //-2 af/-on-ye!" it called. 
 
 The mere words themselves seemed to promise un 
 limited patience on the maternal part, then why should 
 the hearing of them cause Billy so instantly to abandon 
 all further pursuit of the wily crayfish, and splashing 
 hastily out of the creek and up the bank, to streak 
 away along the road toward home at such an agitated 
 and obediently quick pace? George Hedrick, inter 
 ested spectator of the whole scene from his porch, 
 drove his hands deeper into his pockets, and tilting 
 his chair back more securely against the wall chuckled 
 softly, "An reckon ef Mis Tompkins hed sent word 
 ter me thet she d wait on me, that erway, I wouldn t 
 er kep her waitin much longer neither," he remarked 
 to Lloyd Johnson. 
 
 "Howdy, Mis Cooper, howdy," he continued 
 politely to Aleck Cooper s wife, as she stepped wearily 
 up on to the porch, a basket of eggs on either arm, and 
 a general appearance of moist fatigue about her. 
 Without a word she sank into the chair the storekeeper 
 pushed forward, and removing her black slatted sun- 
 bonnet fanned herself for several moments in silence 
 while she recovered her breath in long gasps. She 
 was a fat woman, with a complaining, somewhat 
 plaintive air toward the world in general, as though 
 she blamed her neighbours for her corpulent dis 
 comfort. 
 
 140
 
 A HAPPY MAN 
 
 "Ain t hit awful warm?" she flashed upon George 
 Hedrick at length, laying the blame for the heat with 
 him. 
 
 " Tis so tis so," he answered, his tranquillity un 
 ruffled even by having the responsibility of the weather 
 laid at his door. Again silence fell between the three. 
 It was hot, very hot for May, and in spite of the clear 
 ness of the sky one felt the languor of a possible 
 thunderstorm. It was also a breathlessly still after 
 noon and a dull one too, at the store, for the reason 
 that most of the Draft people were busy with their 
 crops. The storekeeper thrust his hands still deeper 
 into his pockets and whistled an idle tune between his 
 teeth. He did not feel inspired by his company and 
 was somewhat inclined to quarrel with a fate that 
 could for the moment provide nothing more inspiriting 
 in the way of companionship or gossip. Lloyd John 
 son, sent on an errand by his wife, had dawdled with 
 him for the last two hours, the first quarter of which 
 had sufficed for Hedrick to wring him dry of what 
 meagre store of news he possessed. Mrs. Cooper s 
 hoard of gossip, if she possessed any, would be of the 
 grievance variety, and Hedrick shrank from tapping 
 it on a hot afternoon. It was therefore with a feeling 
 of pleasant anticipation that he heard the soft slip 
 slop of a pacing horse approaching along the road. 
 
 He brought his chair abruptly down to its four legs 
 and leaned eagerly forward, the other two turning 
 expectant looks also in the direction of the sound ; and 
 with these three pairs of eyes awaiting him Adrian 
 
 141
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Blair swung suddenly into view around the turn, 
 mounted on a high-headed black horse, whose sleek 
 sides shimmered in the May sunshine. Adrian rode 
 with a conscious air of superiority, fully aware of the 
 excitement he caused, and as he came opposite the 
 store a dexterous heel made the horse bound spiritedly 
 from side to side of the road, with arched neck and 
 rippling tail. 
 
 Nothing of the whole performance was lost upon 
 the storekeeper, and as Adrian called a greeting to 
 him, he rose from his chair and sweeping off his hat 
 bowed low in elaborate sarcasm. 
 
 The other waved a gracious hand in reply. 
 
 "Oh! don t mind me," he called back condescend 
 ingly; "I was er poor man once myself!" and dashing 
 into the ford he sent the water up in high showers of 
 silver spray, and without pausing to drink he and his 
 horse a dazzling spectacle were presently lost 
 around the next bend of the road. 
 
 Hedrick resumed his chair a trifle crestfallen; not 
 that the magnificence of it all overawed him, but he 
 was not used to any one rising so quickly and so suc 
 cessfully to his own airy persiflage. 
 
 Fleeting as Adrian s appearance was upon the scene, 
 it nevertheless opened the sluice-gate of conversation. 
 
 " Now I d liked ter know where d he git that horse ?" 
 Lloyd Johnson demanded, with keen disapproval 
 showing in his lugubriously lank countenance. 
 
 "He brung him home from Randolph County when 
 he come out er camp. An I heered him say he wouldn t 
 
 142
 
 A HAPPY MAN 
 
 take three hundred dollars ferhim," Hedrick answered. 
 
 "An he said hit cause he knowed mighty well he 
 wouldn t git nobody ter pay him that fer him," he 
 added. 
 
 " Well, I don t think hit looks right fer er young feller 
 ter be idling round all day keepin ther road hot that 
 erway, when ev rybody else round s pretty nigh drove 
 ter death with ther plantin , 5 Johnson continued still 
 with disfavour. 
 
 But at this Mrs. Cooper whirled suddenly upon him. 
 
 "Well, reckon I know one man what ain t been pretty 
 nigh drove ter death not fer ther last two hours, any 
 how," she said pointedly. 
 
 Here, however, Hedrick hastily interposed, turning 
 the conversation into safer channels for long ex 
 perience had taught him to scent the battle from afar. 
 
 " Reckon Adrian kin erford ter do some galervantin ," 
 he said pacifically, "with money in ther bank, an that 
 house er his n." 
 
 "Wonder is he thinkin er gettin married?" John 
 son speculated, eager to seize on anything which 
 diverted the conversation from himself. 
 
 "Wonder would he go buildin er nest ef he wa n t?" 
 Hedrick returned scornfully. 
 
 "Well, he certainly is er terrible young feller," 
 Johnson went on, with a solemn shake of his head. 
 " I ain t never seen his beat ter fight. Der yer recollect 
 ther time him an Cape had ther bresh?" 
 
 "Reckon I do," said Hedrick. "Adrian was mad 
 that time sure nough. Recollec he said he d take er 
 
 143
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 string an tie his right hand ter his lef foot an whip 
 ther whole shee-bang an I recollect er nother time 
 too, when Adrian drove me an some other fellers over 
 ter Clear Creek ter go himtin with ther Saunders boys 
 over in there. Hit was a dark night an Adrian was 
 drivin thet pair er colts he used ter hev , an they wa n t 
 mo n jest broke then an d run ef you d look at em, 
 an first one an then ther other was up on his hind 
 legs all ther way, an ef they ever did happen ter hev 
 mo n four feet between em on ther groun at ther 
 same time, Ade, he d pull out his pistol an fire hit off 
 an maybe we d git stopped by ther end er ther next 
 mile, an maybe we wouldn t. Hit s er right smart 
 piece over ter Clear Creek, an I ain t usually fond er 
 walkin , but I footed it home next mornin . Per I 
 said ter myself ef ther Lord d jest let me git safe out 
 er that waggon that one time, I wouldn t never go 
 temptin Him ergin by drivin with Adrian Blair," and 
 he drew a long breath of satisfaction in his present 
 safety and added, "That sort er recklessness don t 
 reely afford me no kinder pleasure." 
 
 " Reckon Adrian don t know what it is ter be erf raid," 
 Johnson said speculatively. 
 
 "Reckon he don t," the other assented. "An hit s 
 er mighty nice thing fer yerself ter feel that erway, but 
 hit makes hit right hard for yer friends ef they hev ter 
 keep up with you." 
 
 "You all ain t fair ter Adrian," Mrs. Cooper broke 
 in here abruptly, almost angrily; and for a moment her 
 real self seemed lifted out of her usual peevish challenge. 
 
 144
 
 A HAPPY MAN 
 
 "I reckon ther s one person in this Draft that s power 
 ful glad Adrian Blair ain t erfraid er nothin an that 
 person s me," she said. "You recollect thet December 
 ther creek was up so high an ther come er freeze an 
 froze hit all erlong ther edges?" 
 
 "I recollect," the storekeeper answered, "hit was 
 ther same time thet Ed Huston an Melia Rivers got 
 married, an ther ford was up so here at the store, that 
 when Brother Braxton come up from Linden ter marry 
 em, he was feard to come over and hed ter jest nater- 
 ally marry em across ther water, him standin on one 
 side er ther creek shoutin out er his little book ter em 
 an they hollerin back at him from tother. I recollect 
 Melia was mad, cause she had ter kneel down right 
 spang in ther middle er ther road, an though they did 
 spread er quilt down, ther ground was so powerful 
 damp and oozy-like ther water soaked right up through 
 hit and made two spots on her dress jest where her 
 knees come, so s she couldn t never wear hit ergin 
 cept ter prayer meetin , an she d always lowed any 
 how ter be merried by ther Presbyterian preacher so s 
 her dress wouldn t git tumbled, cause they don t make 
 yer kneel down ertall; but ther water was up so high 
 she an Ed couldn t git into Wayside." 
 
 "Yes, thet was ther time," the woman assented, " an 
 hit was jest afterwards thet thet powerful cold spell 
 come an froze everything up; an jest erbout thet time 
 my baby was took with ther pneumony. Ther ford 
 up near us was ther highest in ther Draft, all froze up 
 at ther edges, an powerful swift in ther middle. We
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 hollered acrost ter Orin Snyder s folks an got some er 
 them ter go down ter Linden fer ther doctor; but when 
 he got up es fer es our ford he couldn t git his horse ter 
 go on ther ice ter come ercrost, cause ther ice d break 
 es soon es er horse d git er little piece out on hit. An 
 I jest thought my baby was ergoin ter die with the 
 doctor over there acrost ther creek jest out er reach. 
 But bout thet time, when I was ready ter give up, 
 Adrian Blair, he come erlong on thet powerful grey 
 horse er his hit was one er them colts you spoke of 
 an when he heered what ther trouble was, he cut 
 him er big withe an rode thet horse er his right out on 
 ther ice, an broke er way clear so s ther doctor s horse 
 cou^d foller. An I reckon there was mo n one er us 
 thought hit was Adrian s las day when we seed thet 
 big horse erplungin an rearin round an tryin ter 
 break back ter shore in all thet ice an water, but 
 Adrian jest looked like he was eiijoyin hisself, an I 
 ain t never fergot hit, an what s mo I say whoever 
 Adrian does marry ll git er man fer er husband what 
 kin look after her, an not jest er hog with er right nice 
 sty." She ended abruptly as she had begun, and shut 
 ting her lips into a straight defiant line looked at the 
 two men, daring them to contradict her statement. 
 
 "Well I reckon yer erbout right," the storekeeper 
 admitted. "Fer all his don t-keer reckless ways 
 Adrian s get er mighty kind heart in him." 
 
 "That s so," said Johnson, following as usual the 
 majority. And as they both seemed disposed to agree 
 with her, Mrs. Cooper presently took her fierce eyes 
 
 146
 
 A HAPPY MAN 
 
 from them, and shaking out her dress rose to her 
 feet. 
 
 "I m cooled off now," she said, "an reckon I ll do 
 my tradin ," and taking up her baskets of eggs she 
 entered the cool gloom of the little store with all its 
 heterogeneous collection of wares, followed by Hedrick. 
 
 147
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 THE SHADOW 
 
 MRS. COOPER S trading at length conducted to a 
 termination satisfactory to both parties she once more 
 settled her sunbonnet on her tightly drawn hair, and 
 with a "Good evenin ter yer all" stepped heavily off 
 the porch and turned her face homeward, already be 
 ginning to pant slightly in fat anticipation of the first 
 hill. Lloyd Johnson sighed and turned a dubious 
 gaze toward the declining sun, shutting one pale blue 
 eye, and cocking his head sideways to do so. 
 
 "Reckon I ort ter be travelling too," he said reluc 
 tantly. 
 
 "Oh! no, set erwhile," Hedrick urged with tolerant 
 politeness, though it must be admitted the politeness 
 was somewhat perfunctory, for now that the sun sloped 
 so low to the west, there was chance of more congenial 
 and exciting companionship in the shape of other 
 neighbours drifting down to the store for a half-hour s 
 crack at the tail of the day. Lloyd, however, ignored 
 the perfunctoriness, and caught eagerly at the invitation. 
 
 "Well, reckon I kin spare er little time longer," he 
 said, again relaxing to his settled inertia. 
 
 148
 
 THE SHADOW 
 
 Once more silence fell between the two and they sat 
 staring up the road, as one might stare out to sea for a 
 long expected sail. 
 
 There is a theory that desire begets realization. Be 
 that as it may, Lloyd Johnson and George Hedrick s 
 yearning eyes were presently rewarded by the sight of 
 Orin Snyder s large frame swinging into view. 
 
 "Well, ef here don t come ole Orin," Lloyd an 
 nounced, as though heralding the approach of a long- 
 lost brother. Hedrick s face also lighted with 
 anticipation, and when Orin stepped up onto the 
 porch he greeted him with extreme suavity. 
 
 " Good evenin , Mr. Snyder!"hesaid, with an affable 
 wave of two fingers toward his hat which sat jauntily 
 on the back of his head. 
 
 "Good evenin , Mr. Hedrick," the other returned, 
 bowing with equal urbanity. Hedrick eyed him a 
 moment longer, then "Hello, Orin!" he said. 
 
 "Hello, George!" Snyder responded; and having 
 thus, as it were, established each other s official and 
 every-day identity, the two dropped back into their 
 usual parlance. 
 
 "An what s ther news up your way?" the store 
 keeper inquired, pushing a chair forward with a hos 
 pitable foot. 
 
 "Ain t none s I know of," Synder returned, accept 
 ing the chair in the spirit in which it was offered, 
 " cept that I heered ole Marthy Lamfire was took 
 sick." 
 
 "Is that er fact? Much sick?" 
 149
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "No, not so powerful, jest kinder grunty an ailin ; 
 ther women folks is takin turns erbout stayin with 
 her." 
 
 "Well, I m sorry fer ther ole woman, an I certainly 
 don t wish her no harm, but she ever mo lastingly giv 
 me er good skeer onct," Hedrick said reminiscently. 
 
 " How was that ?" Snyder inquired with his perennial 
 interest in all the storekeeper s anecdotes, an interest 
 which made him always to the former a dear and 
 valued companion. Of Lloyd Johnson, on the other 
 hand, Hedrick was wont to complain: "That he didn t 
 never hev nothin ter say hisself, but worse n that .he 
 never pcared ter be specially interested in what any 
 other feller hed ter say." 
 
 "Why, hit was one time five or six years back," the 
 storekeeper began, "I come by her house in ther fall, 
 an she was out in ther yard makin her apple butter. 
 I stopped ter git me er drink at ther well, an someway 
 in lettin ther bucket down, I knocked er little tin pail 
 er butter she hed hangin inside ther well ter keep cool, 
 off hit s nail, an right down into ther water. Well, 
 with that she jest flew mad d rectly, an mos fo I 
 could ketch my breath she giv me one er ther com- 
 pletest cussin s I ever did hev." 
 
 "An what did you do?" Snyder inquired, grinning. 
 
 "Well, it allers did kinder upset me an make me 
 sorter nervous an rattle-headed ter be cussed, an 
 reckon fo I thought what I was doin I mus er said 
 somethin that I ortn t ter said ter er lady, fer fo I 
 could er said Jack Robinson ef I d er wanted ter, 
 
 150
 
 THE SHADOW 
 
 which I didn t here she come at me ercrost ther 
 yard with ther pole she d bin er stirrin ther apple 
 butter with. Well, I reckon most any fool would er 
 hed sense ernough ter run, but someway I kinder lost 
 my head, an fo I knowed hit I was er skinning up er 
 little sugar maple tree, with her er plasterin my legs 
 with hot apple butter fo I could git em drawed up 
 under me out er reach." 
 
 Snyder slapped his leg and roared. 
 "I d er liked ter er seed you goin up that little tree," 
 he said. 
 
 George grinned somewhat sheepishly in sympathy. 
 " I d er liked ter er seed myself ef hit hed er been some 
 body else," he said, "but seein hit was me, hit didn t 
 give me no amusement at ther time." 
 
 "An how long did yer stay up there?" the other 
 inquired. 
 
 "I stayed there till, fer er mercy, her ole cow broke 
 inter her cabbage patch, an while she went ter run her 
 out, I climbed down right easy, an took out down ther 
 holler. An I ain t been in ther Mossy Run since, an* 
 I ain t ergoin neither." 
 
 "Who s that feller comin ?" Lloyd Johnson broke 
 in, suddenly pointing up the road. The other two, turn 
 ing their eyes in the same direction, beheld a slouched 
 man of middle age coming towards them at an uneven 
 shuffle. His head was down so that his hat brim partly 
 concealed his face, and what did appear was covered 
 with a rank growth of beard of a streaked greyish 
 brown.
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Hedrick studied him a moment, "Looks like er 
 stranger ter me," he said at length. 
 
 "I know who he is," Snyder struck in, but in a 
 lowered voice as the man approached. "He s one er 
 ther new hands Aleck Whitcomb s got workin up at 
 ther sawmill at ther head er Drupe Mountain. I seen 
 him an some other strange fellers Aleck hed jest got 
 in when I went up there er week er so ergo ter see 
 erbout gittin some slabs." 
 
 As he finished his explanation the stranger arrived 
 at the porch steps. Pausing, he gave the three a quick 
 and somewhat furtive glance from under dropped lids. 
 
 "Good evenin ," he said in general, and then turn 
 ing to the storekeeper "Kin I git er plug er Rosey 
 Lee turbacker here?" he inquired. 
 
 Hedrick scrutinized him in silence for a moment, 
 then "You kin," he responded. "Step inside," he 
 continued, rising from his chair. 
 
 The man obeyed, and Hedrick followed him into 
 the shop. Their transaction was a short one, and in 
 a few minutes the stranger emerged, and nodding once 
 more to Snyder and Johnson dropped off the porch 
 and slouched away up the road again. 
 
 Snyder eyed his departing figure with keen disfavour. 
 
 "Hit s surprisin what er heap er trash er sawmill 
 will bring inter er place," he grunted. 
 
 "What makes yer think that feller s trash?" Johnson 
 inquired. 
 
 "Don t yer reckon I know trash when I see hit?" 
 Orin returned pugnaciously. 
 
 152
 
 THE SHADOW 
 
 While the other paused to deliberate a sufficiently 
 pacific reply, Hedrick dawdled out to the porch again 
 and settled back in his chair. 
 
 "I reckon yer know trash when yer see hit all right, 
 Orin," he said; "but ther s somethin else yer don t 
 pear ter know." 
 
 "An what s that?" Snyder demanded, still pugna 
 ciously. 
 
 Hedrick drew out his jack-knife deliberately, and 
 leaning forward with extreme care selected a clean 
 sliver from the broken cover of an opened grocery box, 
 and tilting his chair back against the wall he began 
 sending little showers of yellow-white shavings down 
 into his lap and off onto the floor. 
 
 "Was either er yer fellers ever out in ther woods by 
 yerself, erlistenin fer somethin , an did yer ever hear 
 er man come runnin ?" he inquired. "Hit s not like 
 hearin dogs er a varmint," he went on, not waiting 
 for a reply. " There s somethin happenin when yer 
 hear er man running in ther woods, an hit most 
 usually means trouble. I was out squirrel huntin 
 onct on Hare Hill, an I heered er man runnin ; an 
 when he come up ter me hit was Aleck Cooper, an he 
 went by like er streak, jest hollerin out that George 
 Blair d cut his leg off in ther sawmill, an he was going 
 fer ther doctor." He paused and regarded the whittled 
 stick critically, turning it about in his hand; the 
 others waiting in expectant silence. 
 
 "An I w r as out in ther woods ergin ernother time," 
 he resumed. "Only this time I happened ter be er-
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 waitin on er deer stan , an all at onct I heered some- 
 thin comin runnin ergin over furninst ther next ridge. 
 An I d heered ther dogs runnin in Clear Creek, an 
 I says ter myself hit must be er deer. An with that I 
 commenced ter take ther buck ague. But then I 
 listened ergin, an hit didn t run like er deer, an I says, 
 No, hit can t be , an by that time ther runnin was 
 right close, an all at once I knowed hit was er human. 
 An I jest set my teeth an listened, fer I knowed some- 
 thin was ther matter an I was skeered. An I tell 
 yer, fellers, hit wasn t more n er minute fore here 
 come Dave Cree erbreakin through ther bresh, his 
 face lookin like he d seed over ther fence inter ther 
 next world, an er hollerin that Kip Ryerson d shot 
 his Pappy. I tell yer that s twict I ve heered er man 
 runnin in ther woods, an hits er thing er feller don t 
 fergit in er hurry," he wound up. 
 
 "Well, reckon I remember that hunt s well es you," 
 Snyder broke in jealously. 
 
 Hedrick closed his knife with a snap, and tossed 
 away his whittled stick. 
 
 "Reckon yer don t, then," he said; "fer ef yer did 
 yer d know who that feller what s jest left here is." 
 
 Snyder looked at him a moment as though some 
 thing were coming slowly back to him, then with an 
 oath he sprang to his feet. 
 
 "Kip Ryerson!" he cried. 
 
 "That s ther feller," the storekeeper returned 
 quietly. 
 
 "Lord!" said Johnson.
 
 THE SHADOW 
 
 "An ter think er few years an er growed beard 
 would make me fergit his ugly face," Snyder cried 
 with keen self -scorn. 
 
 "Lord!" Johnson ejaculated again. For a space 
 silence held the three, as they searched one another s 
 faces in question as the fact of Ryerson s return came 
 home to them in all its fulness of meaning. At length 
 Johnson broke the silence. 
 
 "Wonder does Dave know he s back?" he specu 
 lated. Hedrick regarded him with utter contempt. 
 
 "Did Kip erpear ter be erlive an well when he was 
 here jest now?" he demanded. 
 
 "Er course he did what d you suppose?" the 
 other returned. 
 
 "Then I reckon Dave don t know he s back an 
 what s more," he continued, looking at Johnson 
 pointedly, "I don t see no cause fer no one ter go telling 
 him." 
 
 "Thought he was dead anyhow," Lloyd complained. 
 
 "Reckon he thought bout when Dave growed up 
 was er good time fer him ter go West an give out he 
 was dead, or he might stay East an be dead sure 
 nough." Hedrick retorted. 
 
 "What in thunder did he come back in here fer er 
 fool!" said Snyder. 
 
 "Cause he kin git good wages over in here, an 
 cause he thought nobody d know him, I reckon," 
 the storekeeper returned. 
 
 "Well, I don t call this no place fer him"; said John 
 son, gloomily. He was a man who loved the even tenor
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 of the valley s ways, and he could not help feeling on 
 this occasion that if David discovered Ryerson and 
 broke the peace of the neighbourhood by killing him, 
 or attempting to do so, it would make everything very 
 unsettled and inconvenient for himself, as David s 
 uncle-in-law. 
 
 Hedrick laughed savagely. "Yer mighty right, this 
 ain t no place fer him. Hit s jest erbout es good er 
 place fer him as Hell is fer er powder mill," he said. 
 
 "Wonder will Dave lay fer him when he knows?" 
 Johnson debated still with feeble peevishness. 
 
 Again Hedrick regarded him with extreme contempt. 
 
 "Es I recollect that hunt," he said, "Alderson Cree 
 died with Dave er promisin him he wouldn t fergit. 
 An reckon we all know what it was he was goin ter 
 remember." 
 
 "Well," Orin remarked, "I certainly would hate 
 ter see Dave git hisself inter trouble now, after all ther 
 scuffle he s hed, an him so likely too." 
 
 "I allers did think," Johnson went on, "that hit 
 was er right unthoughted thing er Alderson ter make 
 Dave go promisin hisself inter trouble that erway." 
 
 "Well, I reckon when you ve jest been shot in ther 
 back by er feller, yer don t allers hev time ter look at 
 things from every pint," Hedrick replied. 
 
 "I wonder won t ther fellers git tergether ergin an 
 run Kip out?" Orin deliberated, one eye cocked 
 questioningly on Hedrick, for he remembered that ten 
 years ago Hedrick had been chief mover in the "run 
 ning out" of Kip Ryerson. 
 
 156
 
 THE SHADOW 
 
 "Reckon ther fellers ll think this time that Dave s 
 old ernough ter tend ter his own business," Hedrick 
 answered pointedly, and Orin drew a sigh of relief. 
 
 Lloyd Johnson gathered his long legs under him 
 and rose. "I must be travellin sure nough now," he 
 said, "I wouldn t be er bit surprised ef my woman 
 wa n t erwaitin supper fer this very package er sody." 
 
 Hedrick watched his departing figure disappear 
 around the turn. 
 
 "I could er tole him his wife was erwaitin fer that 
 there sody two hours ergo," he said; "but I didn t do 
 hit cause I knowed Mis Johnson d be sure ter tell him 
 herself when he got back, an do hit er heap sight 
 better n I could. He s been er settin here fer ther 
 last two hours, jest er looking at ther face er Drupe 
 Mountain, an spittin every now an then. An reelly 
 ther s times when I think he s er fool fer want er sense." 
 
 "He s gone home lickerty-split now ter tell his wife," 
 Orin said. 
 
 "Well, his wife s got ther sense ter hold her tongue 
 an ter make him hold his n. She was er Cree, an 
 whatever else Crees is they ain t fools." 
 
 "Cept when they marries fools," Snyder interposed. 
 "It allers beats me what kind er men sensible women 
 sometimes marries." 
 
 "Well, hit s jest es well they do," Hedrick rejoined 
 philosophically. "Fer ef fools jest married fools, think 
 what er all fired lot er little fools we d hev ter put up 
 with." 
 
 "Well, I m powerful oneasy fer Dave, but settin
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 here won t help him none," said Snyder, "an I ve got 
 er wife myself at home, an reckon hit d be jest es well 
 fer me not ter keep her waitin fer supper beyond er 
 certain pint." 
 
 Left alone on his deserted porch, with the evening 
 closing in around him, and mysterious lights gather 
 ing on the crest of Drupe Mountain, the little store 
 keeper still sat on, whistling a faint tune which was 
 almost lost in the near-by throaty voice of a tree toad. 
 Presently his hound came stiffly up on to the porch and 
 stood looking wistfully into his face. 
 
 "Reckon you think hit was time you an me was 
 thinkin erbout our supper too," Hedrick said, answer 
 ing the dog s appealing eyes. "Well, we ain t got 
 no wife ter keep waitin so s we kin jest suit our 
 selves." 
 
 He put out one hand and pulled the dog s long, 
 floppy ears gently. 
 
 "I d hate ter see Dave Cree git hisself into trouble, 
 Toby," he said thoughtfully, taking the dog into his 
 confidence. "But dunno s there s anything I kin do 
 ter help hit, seein es he s er growd man now an not 
 er little pitiful boy no mo . Hit don t seem ter me, 
 Toby," he went on, "that ef ther Lord d ever saw fit 
 ter give me er child that I d ever er hated any other 
 feller ernough ter lay sech er promise on my son. But 
 I dunno," he paused "I reely dunno, when yer shot 
 in ther back hit would certainly make er difference. 
 I ain t never had er son an I ain t never been shot in 
 ther back, so s I ain t got what you might call experience, 
 
 158
 
 THE SHADOW 
 
 an without experience no one s got er right ter judge 
 ernother feller." 
 
 He sat on a little longer in the gathering dusk, the 
 dog between his knees, both enveloped in the coolness 
 of the evening; then he rose, and going into his little 
 back room started the fire for his evening meal. There 
 he found his stove door had developed an irritating 
 trick of flying persistently open, and in kicking it 
 violently shut every time it opened which it obligingly 
 continued to do he gained some little relief from his 
 kind-hearted perplexity over David Cree s future.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 ANOTHER CORN-FIELD 
 
 THE planting of corn on a bright day with plenty of 
 companions to help, and to shout gay remarks to, and 
 with the prospect of a good supper just at sundown to 
 meet the whetted appetite, is a gay and an altogether 
 delightful task, comprising an easy division of labour, 
 in which no one is too hard worked, yet filled with a 
 sufficiency of toil so that each of the labourers at sunset 
 may have a satisfied feeling of self -congratulation over 
 energy put forth and, as a result, a good day s work 
 gloriously accomplished. 
 
 Such a day of happy corn-planting was Robert 
 Reddin s; but Ellen Daw s was a different matter. 
 There one lonesome girl plodded over the ground by 
 herself, toilsomely planting one wearily long furrow 
 after another; and then returning to her old horse 
 who waited patiently by the furrow last covered she 
 grasped the plough handles and again started on her 
 difficult trip across the field, arduously covering what 
 she had dropped. 
 
 Ellen Daw s corn-field was not a large one, in fact it 
 was scarcely half the size of Robert Reddin s; but it 
 seemed a large, a painfully, impossibly, large, place 
 for one girl to go over all alone. 
 
 1 60
 
 ANOTHER CORN-FIELD 
 
 She paused every now and again in the centre of it, 
 to look about her and measure the unplanted ground 
 ahead; and each time she did so she felt as though she 
 and the old horse the only other living thing to be 
 seen had grown smaller and less able to accomplish 
 anything, and the field bigger and rougher and more 
 forbidding; and each time, too, the enormous blue arch 
 of the sky seemed more than ever overpowering and 
 ominously vast. 
 
 It was the first year that so much of the burden of 
 the spring planting had fallen upon her. Silas Daw 
 had never before been so disabled by rheumatism that 
 he could not do at least some of the ploughing f but this 
 year he could only get about a little, with the aid of 
 two sticks; therefore Ellen faced the heavy problem of 
 seed-time alone. 
 
 She had managed to hire help for the first ploughing 
 but afterwards the laying off, the dropping, and cover 
 ing, all fell to her to do. 
 
 This was the second day of her planting and she had 
 been at it since early morning, with only a little space 
 out at noon, when her dinner had been meagre and 
 unsatisfactory, and when most of her time had been 
 taken up attending to the old horse s feeding. It was 
 drawing now towards three o clock the hottest part 
 of the day, when the field gave up dazzling waves of 
 heat, and when the heart of the world seemed to have 
 stopped beating in very exhaustion, and still an op 
 pressively wide stretch lay unplanted before her. 
 
 Ellen felt as though she had been turned into a bit 
 161
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 of dumb machinery to go endlessly up and down those 
 long furrows. Occasionally she took off her sun- 
 bonnet, and pausing fanned herself with it, and when 
 she did so the hot earth before her dazed eyes seemed 
 jumping up at her; and afterwards the going on again 
 was worse than before, for each little stop seemed to 
 put the aching mechanism of her body more and more 
 out of order. 
 
 At length, stumbling back across the field to start her 
 plough again, she felt herself growing suddenly giddy 
 and strangely faint. She paused by one of the fence 
 corners, stretching out her hands to its grey rails for 
 support, for waves of dizziness were engulfing her, 
 and the light was black before her eyes, with flashing 
 half moons of whiteness swirling across it. 
 
 "I got ter rest er little spell jest er little," she 
 pleaded whisperingly to herself, "I got ter rest. I don t 
 keer ef I never git this ole field done. I don t keer ef 
 we all starve. I d ruther starve n be so tired anyhow, 
 I believe." 
 
 Slowly she sank down on to the pie-shaped wedge of 
 earth in the fence corner. It was deliciously shady 
 there, and little flowers were about in tiny clumps. 
 
 "O Lord!" Ellen murmured as the restful earth 
 received her. " O Lord! ain t hit good ter set down jest 
 fer er spell?" 
 
 She put her sunbonnet against the rails and let her 
 head fall back on that for a pillow 1 . Not a very com 
 fortable position, perhaps, but she was so exhausted 
 that any position of rest seemed good. 
 
 162
 
 ANOTHER CORN-FIELD 
 
 "So tired so tired!" she breathed. "I m er 
 goin ter take er rest ef I die fer hit." 
 
 She snuggled herself a little further into the fence 
 corner, drawing long, happy breaths of relief. What a 
 delightfully cool little spot it was after the hot field, 
 and how quiet ! It was a haven of rest ; all the more 
 pleasant because she well knew she could but ill afford 
 to snatch even these few moments to enjoy its sweet 
 repose. 
 
 But what is more heaven-sent than five minutes of 
 stolen respite for tired limbs ? 
 
 "I don t keer,I don t keer," she whispered in defiance, 
 then smiled softly at the thought that the next few 
 minutes were her very own, anyway, out of all the long 
 past, and probably future, years of insistent labour. 
 Her body relaxed contentedly, and all at once, though 
 she had only meant to rest for a few minutes, she was 
 profoundly asleep. 
 
 In the hot sunshine the upturned ground lay as be 
 fore, silently expectant of its seed; and the old horse 
 across the furrows still stood patiently awaiting the 
 command to go on, the plough at her heels, and her long 
 tail switching indolently at the flies. 
 
 Ten minutes, fifteen, twenty, drifted over the moun 
 tain-top and the sleeping girl. At length the old 
 horse raised one foot tentatively, then another; then 
 she took a few uncertain steps. Nothing happened. 
 The plough dragged heavily behind her with a tell-tale 
 clank, but still no one shouted at her to stop. She 
 paused again with back-pricked ears, nervously await- 
 
 163
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 ing the first word of angry remonstrance to her progress. 
 As a colt Silas Daw had broken her to harness; and he 
 had done so with such a lavishment of hard beatings 
 and of oaths that the mare never forgot it, and though 
 now her coltish days were gone very far into the past, 
 and of late Ellen had been her sole driver, she still 
 lived in perpetual dread of provoking that terrible un 
 locked for rain of blows and oaths. Therefore her 
 runaway progress across the field was a slow one, 
 broken by frequent pauses to listen with timidly appre 
 hensive ears. 
 
 Just a little distance off was a low bank, green 
 with juicy spring things and wild grass. Slowly and 
 cautiously the old mare clanked across the field, 
 making for this succulent feast, and at length arriving 
 at it, after one warm inquiring breath, which made 
 the poor little doomed things shiver all over, she 
 plunged her eager nose into the inviting greenness, 
 and again except for her contented munching all 
 was quiet on the mountain-top. 
 
 Ellen in her fence corner slept on as peacefully as 
 though the fullness of the earth was hers to take if she 
 but stretched out her hand for it, instead of just the 
 scantiest livelihood, and that only procurable through 
 perpetual labour. 
 
 Her head thrown back against the fence showed the 
 pretty youthful curve of her throat under her chin; 
 her face had settled softly into restful lines, and for 
 the moment the girl was as happy as any princess ; for, 
 thank heavens! the grace of sleep is, that it is as ob- 
 
 164
 
 ANOTHER CORN-FIELD 
 
 tainable by the poor as by the rich fancy if it were 
 not so, and had to be purchased like food and clothing ! 
 
 It was infinitely quiet and far-away up there on 
 Drupe Mountain. The girl slept on and the old horse 
 munched the torn grasses with keen relish, and over 
 all brooded a feeling of weary peace. 
 
 But presently across that hushed tranquillity there 
 struck a whistle, gay, insistent, and full of life. Occa 
 sionally it followed the air of first one song and then 
 another for a few careless bars, but for the most part 
 it meandered on tuneless except for the radiant tune 
 of sunshine and spring days. From low blue notes 
 of sweetness it went up and up, soaring spirally to tran 
 scendent heights of piercing shrillness, to be lost in 
 silence and then begin all over again on the blue notes. 
 
 The old horse stopped eating and paused in guilty 
 expectancy. 
 
 The whistle wove itself like a bright streak of light 
 through Ellen s dreams, and she thought she saw 
 David Cree go whistling down a little woody path, all 
 flower lit, to Mary Reddin, who stood at the end of it, 
 in a glory of sunshine, and waved her hand to him, 
 laughing, with all her gay mockery of manner. 
 
 The sound was very close now, but save for weaving 
 itself into her dreams it did not disturb Ellen s sleep, 
 and all at once it ceased abruptly as Adrian Blair 
 the whistler emerged from the woods and looked 
 across the empty corn-field in surprise, 
 
 His gaze rested first upon the old mare, and guessing 
 easily enough, from her air of nervous apprehension, 
 
 165
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 that she was out of bounds, he was just on the point 
 of shouting "Ha-a you!" at her severely, when his 
 eye suddenly fell upon Ellen Daw s sleeping figure, as 
 glimpsed between the fence rails. Silently he crept 
 down the fence row until he stood at her corner and 
 could peep over at her. The girl slept in an absolute 
 abandonment of exhaustion, her sunbonnet fallen on 
 the grass beside her, and her bag of seed corn spilling 
 out its yellow grains close by. 
 
 Adrian Blair, a stalwart young fellow in his prime 
 of youth and strength, who scarcely knew what it was 
 to be utterly weary, looked at her for a few moments, 
 taking in the whole scene; then he murmured softly 
 to himself, "Po little thing, she s clean beat out." 
 
 For a little space longer he gazed, and then silently 
 he climbed over the fence, and with extreme caution 
 reached slowly for the bag of corn. He had it firmly 
 by the neck, and was about to heave it up to his arm, 
 when Ellen stirred slightly and muttered inarticulately 
 in her sleep. Adrian paused as though he had been 
 caught stealing, and his good-humoured, somewhat 
 comical face took on a look of droll apprehension, as 
 he watched her breathlessly. 
 
 But Ellen did not open her eyes, and presently, with 
 a few heavy sighs, she once more fled down the shadowy 
 aisles of deep sleep. With a silent mirthful chuckle of 
 relief, Adrian caught up the bag and, stepping care 
 fully, made his way across to the mare, and righting 
 the plough, and turning it round, began with quiet driv 
 ing to cover the furrows that Ellen had last sown; and 
 
 1 66
 
 ANOTHER CORN-FIELD 
 
 when these were done, glancing at the girl and seeing 
 her still asleep, he laughed again to himself, and planted 
 more rows, covering them in turn ; and then more again, 
 until when the sun sloped to five o clock there was only 
 a little stretch of the field left unplanted. At five 
 o clock Ellen stirred softly and awoke. She did not 
 at once open her eyes, trying to guess dreamily where 
 she was. The sun now shone full in her face, and 
 beating through her closed lids made the blood in 
 them hang before her eyes like a crimson curtain, and 
 she felt as though she were alone in a warm shut-away 
 room, all in red. 
 
 Suddenly she was aroused from her still half -dreamy 
 state by a man s voice "Whoa haw ! haw there!" 
 it cried. 
 
 Adrian for the moment had forgotten her, and let 
 out his voice in all its accustomed energy and vigour of 
 tone over some more than usually irritating bit of 
 stupidity on the old mare s part. 
 
 At the words, Ellen struggled to her feet in astonish 
 ment. Looking across the field she caught sight of his 
 lusty figure ploughing at the further end of it. 
 
 He was tall and strong looking, and for one wild 
 moment, scarcely yet thoroughly awake, Ellen thought 
 it was David Cree, and her heart gave a sudden stifling 
 bound. The next instant she saw that it was Adrian 
 Blair, and though her agitation subsided a little she 
 was still overwhelmingly surprised. And as she looked 
 at his stalwart figure going steadily over the field, and 
 accomplishing so easily what a few hours ago had 
 
 167
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 seemed such an impossible burden to herself, a quick 
 throb of gratitude rose in her throat, and catching up 
 her sunbonnet she ran hastily across the field to him, 
 meaning to pour out all her eager thanks. Yet when 
 she came up with him, and he turned round and greeted 
 her with a laugh, somehow, all at once, the cold wall 
 of her shy reserve rose up as always, shutting her in 
 upon herself, and all she found to say was: 
 
 "I certainly am erbliged ter yer, Adrian," and that 
 little was said with downcast eyes, and with such a 
 lack of cordiality, that her constraint communicated 
 itself to Adrian, and all the usual easy flow of his con 
 versation stiffened into hoarse self-consciousness. 
 
 "Oh! hit ain t nothin ," he said huskily. "I hap 
 pened ter come by, an seein you asleep thought I d 
 see ef bein in camp all winter hed made me fergit 
 what ploughin was like." 
 
 " Yer re awful good," Ellen said, standing awk 
 wardly before him, still with dropped eyes, and in 
 wardly hating herself for her frozen stiffness. 
 
 And again he repeated, "Oh! hit ain t nothin ," and 
 played with the plough line to hide his embarrassment. 
 
 "You go on back an take ernother nap, an I ll hev 
 ther whole thing knocked out by ther time you wake 
 up ergin," he urged presently. 
 
 "I ain t tired any mo ," Ellen answered, still con 
 strainedly. 
 
 "All right then; you go on an plant, an betwixt us 
 we ll git this ole field finished up d rectly," he said, 
 recovering something of his buoyancy, for even Ellen s 
 
 168
 
 ANOTHER CORN-FIELD 
 
 shyness could not long have a repressive effect upon 
 him, and in the face of action his awkwardness began 
 to drop from him. 
 
 Obediently and still in silence Ellen took up the bag 
 of seed corn, and began her journey once more across 
 the furrows. But now, how different it all was! 
 
 The vigour of the afternoon coolness had begun to 
 creep into the air; her listless steps took on a certain 
 lightness, and with some one to follow her with the 
 plough, corn-planting seemed all at once the happy 
 occupation, touched with the miracle of spring, that 
 it should of right be, and no longer a burden of endless 
 toil for such is the grace of companionship. 
 
 As for Adrian, the world as well seemed to go merrily 
 with him. After the first row or two of silence, the 
 last shreds of his shyness melted away, and he broke 
 forth into a continuous flow of volubility snatches 
 of song, scraps of tune pursued to a shrill climax; 
 ridiculous remonstrances and adjurations addressed 
 to the old mare, and even bits of gay banter directed at 
 Ellen herself; and to her own surprise, Ellen found 
 herself more than once smiling irresistibly at his stream 
 of vivacity, which seemed just the radiance of the 
 spring weather put into words. And dimly, though 
 her unanalytical mind failed to put the thought into 
 actual form, she wondered if the world after all was a 
 place in which one might laugh, instead of a long 
 succession of sombre days where was only the dull 
 ache of a lonely heart. 
 
 Three quarters of an hour of steady work and the 
 169
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 field was done, and lay in the long reach of the after 
 noon shadows a prophecy of growth and bourgeoning, 
 written in tender shades of sepia. 
 
 "Gee!" cried Adrian, dropping the plough handles 
 and stretching his long arms; "that ole horse er 
 yourn s got er mouth like er sawmill, an she s jest 
 erbout es hard-headed an contrary." 
 
 For a moment his geniality melted the frozen chill 
 of Ellen s manner, and coming up with the now almost 
 empty seed bag limp across her arm, she paused before 
 him. 
 
 "I certainly am erbliged ter yer, Adrian," she said. 
 
 It was the same short sentence that she had used 
 before, only this time she smiled prettily at him, her 
 eyes alight with gratitude, and her shyness was only 
 evidenced by a faint reddening of her cheeks. 
 
 Adrian looked at her an instant quickly, and nothing 
 of the softening of her face, which brought out all her 
 dark beauty, was lost upon him. 
 
 "Then ef yer erbliged ter me," he said, dropping 
 down to the grassy bank at the edge of the field, "Set 
 down here fer er spell and let s talk," and his pleasant 
 grey eyes began to dance with a light that was not all 
 laughter. 
 
 But Ellen s fatal reserve was already stealing back 
 upon her, and she shook her head. 
 
 "I I can t," she stammered, "I got er whole 
 heap er things ter do." 
 
 "Then don t do em," he counselled buoyantly. 
 "Things that yer hev ter do is er lot mo interestin 
 
 170
 
 ANOTHER CORN-FIELD 
 
 when yer leave em undone"; and suddenly putting 
 up his hand he drew her down to the bank beside him, 
 though she tried to resist. 
 
 At his touch Ellen s face went a painful scarlet, 
 and she stiffened all over with confusion. She settled 
 herself primly on the bank, very conscious of her 
 faded skirt and old patched shoes, and once more her 
 tense embarrassment chilled Adrian, and again silence 
 reigned between them. 
 
 "How s ther ole folks?" he ventured at length, 
 dropping back into conventionality, his voice hoarse 
 again. 
 
 "Mammy s jest like she allers is; and Pappy s 
 terrible crippled up with ther rheumatiz," she answered, 
 fiddling with her sunbonnet strings. 
 
 "You d orter hev somebody ter help yer," he said 
 kindly, "hit s too much for any girl ter hev ter do." 
 
 "Oh! I kin manage some way," Ellen answered 
 stiffly; but his sympathy lifted a little the veil of hard 
 shyness, and this time the silence did not last such a 
 painfully long time, and was even broken by her. 
 
 "What s ther news in ther Draft?" she ventured, 
 her heart beating quicker at the sound of her own 
 voice. 
 
 " Ther ain t none es I knows on," Adrian returned. 
 "Yes, though, ther is," he added, and then paused 
 abruptly. "Ther s er right big piece er news," he 
 said, "but hit ain t ter be talked of. Ef I tell you, will 
 yer promis not ter tell?" 
 
 Ellen nodded. " I ain t very likely ter see anybody 
 171
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 ter tell erway up here on ther mountain," she said, 
 something of her self-consciousness lost in her interest 
 in what he had to say. 
 
 "That s so," Adrian assented. "Well, then Kip 
 Ryerson s come back!" 
 
 "Kip Ryerson?" Ellen repeated in question. 
 
 "Yes, ther feller they say shot Dave Cree s father. 
 They seed him at ther sto yesterday." 
 
 At his words Ellen drew a sharp, deep breath, and 
 her face went white. "Oh!" she cried in terror. 
 "Oh! der yer reckon he ll do anything ter Dave?" 
 Forgetful of herself she leaned eagerly toward Adrian, 
 and her dark eyes were full of fear. 
 
 For a moment Adrian looked at her in surprise, then 
 he spoke harshly. "What makes you look that 
 erway?" he demanded. "Is Dave Cree er sweet 
 heart er yourn?" 
 
 Ellen s pale face burnt suddenly crimson with morti 
 fication, and she shrank away from him as though he 
 had struck at her. 
 
 "Er er course he ain t," she faltered, her eyes 
 bright with tears of humiliation. "You know very 
 well he ain t. He s goin with Mary Reddin." 
 
 "Then what do you keer ef Kip lays fer him er not. 
 Ain t Dave big ernough ter take keer er hisself ?" he 
 said roughly, adding "Ef I was you I wouldn t be 
 worryin so much erbout ernother girl s sweetheart." 
 
 The words and the tone as well were insulting, sting 
 ing the girl like a whip lash. Instantly her self-con 
 sciousness and humility vanished, and in the face of 
 
 172
 
 ANOTHER CORN-FIELD 
 
 the insult offered her she rose to her own defence. 
 Leaping to her feet she stood before him tall and dig 
 nified, and unafraid. 
 
 "Don t speak ter me like that, Adrian Blair", she 
 said in a slow, tense voice. "I keer what happens ter 
 David Cree because I keer what happens ter any er 
 ther folks I knows. An let me tell yer this I ain t 
 got anybody in the whole world ter keer how I m spoken 
 ter, an I ain t never had nobody ter keer, an hit s 
 taught me allers how ter look after myself, an reckon 
 I kin do hit still. An I ll jest tell yer now onct fer all, 
 that I ain t goin tererlow you ner nobody else ter speak 
 ter me that erway I ain t goin ter erlow hit der 
 you onderstand?" she demanded. 
 
 She seemed to tower above him, her eyes flashing 
 and her breast rising and falling in deep angry gasps. 
 She was no longer the humble shrinking girl that the 
 Draft knew, she was her own true self, Ellen Daw, a 
 splendid defiant young thing, thrown entirely upon 
 herself and capable of defending herself against all the 
 world. 
 
 For a moment or two she stood arrogantly before 
 Adrian, her eyes blazing a challenge into his astonished 
 ones; then she turned proudly away, and gathering 
 up the bag of corn she laid her hands to the plough 
 handles, and with a short word of command started 
 the old mare toward the stable. 
 
 Adrian got quickly to his feet, and took the handles 
 from her, guiding the plough carefully along, and lift 
 ing it over grassy places so that it should not cut the
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 turf, but he was too dazed by the vehemence of her 
 outburst to find anything to say. 
 
 At the stable Ellen began undoing the harness, and 
 Adrian helped her, but still neither of them spoke. 
 Once, in putting up a strap, their hands touched, 
 and Adrian s face flushed, but Ellen appeared not to 
 notice it. 
 
 Finally she took the last piece of harness from the 
 mare and turned towards the stable, but Adrian inter 
 posed quickly. 
 
 "I m awful sorry, Ellen," he stammered, "I didn t 
 mean ter say nothin ter make yer mad, honest I didn t, 
 honest," he pleaded. 
 
 "All right," she said calmly and coldly. "Hit don t 
 matter. Folks don t often stop ter think whether I m 
 goin ter be mad er not, an sometimes I hev ter show 
 em. Good evenin ter yer," she added, and turned 
 away again, but paused once more. "I m much erbliged 
 ter yer fer plantin my corn," she said, and then pass 
 ing him went into the little dilapidated feed room of 
 the stable and shut the door determinately. 
 
 Adrian waited without for a few minutes hopefully; 
 but she evidently meant not to return while he was 
 there, and he was forced at length to retire crestfallen. 
 He went slowly down the mountain to the Draft, and 
 as he went he gave vent every now and again to a low 
 whistle of amazement. 
 
 Inside the feed room, in the dark, with the door 
 safely closed, Ellen listened to Adrian s departing 
 footsteps, and when he was gone quite beyond hearing
 
 ANOTHER CORN-FIELD 
 
 she put her head down against one of the feed-bins, and 
 difficult angry tears rolled down her cheeks, and her 
 throat ached and ached with the mortification of it. 
 
 To the taciturn girl it was an unbearable stab of 
 shame that Adrian had touched so easily and so roughly 
 the secret of her love for David, which even within 
 herself she had hardly more than glimpsed at; and for 
 her having let him discover it she hated herself with 
 a biting self-scorn and humiliation. 
 
 175
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 THE DRAFT GOES TO PREACHING 
 
 BROTHER BRAXTON of the Methodist Episcopal 
 church, South, had come to the last week of his pastor 
 ate of the souls of the Jumping Creek neighbourhood, 
 and upon this first Sunday in May the Sunday after 
 the planting of the Reddins corn-field, and of Ellen 
 Daw s in the little log schoolhouse of the Draft, he 
 was to take leave of his flock and to preach them his 
 farewell sermon; and more than one determined matron 
 swore by her nine gods that she would hear that fare 
 well sermon "ef she died fer hit, er ef (which was much 
 more likely to be the case) she hed ter git up way fore 
 day ter git ther work done up an ther young uns all 
 dressed in time." 
 
 "An I m ergoin ef I hev ter take every las chile 
 Orin Snyder s got," Allie Snyder announced to Mrs. 
 Sawyer, who dallied for a few minutes chat on the 
 former s small porch, in the cool of the evening. 
 
 "But maybe," she went on hopefully; "Orin ll want 
 ter stay home that day an tend ther kids," and she 
 cast a glance fraught with sanguine inquiry at that 
 gentleman s broad back, as he leaned over the fence 
 at the foot of the yard. 
 
 176
 
 THE DRAFT GOES TO PREACHING 
 
 "Maybe he won t, then," Orin returned unhesitat 
 ingly, and apparently to Peter s Ridge opposite, for 
 he did not turn round. 
 
 "Ain t I got er never dyin soul ter save es well es 
 you?" he demanded. "I ll tote es many kids ter 
 preachin es you choose ter load me up with, an I ll 
 sorter keep er eye on em after ther there; but ef you 
 leave me at home with em specially that youngest 
 one time you git back I won t hev no soul worth 
 talkin erbout lef ter save, an I wouldn t be no ways 
 surprised ef ther was er kid er two missin es well." 
 
 His wife looked at Mrs. Sawyer with eyes that said 
 plainly, "Oh! these here husbands!" But she had 
 the wisdom to bow to the inevitable, and remarked 
 with a resigned sigh, "Then reckon every last one er 
 ther Snyders down ter ther dog ll hev ter go, fer he 
 won t stay at home by hisself." 
 
 But there were other fathers in the Draft more self- 
 sacrificing than Mr. Snyder, who were induced to 
 resign the pleasure of a chat with congenial spirits 
 outside the schoolhouse before the preacher s arrival, 
 and good-naturedly stayed at home with the smallest 
 children, while their fortunate wives disported them 
 selves at preaching, forgetful for a few care-free hours 
 that they possessed anything younger than, say, six 
 or eight years of age. In other families unselfish 
 mothers remained behind; and thus the schoolhouse 
 was kept from being quite inundated by babies of a 
 tender, and those of a toddling, age. 
 
 But there were in truth few of the grown-ups, or 
 177
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 even semi-grown-ups, who were not attended on their 
 way to meeting by satellites of small people, who ran 
 on ahead, lagged behind, danced sideways across the 
 road; and if little girls, made wild excursions up into 
 the wooded hillsides after spring flowers; or if little 
 boys, conducted a strenuous and stony warfare against 
 the unfortunate frogs who had short-sightedly selected 
 the roadside ditches for their summer homes, so that 
 all the way harassed parents and older sisters were 
 under the necessity of keeping up a running fire of 
 admonition, such as: 
 
 "Now, Ellie, you come down outer them woods, 
 you tear yer does, an anyhow I bet ther s snakes up 
 in there." Or " You Billy! Quit splashin that 
 water! Now jest look what yer done ter yer pants! 
 What yer want ter hurt that po ole bullfrog fer any 
 how, he ain t doin you no harm." Or again " Oh, 
 git out from under Pappy s feet you ll git yerself 
 tromped on." And so on indefinitely. 
 
 So that when they at length arrived with their charges 
 at the schoolhouse, more than one wornout grown up 
 felt as though his or her eyes had turned inside out in 
 their heads and looked all ways of a Sunday from 
 their efforts to keep three or four fleeting figures in 
 view at once. 
 
 Preaching was to take place at eleven, and since 
 ten o clock little knots and groups of people had been 
 going up the road, and likewise little knots and groups 
 had been coming down it; both to meet at the foot 
 log which spans the Jumping Creek near the school- 
 
 178
 
 THE DRAFT GOES TO PREACHING 
 
 house, and after the exchange of " Howdys," and weather 
 remarks, all to drift across the log and up the steep 
 bank to the hilltop where the schoolhouse is situated. 
 Here the women presently retired indoors, while the 
 men stayed without, lounging in comfortable gossipy 
 attitudes under the trees, in no unreasonable hurry for 
 the preacher s arrival. 
 
 From up and down the Draft, from the top of the 
 near mountains, and even from over in Clear Creek, 
 people came to hear Brother Braxton s farewell ser 
 mon, and to sing " God be with you till we meet again" 
 for him. Some walked, some rode, and some drove 
 in spring waggons and buggies ; and the array of horses 
 hitched to the convenient fence rows was imposing 
 indeed, and before the meeting was over the unfortunate 
 top rails were more chewed and bitten than ever. 
 
 Ten o clock saw Ellen Daw started down the moun 
 tain on her long tramp to the schoolhouse. She had 
 been up since daybreak, getting breakfast, milking, 
 feeding the live stock, setting the house to rights, and 
 arranging a cold dinner for her father and mother, as 
 she herself meant to take her own dinner at Mrs. 
 Tompkins , Mrs. Daw s sister who lived in the 
 Draft, not very far below the schoolhouse, and who 
 was always ready to give the girl a meal, even if no 
 store of affection for her, or slightest interest in her, 
 went with it. 
 
 Already Ellen was somewhat tired from her morn 
 ing s work, and there still lay before her the long walk 
 to the Draft. She was tired and she was disheartened 
 
 179
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 for besides the usual weary hardness of her life s out 
 look, just now the hurt that Adrian Blair had given her 
 still lay fresh in her heart, and stung her keenly when 
 ever she let her thoughts go back to it. And go back 
 to it they would in spite of her determination to put 
 it behind her. Adrian s rough words, spoken as she 
 supposed in contempt, returned to her mind over and 
 over, "Is Dave Cree er sweetheart er yourn?" 
 
 A sweetheart of hers! As though Adrian Blair did 
 not know, what the whole Draft must know, that no 
 one was her sweetheart, or ever had been, nor in all 
 probability ever would be ! 
 
 And then, too, his quick guess that she cared for 
 David! At every fresh remembrance of that, even all 
 alone, her cheeks burnt and her eyes grew misty with 
 mortification. Other things, too, combined on that 
 Sunday morning to make Ellen feel with especial 
 keenness the grey mist of her isolation and poverty. 
 Her Sunday dress and sunbonnet of calico seemed 
 more than ever faded and scant. They had never 
 been of a pretty pattern, and had been bought by Silas 
 Daw, dear knows how many summers before, at Lin 
 den, and now their original ugliness had bleached to a 
 hateful bleary mixture of yellow and red, "That er 
 skeercrow d be ershamed ter wear," Ellen whispered 
 bitterly, as she looked over the shrunk length of her 
 skirt and down at her rough, clumsy shoes, made 
 painfully conspicuous by the flimsy shortness of her 
 dress. She had carefully washed and ironed the 
 dress the day before, in an attempt to improve its 
 
 1 80
 
 THE DRAFT GOES TO PREACHING 
 
 appearance, because, for the sake of her hurt vanity, 
 she had fiercely resolved to make herself look as well 
 as she possibly could. But the endeavour was very 
 far from a success, and when she looked at her dark 
 unhappy face in her scrap of mirror, and surveyed 
 her forlorn frock, she felt for herself and her whole 
 make-up an absolute, bitter contempt. 
 
 "I don t wonder folks lafs at yer," she said cruelly 
 to her reflection. "I d laf at yer myself ef I was ter 
 meet yer as somebody else. No, no"; she cried 
 passionately, breaking off, "I wouldn t laf, I don t 
 believe I would, even ef hit was somebody else. I 
 b lieve I d be sorry fer anything so miser ble lookin . 
 I hope I would! Oh, I hope I would! O Lord," she 
 whispered presently, "I wished ther was somebody 
 out n all ther world keered how I looked, er whether I 
 lived er died. Jest somebody I wouldn t keer who, 
 jest so long as they keered fer me. Maybe then I d 
 git so s I keered er little bit fer myself, an didn t think 
 I was jest ther poorest an homeliest thing in ther 
 whole country." 
 
 "There now, there!" she cried after a moment. 
 " I aint ergoin ter think erbout hit no mo . I know I m 
 ugly an orn ry, an nobody don t keer whether I am 
 or not but I jest won t think erbout hit no mo ! 
 I won t, won t, won t!" she cried fiercely. 
 
 And yet, poor lonesome little thing, in spite of her 
 determined bravery, she did think about it over and 
 over again; and she might have stayed away from 
 preaching altogether that morning, in her bitterness 
 
 181
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 and humiliation of spirit, save that she knew one hap 
 piness was in store for her there. She would be able 
 to sing. And for this one bit of pure delight she was 
 willing to brave all the covert glances of amusement 
 that her appearance always provoked, and of which 
 she was always so painfully aware. Moreover, though 
 she scarcely acknowledged it to herself, she wished 
 exceedingly to hear more particulars of Kip Ryerson s 
 return, and to look at Mary Reddin and David Cree. 
 
 It was an intensely hot May morning and more than 
 one breathless and moist individual hoped "there d 
 come er rain fore night." For a week past this pro 
 cession of hot bright days had gone by, treading on 
 each other s heels and making the farmers toil at their 
 planting with feverish haste, one anxious eye cocked 
 towards the horizon in fear of a possible thunder-storm. 
 Every day had opened with dazzling clearness, and 
 every day weather prophets had promised a storm be 
 fore evening. But though each afternoon, round omi 
 nous clouds had boiled up out of the west in black heaps, 
 so far no rain had come of them, or if any, it was but 
 a thin veil of moisture, to be let down on the mountain 
 peaks only, and to go drifting off up the river, by way 
 of the high places of Drupe Mountain, without ever 
 descending into the valley. 
 
 This Sunday was the hottest day as yet, and there was 
 a certain breathless pause in the feel of the atmosphere, 
 as though all nature lay in suspense over what might be 
 coming, and in terror of the clutch of her own elements. 
 
 People gasped in the heat; mothers wiped their 
 182
 
 THE DRAFT GOES TO PREACHING 
 
 babies damp foreheads, pushed back their hair, and 
 borrowed their husband s hats for fans; while the little 
 girls looked dejectedly at their wilted knots of flowers, 
 faded almost as soon as plucked, and now but a limp 
 remembrance of their ungathered alertness. 
 
 If Ellen Daw dressed for preaching with a dead 
 heart and keen self-scorn, there was at least one girl 
 in the Draft that morning who dressed in an eager, 
 tumultuous delight, her heart as buoyant as a bit of 
 wind-tossed thistle down, and all her thoughts on 
 wings and that girl was Mary Reddin. 
 
 She had a dainty new pink muslin to wear, together 
 with a white hat trimmed with a little wreath of roses; 
 which gay finery had been purchased with the money 
 saved from her share of the egg and chicken branch of 
 the farm industry. 
 
 When she was all dressed and turned to look in the 
 glass she had refrained from looking until all the 
 pretty toilet was complete, so that the whole effect 
 might burst upon her at once - the face which the 
 mirror gave back was so sparklingly pure and exquisite 
 that a delicate soft colour swept over her cheeks in sur 
 prise at her own loveliness. 
 
 For a moment she stood looking at her reflection, 
 then she whispered softly, "Oh! do you reckon he ll 
 like hit?" Whereat her face answered her with a tiny 
 dimpling smile of reassurance. Then she caught up 
 her pink rufHes and floated down the narrow boxed-in 
 stairway, and out into the living room, like a rosy 
 cloud that had gone astray. 
 
 183
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 At her appearance the members of the family who 
 happened to be present caught their breath in Ohs! or 
 gave vent to whistles, according to their nature, for 
 Mary was the miracle and darling of the whole family. 
 And as the Reddins abounded more especially in the 
 masculine element, the whistles, as always, somewhat 
 drowned the Ohs! 
 
 Mary stood among them for a few minutes blushing 
 over their frank admiration, and trying to look uncon 
 scious as her mother fussed and pulled at her ruffles 
 not because they really needed pulling out, but be 
 cause she could not keep her hands away from com 
 ing in contact with such prettiness, and because she 
 did not think it would be quite right to take the 
 girl in her arms and hug her, as she would have liked 
 to do. 
 
 Bobbie regarded his sister in silence for a space; 
 then out of the subtle observations of youth he re 
 marked, "I reckon Dave Cree must be ergoin ter 
 preachin with you." 
 
 "Der yer, honey?" she answered with elaborate 
 astonishment. "Why, what makes yer think that?" 
 
 Which retort brought the laughter of the older ones 
 upon Bobbie and made him resort to his disgusted and 
 much overworked repartee of "Aw," a repartee 
 which Mary wrung from him many times a day, to 
 her own no small delight and to the general promotion 
 of the gaiety of the Reddins. Upon this occasion, 
 however, fate favoured Bobbie; for in glancing down 
 the lane, he suddenly exclaimed triumphantly : 
 
 184
 
 THE DRAFT GOES TO PREACHING 
 
 "I think so cause I see Dave ercomin now! A-ha-a 
 Miss Mary!" 
 
 And for once Mary was covered with confusion and 
 had to take refuge in his own embarrassed retort of 
 "Aw"; and even the baby might have seen that she 
 was blushing pink as she slipped away from them all 
 and went down the little pathway to the gate to meet 
 David. 
 
 Coming to meet him with floating ruffles, and airy 
 step, she seemed to David such a dazzling thing that 
 his eyes fell before her, and his tongue was thick and 
 clumsy when he spoke. 
 
 "Aire aire yer ready, sweetheart?" he said con 
 fusedly. 
 
 Mary came through the gate, closing it carefully 
 behind her, and started down the lane beside him. 
 
 "I m- I m ready, sweetheart," she faltered, in 
 mischievous imitation, the face she lifted to him alive 
 with merriment. 
 
 David s embarrassment melted at her words like the 
 morning mists before the sun, and he laughed from a 
 full heart. 
 
 "Yer ther very sweetest thing that ever w r alked ther 
 earth," he said with deep conviction. He drew one of 
 her slender hands under his arm, and looking down at 
 her added in a shaken voice, "An hit don t seem hardly 
 possible that God s goin ter let me walk beside yer." 
 
 After that they went on in silence for a long distance, 
 Mary s hand pressed hard against his side, and their 
 arms touching.
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 It seemed to David that in the last week the heavens 
 had opened, and he had seen all the beauty and wonder 
 of the world at a glance. Once before he had had a 
 revelation that had shaken him out of the common 
 ways of life, but that had been a revelation of the 
 wickedness and hatred in life; and he felt now with a 
 glad relief that in the wonder of this present miracle 
 he might forget that old seared remembrance, that 
 had taught him as a child how to hate with a man s 
 passion. For certainly Mary s sweet gaiety was the 
 very antithesis of bitterness. And probably in all 
 that drew him to her, her sparkling vivacity had for 
 him the subtlest fascination. At twelve years old 
 Fate had torn from him at one clutch all his careless 
 gaiety, and though perhaps thereby his nature was 
 made stronger, it was with the strength of love and 
 hate, and not of laughter. In the years of his dawning 
 manhood something of lightness came back to him, 
 but it was never the spontaneous gaiety of Mary s 
 nature, and it was therefore that her sprightliness 
 appealled to him so irresistibly, in very contrast to his 
 own disposition. His nature was very strong and 
 very deep, with undercurrents of passion only guessed 
 at even by himself, and he knew always that his feelings 
 swayed him more than ever his reason did. Moreover, 
 he was the more intense, being as he was, untouched 
 by the fleeting wing of laughter. Laughter, that 
 wonderful gift of the gods that is at once the strength 
 and the weakness of the world. The strength, because 
 with one touch from it the pettiness of self-importance 
 
 186
 
 THE DRAFT GOES TO PREACHING 
 
 is erased; the weakness, because it can all too easily 
 take the vitality out of deep feeling. 
 
 A little below the schoolhouse there is a tiny path 
 which leaves the wide track of the main road and 
 goes meandering up the side of Peter s Ridge, and like 
 a truant child makes many a little turn and twist be 
 fore it finally dips again toward the green knoll of the 
 schoolhouse. 
 
 Most of the Draft people that day stuck to the road, 
 for what was the good of walking a little way up Peter s 
 Ridge just for the sake of coming down it again? 
 Especially when the highway was dotted with cheerful 
 groups of people all ready for gay talk and exchange 
 of news, whereas the path was deserted. 
 
 But when David and Mary came to it, with one 
 accord they turned along its green seclusion, and at 
 the beginning of the way, when they were once safe 
 within its solitude, David bent and kissed Mary pas 
 sionately upon the lips; and again, about midway of 
 the path, he kissed her once more. And each time she 
 gave him back his kisses, her eyes shut and her face 
 gone a little white. 
 
 As they came to the last bend that hid them from 
 the schoolhouse, Mary paused in the path, looking up 
 into his eyes. 
 
 "Dave," she said; "Dave." 
 
 "What, honey?" he answered tenderly. 
 
 She slipped her fingers down his powerful arm until 
 they came to rest in his palm; there she put the other 
 hand too, clinging to him like a child. 
 
 187
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "David," she said again, and her face was almost 
 tragic in its intensity; "O Dave! I m so happy don t 
 let anything come betwixt us." Suddenly out there 
 in the woods, where were only the hemlock trees and 
 the budding azalea bushes to spy upon them, she leaned 
 tremblingly against him, and her words came with 
 almost a sob, "O Dave! I keer so much, I m skeered 
 ter think how much. An oh! I m skeered skeered 
 ter think something ll come betwixt us an hit ll kill 
 me if hit does!" 
 
 David flung his arms about her, and pressed her 
 hard against him. 
 
 "Sweetheart, sweetheart! "he cried. "Nothin sha n t 
 ever come betwixt us nothin , nothin , nothin !" 
 
 For a moment more she lay against his breast and 
 he could feel her shake all over; then suddenly she 
 sprang erect, and gave him one of her elusive fleeting 
 smiles, though the tears still hung on her lashes. 
 
 "I m goin ter preachin !" she cried, "aire you?" 
 
 And catching up her pink skirts she whisked down 
 the path, and round the bend and out on to the plateau 
 of the schoolhouse. 
 
 And David followed her laughing and oh ! but 
 the world was a wonderful place! 
 
 188
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE MEETING 
 
 BROTHER BRAXTON was late in getting to the school- 
 house and his waiting congregation on that farewell 
 Sunday morning. Probably, as it was his last day 
 among them, there were many of his friends to stop 
 him for last words and leave-takings, on his way up 
 the valley from Linden which was the small village 
 at the mouth of the Jumping Creek Draft. No one, 
 however, was in any way disturbed over his lateness. 
 It was, in truth, too hot to take the shortcomings of a 
 fellow-being very strenuously to heart even though 
 that fellow-being happened to be a preacher, the usual 
 free target for every complainer s arrow. Moreover, 
 the later the preacher, the more time for the men to 
 exchange gossip under the trees, and for the women 
 to do likewise within the schoolhouse ; while the children 
 raced back and forth, from Mammy indoors, to Daddy 
 outside, making thereby what might be called a 
 running accompaniment to the general conversation. 
 Here and there clusters of little girls compared their 
 new hats, which Mammy or Daddy had bought for 
 them at Linden, and criticized one another s sash 
 
 189
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 ribbons, or dearest delight of all, to the heart of 
 the small girl of the Draft boasted of the wit and 
 beauty of their respective baby sister or brother. 
 
 Small boys, now that Mammy was safely housed, 
 pursued an excited and unreproved chase of various 
 water inhabitants of the Jumping Creek; whether 
 crayfish, frog, minnow, or erratic skipper most 
 difficult and elusive quarry of all. 
 
 Couples of young men and maidens idled across the 
 foot log and up the hill, to retire discreetly to the 
 shelter of the schoolhouse, where the women folk were 
 more kindly unobservant than the group of men 
 lounging under the trees. As Mary and David went 
 past, a little low ripple of speculation broke out in 
 their wake, during which Ellen Daw, with a shy " Good 
 mawnin ter yer all," slipped by the critics and entered 
 the schoolhouse, glad that she should come as it were 
 in the trail of Mary s greatness, and thus escape com 
 ment. Indoors she settled herself on a back seat 
 somewhat off in the shadows; but even here she was 
 sensitively alive to the amused glances with which 
 most of the girls greeted her appearance. 
 
 Outside the storekeeper stretched his legs to the 
 utmost limit of their meagre length, and leaned his 
 back luxuriously against the trunk of a huge oak tree. 
 Having come early with forethought to his own com 
 fort he had secured the friendliest position which the 
 bole of the old tree afforded; and was moreover as 
 he loved to be thus established in the centre of the 
 group of men, who, having come later, lounged, per- 
 
 190
 
 THE MEETING 
 
 force, upon the grass in more or less uneasy positions, 
 with no friendly supporting tree for their backs. 
 
 "I bet yer," he said, spying up at the heavens, "that 
 we git er thunder-storm fore night. An when she 
 comes she ll be er everlastin Jim Bruiser. Ther ele 
 ments don t keep on er promisin trouble like they ve 
 been doin fer ther last week without somethin comin 
 in ther end." 
 
 At least every second man in the group had specu 
 lated once, at any rate, on the weather probabilities 
 that morning; nevertheless Hedrick s remark was 
 greeted with the renewal of interest that is always the 
 weather s prerogative. 
 
 "In my erpinion hits settin in fer er long dry spell," 
 Lloyd Johnson volunteered lugubriously. "An ef hit 
 does, ther corn ll lay so long in ther ground without 
 sproutin that frcst ll be here fore we kin git hit cut." 
 
 Orin Snyder rolled over on his back luxuriantly, 
 and looked up at the tender new foliage of the oak; 
 whereat, one of the many and all-pervading small 
 Snyders immediately came and sat down heavily upon 
 him. Orin sighed. 
 
 "Ef you hed es many children es I hev, Lloyd," he 
 said, "you wouldn t hev ter go es fer es next corn-cuttin 
 time ter borrer trouble. Git up offen yer Pappy," he 
 continued to the youngster. "Run see ef that ain t 
 Mammy callin yer," he added hopefully. For a 
 wonder his strategy was successful, and the small 
 person rose and obediently trotted into the school- 
 house. Orin drew a breath of relief and triumph; 
 
 191
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 but presently despondency settled once more upon 
 him. 
 
 "Hit won t do no good," he said gloomily, "fer, fer 
 every kid I manages ter send in ter her, she sends three 
 fresh ones out ergin ter me." 
 
 "Yes," said Johnson, returning once more to the 
 attack upon the weather; "I know hit s goin ter be er 
 long dry spell, fer hit s got commenced jest ther way 
 hit did that spring three years back, when ther was sech 
 er drouth an then come that big storm. Der yer 
 recollect of hit?" 
 
 "Recollect of hit!" cried Hedrick. "I wished I 
 couldn t recollect hit. Why, ther s times yit, ef 
 ther wind blows at night, that I dreams erbout hit. 
 I tell yer, fellers, when that ole storm and wind 
 went by me, an I felt my store kinder trem le all 
 over, an seed them two big hickory trees come 
 down acrost ther road, an ernother one sorter lean 
 over like hit was goin ter lay down on my roof, I 
 thought my time was come sure nough; an I says 
 ter myself, George , I says, ther 11 be er strange 
 face in heaven fore night. " 
 
 "Heaven?" Adrian Blair interrupted here with 
 pointed interrogation. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Blair, Sir; that s what I said, Sir. Ef I d 
 er meant Hedrick suddenly paused, looking in 
 tently up the road. "Look yonder comin ," he broke 
 off in a low excited voice. 
 
 The other men, following his gaze, beheld a small 
 group of lumbermen swinging leisurely down the road 
 
 192
 
 THE MEETING 
 
 toward the schoolhouse, and in their midst walked Kip 
 Ryerson. 
 
 " Lord ! ejaculated Snyder. 
 
 "What s ter do now?" Hedrick questioned dubiously. 
 
 At that moment a reconnoitring party of children 
 dashed up the hill. 
 
 "Brother Braxton s comin , they cried. "He s 
 jest comin round ther bend." 
 
 At the news the men got up from the grass, shaking 
 themselves together, and brushing off their coats. 
 
 "You all sorter keep yer eyes peeled an be ready ef 
 anything happens," Hedrick said quickly to Orin 
 Snyder and Adrian. "We don t want ter hev er fight 
 here with all these women folks an kids, an Brother 
 Braxton s last Sunday too. I don t hardly b lieve 
 Dave ll know him though, hit s been so long, an he 
 was so little anyhow. But jest ther same you all 
 mind out an be ready." 
 
 And somehow, when they all trooped into the 
 schoolhouse, Hedrick and Orin Snyder managed to be 
 in front of Kip, so that when David, who was sitting 
 almost at the front of the house, looked around he saw 
 only two men from Whitcomb s mill whom he did not 
 know; and turning around again at something Mary 
 whispered, he failed to see another man settle to a seat 
 between the other two. 
 
 Brother Braxton made his way to the front of the 
 room, shaking hands here and there with prominent 
 members of his flock as he passed. 
 
 Arrived at the table, he dropped to his knees for a
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 moment s prayer beside it, and in front of the black 
 board s dark expanse, upon which there still remained, 
 as relics of the past school term, a neatly worked out 
 sum, and the word Peace, done in elaborately shaded 
 letters, and unconscious irony, by the last teacher; left 
 by her to stand through the summer months and be 
 obliterated in the autumn when the new teacher would 
 break that vacation truce with the first engagement of 
 the renewed warfare of education. 
 
 "You will please sing a selection," Brother Braxton 
 said, rising from his knees, and mopping his forehead 
 exhaustively; and one felt it was with difficulty he re 
 frained from adding the usual interrogation of the 
 day "Ain t it awful warm?" 
 
 At his bidding there was a general flutter of hymn 
 books, and then after a short pause Ellen Daw, who 
 had now moved up to the front bench among the rest 
 of the women who sang, lifted her voice in the Corona 
 tion hymn. One line she sang through by herself, 
 but at the next the rest of the congregation struck in 
 tumultuously, almost shouting out the words, for it 
 was a hymn popular with all. But through all the 
 volume of other voices Ellen s was never lost, or ob 
 scured, but soared on like a stream of golden light, 
 strong and unafraid. And as she sang she was no 
 longer Ellen Daw, the lonely girl from Drupe Moun 
 tain, in poorer clothes than any one else present; she 
 was anything and everything that she pleased to imagine 
 herself. She was Mary Reddin, in her dainty muslin, 
 with David Cree beside her. Nay, she was more. 
 
 194
 
 THE MEETING 
 
 She was a streak of sunlight, she was the blown clouds 
 of a summer day; the light breeze that shimmers the 
 tender green of the forest; the bubble of spring waters; 
 the perfume of the woods in May ; the leaping red tongue 
 of a forest fire. She was any and all of the things of 
 ethereal loveliness that she knew, and she was akin 
 and in answer to all the rest of the beauty in the world. 
 She was loosed from all her hard fetters of reserve; 
 she was transformed and awakened; she was recreated 
 and free. And all because she was doing the one thing 
 in the world that she could do surely and well, and 
 with delight to herself and to others, and in doing it she 
 was born again. For in each of us is hid some secret 
 treasure of ability, be it ever so humble; and when we 
 find that ability, we find one of the doors to our souls; 
 and with the finding of our own souls, we find God. 
 
 More than one person that Sunday morning stopped 
 singing themselves that they might catch the better 
 the beauty of Ellen s notes. And as Mary Reddin 
 listened to her, she let her hand steal down under cover 
 of the desk in front of her, and just touched David s. 
 
 Adrian Blair at the back of the schoolhouse silenced 
 his own exceedingly good tenor voice, and fixed his 
 eyes on Ellen s face during all the singing of the hymn, 
 and when it came to an end he drew a long breath. 
 
 After the singing and the following prayer and read 
 ing of the scripture, Lloyd Johnson, as one of the church 
 elders, rose solemnly, and with a conscientious air of 
 self-importance took up the collection. He took it 
 up in his own Sunday hat of black felt, and not the
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 least person in all the congregation was slighted, and 
 for once one felt that his solemn make-up was in its 
 element, and that for the taking up of the collection 
 in the Jumping Creek Draft he had been destined 
 since babyhood nay, for this consummation had 
 even been born into the world. It was a lengthy 
 process, for more than one good lady, having nothing 
 less than a quarter or fifty-cent piece, looked doubt 
 fully into the hat at the meagreness of the amount 
 already collected, shaking her head and holding up 
 the coin to indicate how much change she required; 
 whereat the hat was passed on, to be brought back to 
 her every now and again to see if it yet could give 
 sufficient returns to justify her putting in her half 
 dollar and taking out most of what the hat contained. 
 Finally, however, the last fifty-cent piece or quarter 
 was successfully negotiated for, and every one in the 
 congregation had had the refusal of the hat, even to 
 those upon the last and most inaccessible benches; 
 and Johnson, placing the contribution upon the table 
 at Brother Braxton s elbow, sighed with a conscious 
 air of duty well performed, nor did he perceive that 
 his zeal had even collected from some dark corner a 
 stray trouser button which disported itself brazenly 
 and unashamed in the midst of the worthy assembly 
 of the honest coin of the realm. 
 
 Brother Braxton, with one last and extremely 
 thorough mopping of his brow, rose and began his 
 onslaught upon the sermon. 
 
 Many of the younger children put their heads down 
 196
 
 THE MEETING 
 
 upon the desks in front of them, or if their dimen 
 sions were extremely short down upon older sister 
 or mother s lap, and went serenely to sleep, undis 
 turbed by the fervour of oratory poured forth above 
 them. 
 
 The sermon was a long one, but it was also a good 
 one, and reached more than one of the listeners; and 
 when it was over, and the preacher concluded with a 
 few words of farewell to the people of the Draft, 
 touched by honest regret, there was scarcely one among 
 the older women present who did not have recourse 
 to her pocket handkerchief, and many of the men as 
 well sniffed in sympathy. 
 
 "And now," Brother Braxton concluded, "you will 
 please sing, God be with you till we meet again, 
 during which I hope my friends will come forward 
 and shake me by the hand in leave-taking." 
 
 Again Ellen Daw s voice rose, and the rest of the con 
 gregation followed her into the old hymn of farewell, 
 "God be with you till we meet again"; sung over and 
 over, while different members of the church went for 
 ward with solemn faces and shook hands with their 
 departing pastor. He stood in a rapt posture, with 
 closed eyes and extended hand, and body that swayed 
 faintly back and forth in time to the singing voices. 
 
 David Cree s little sister Ellie, seated upon a front 
 bench beside her dearest friend, Sadie Snyder, regarded 
 the whole performance with deep awe and excitement. 
 Child though she was, she had a quick sense for the 
 dramatic, and loved to be stirred and have her feelings 
 
 197
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 played upon, and the unusualness of the proceedings 
 for she was not old enough to have been present 
 at any of the farewells of the preachers that had gone 
 before stimulated and aroused her. 
 
 "I m ergoin up an shake hands with him myself," 
 she whispered to Sadie. 
 
 "Oh! you dassent!" that demure little maiden 
 answered, scandalized. It was probably this very 
 demureness and susceptibility to shock which made 
 her Ellie s dearest friend; for if one is going to under 
 take daring things, it is almost necessary, and always 
 pleasant, to have an easily agitated audience in attend 
 ance. 
 
 "I dare too," Ellie returned, rising firmly to her 
 feet, and shaking out her short skirts. The little 
 friend voiced no further remonstrance. As in duty 
 bound she had made her conservative protest, and 
 now, if Ellie still persisted, it was delightful to sit by 
 with a clear conscience and see what transpired. 
 
 Ellie looked around cautiously. Her mother not 
 being present it behooved her to have an eye to objec 
 tions from older sister or brother. David was safe 
 enough as he looked nowhere but at Mary Reddin. 
 Her older sister, Susan, was just on the point of going 
 forward herself, and awaited her turn in the line directly 
 in front of Ellie with safely turned back. Fate seemed 
 in every way propitious, and with a last flirt to her 
 skirts she slipped out into the aisle behind her sister. 
 
 Her heart beat high with excitement, and delicious 
 little thrills ran up and down her back. She was the 
 
 198
 
 THE MEETING 
 
 only child who had ventured to go forward, and what 
 would happen to her for doing so was to her mind 
 stimulatingly uncertain. What was it to be put out 
 of the church ? Would they do that to her ? She was 
 very near now just her sister to shake hands and 
 then would come her turn and what would happen ? 
 Oh! but it was inspiring and delightful! 
 
 Then the whole line rippled forward a step, and she 
 was directly before Brother Braxton. With a thrill 
 she put out her tiny hand and, laying it in his large 
 palm, shut her eyes for the skies to fall. 
 
 Her hand was shaken kindly up and down twice, 
 and in another moment she was pushed out of the way 
 to make room for the next comer and it was over ! 
 
 And that was all! No sudden thunder-bolt! No 
 gasp of surprised horror from the congregation! Just 
 nothing. 
 
 Ellic came back to her seat by the expectant little 
 friend, infinitely crestfallen. 
 
 "Tain t nothin ter do after all!" she said, her bubble 
 of excitement pricked, and she nothing more than 
 Ellie Cree, her every-day self, sitting on a bench in an 
 all too familiar schoolhouse. 
 
 The last person had shaken hands; the singing 
 ceased, and Brother Braxton opened his eyes. 
 
 "Let us pray," he said; and in the confusion of the 
 general kneeling down, he cast his eye over the congre 
 gation for a suitable person to call upon. 
 
 "Brother David Cree, please lead us in prayer," 
 he said at length, somewhat to the surprise of all, for 
 
 199
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 David had only joined the church the previous autumn. 
 But it was Brother Braxton s habit to encourage the 
 younger members, and perhaps, too, something of 
 David s expression had inspired the preacher to select 
 him. 
 
 Surprised though he was, David knelt down obedi 
 ently, untouched by embarrassment, and with a cer 
 tain feeling of gladness that on the crowning day of his 
 happiness it should be given him, with his sweetheart 
 beside him, to voice the gratitude in his heart for the 
 joy and the glory that had come to him. 
 
 Turning around that he might kneel the more easily 
 between the cramped benches, he put his head upon 
 the back of the seat, and free from self -consciousness 
 poured out his thanksgiving. The words themselves 
 were clumsy, and the sentences awkward, and oft 
 repeated ones, but back of the empty make-up of speech 
 was the vital spark of a man in the presence of his 
 Creator. And the spirit spoke through the dead 
 words, and awoke in the wornout phrases a freshness 
 and fullness of life that flung them forth recreated and 
 enriched by the vital essence of all things; so that his 
 prayer found a quick answer in the hearts of many of 
 his hearers for a man cannot come honestly into 
 the presence of God, and some of the rest of mankind 
 not be gladly aware of it. 
 
 There was a moment s pause over the congregation 
 as David concluded his petition, and rose to his feet. 
 In that moment he stood up straight and tall among 
 them, his face exalted and alight with emotion; beside 
 
 200
 
 THE MEETING 
 
 him the fulfilment of his love, and all about him 
 faces of his friends, all touched in that moment it 
 seemed to him, because of his own exaltation, with 
 the fire of God s spirit. From one familiar face to 
 another his eyes travelled joyously over the congrega 
 tion, and then then suddenly they came full upon 
 the face of Kip Ryerson and with the meeting of 
 their eyes he knew him. For one astounded mo 
 ment David was still, and in that second in his revul 
 sion of feeling it was as though the whole ocean had 
 rolled over him. Then like a flash of lightning the 
 uplifted look on his face went out, and with a hoarse 
 scream, a blind infuriated animal, he flung himself 
 across the intervening space and leaped for Ryer- 
 son s throat his eyes flames, and his lips drawn 
 back from clenched teeth. 
 
 With a crash the men came together, and all was 
 chaos. A struggling heap they went down upon the 
 floor. Benches were overthrown, and women screamed 
 in an agony of terror. Three men kept their heads, 
 and those three George Hedrick, Orin Snyder, and 
 Adrian Blair threw themselves upon David, and 
 after a struggle tore him off his prey. 
 
 Ryerson staggered waveringly to his feet, a limp rag 
 of a man with panic in his eyes. 
 
 "Take him offer me keep him erway! I ain t 
 done nothin !" he panted, almost sobbing with fear. 
 
 "You git cleared outer here, quick es you know 
 how"; Adrian Blair warned him between gasps, for 
 David was threshing him back and forth, striving to 
 
 201
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 get his arm free; and with one terror-stricken look into 
 that wild-beast face, Ryerson obeyed, and fled stum- 
 blingly from the schoolhouse. As David saw him go 
 beyond his reach he leaped upon the arms that sur 
 rounded him like an imprisoned bull. But still the 
 three held on. 
 
 With a quick twist he turned upon Adrian Blair, 
 mad with fury. 
 
 "Let me go! Let me go! Damn you," he cried, 
 beside himself with anger and struggling passionately. 
 With a violent effort he w y renched his arm away, and 
 struck the other full upon the mouth. Adrian went 
 down flat before the blow, but with the spring of a 
 cat he was on his feet again in an instant, his face 
 dead white and his eyes all at once become very dan 
 gerous. Clinching his fists he squared himself before 
 David. 
 
 "All right, Dave Cree," he said in a low cool voice; 
 "ef yer want ter fight somebody, come on, I ll take 
 yer." 
 
 "Lord!" gasped Hedrick, still clinging manfully to 
 David s left arm as Orin dived for his released right. 
 "Ef Dave an Adrian gits ter fightin now I ll jest 
 plum giv up." 
 
 But at that moment, through the circle of men, 
 there burst Mary s little pink-clad figure, and flung 
 itself upon David. 
 
 "O Dave, Dave!" she sobbed. "Don t! Come 
 home with me oh! please come home, honey!" 
 
 At her touch David ceased struggling suddenly, and 
 202
 
 THE MEETING 
 
 stood still. His breath came in great sobs, his face 
 was flushed, with blood-shot eyes, and his hair was 
 wildly dishevelled. He stood looking about him like 
 a bewildered enraged animal, turning his head slowly 
 from side to side, in search of an escape from the in 
 furiating circle of arms. 
 
 Adrian Blair turned and walked out of the school- 
 house; and that he did not return David s blow was 
 an evidence of self-control upon which he prided him 
 self for many a long day. 
 
 "Come, honey! Come!" Mary begged feverishly, 
 putting his hat into his hands, and drawing her hand 
 through his arm with almost a mother s gesture. 
 
 At her words and touch again David looked down 
 at her as though waking from a dream, and a 
 little of the bewildered wild- animal look lifted from 
 his face. 
 
 "Come on home with me, sweetheart, come," Mary 
 whispered again, in an agony, and scarcely knowing 
 what he did, yet recognizing the touch of her hand 
 upon his arm, David turned obediently toward the 
 door. 
 
 At this moment Brother Braxton saw fit to approach 
 with pacific intentions. 
 
 "My brother my brother!" he began porten 
 tously. But George Hedrick hastily interposed, warn 
 ing him off. 
 
 "I wouldn t go er stirrin him up ergin now jest es 
 he s gettin sorter ca med down," he whispered ner 
 vously. 
 
 203
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "I ain t stirrin him up," the other answered indig 
 nantly, "I m srnoothin him down!" 
 
 "Stirrin up er srnoothin down comes ter erbout ther 
 same thing when yer mad clear through an ready ter 
 fight yer friends," Hedrick answered with conviction, 
 skilfully manoeuvring to keep his small person be 
 tween David and the would-be pacificator; and un 
 heeding him, with Mary still clinging to his arm, David 
 went down the steps of the schoolhouse and turned 
 along the path, walking with unseeing eyes, stunned by 
 the sudden stupendous revolution in his world and by 
 the blinding fury of his own passion. 
 
 204
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 ADRIAN BLAIR FLINGS DOWN HIS GLOVE 
 
 As a bend in the path hid David and Mary from the 
 schoolhouse windows, George Hedrick mopped his 
 forehead in relief, and sank down exhaustedly upon 
 one of the benches. 
 
 "Gee!" he panted. "I feel like I d been dragged 
 ter ther wood-pile and chopped up!" He felt himself 
 all over carefully, nursing a strained wrist with especial 
 tenderness. 
 
 The congregation stood about in agitated knots, dis 
 cussing the occurrence, and endeavouring to steady 
 their nerves into every-day trim once more. Mothers 
 calmed frightened children, and husbands reasoned 
 with hysterically inclined wives, while more than one 
 beau of the Draft found the role of comforter to fright 
 ened beauty an interesting and fascinating one to play; 
 nor did beauty seem adverse to comfort when offered 
 in the reassuring tones of a manly voice, which protested 
 that no harm could possibly come to that particular 
 owner of beauty while that particular owner of the 
 said manly voice was at hand No, not ef all ther 
 Dave Crees and Kip Ryersons in ther world was ter 
 git tergither! 
 
 205
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "Great Day!" George Hedrick took up his com 
 plaint once more; "yer don t ketch this here feller ever 
 comin betwixt Dave Cree an anybody he s er mind 
 ter kill ergin. Ef he s got ter kill somebody hit might 
 jest as well be ther feller he sets out after, stead er a 
 gentleman that happens ter be in ther way like myself. 
 Doggone hit!" he lamented; "why ain t I got er wife 
 ter keep me out er trouble? When Dave was er 
 threshin me round that erway, I wouldn t er got this 
 sprained wrist ef I d jest hed er wife ter come up an 
 smooth me down an say. Now George, honey, this 
 ain t none er your bizness yer jest git outer this an 
 come home with me an rock ther cradle. I d er bin 
 powerful glad er some excuse like that to er turned 
 Dave loose. How d you stan hit, Orin?" he ques 
 tioned, turning upon his fellow sufferer. 
 
 "Oh! I m all right," the big man returned placidly. 
 "Kind er jarred up inside, but that s all." 
 
 Hedrick regarded his goodly proportions enviously. 
 
 "You ve got more heft ter yer n I hev, an don t 
 shake so easy," he said. "Golly!" he continued, 
 "but I was skeered Ed an Bud Cree d pitch in an 
 help Dave. Where was they anyhow?" 
 
 "Robert Reddin an some other fellers got em 
 sorter penned up in one corner, an kep em quiet, an 
 then ther sister got em ter go on home with her, when 
 Mary got Dave ca med. I don t b lieve they knowed 
 jest what ther trouble was no way, an anyhow they 
 ain t very keen fellers ter fight," one of the bystanders 
 volunteered. 
 
 206
 
 ADRIAN BLAIR FLINGS DOWN HIS GLOVE 
 
 "Well, wished I bed er sister seein s I ain t got er 
 wife ter keep me outer trouble." Hedrick sighed, re 
 turning to his first grievance and still coddling his 
 injured wrist. "But tell yer what, fellers," he said, 
 suddenly dropping his voice and looking around to 
 see that there were no Crees left in the schoolhouse to 
 overhear him, "hit s er mercy Judy Cree herself wa n t 
 here. Ther wouldn t er bin much smooth in down, I 
 bet yer, ef she d bin here an seed Kip. She d er sicked 
 ther whole pack on him I b lieve pon my soul she 
 would. An ef she had, by ther time Dave and Ed 
 an Bud got finished with him ther wouldn t er bin er 
 piece er Kip Ryerson left big ernough ter be worth 
 puttin in er crazy quilt. I ain t looked at Judy Cree s 
 face fer ther las ten years not ter know that much," 
 he concluded with conviction. 
 
 "Well, my brother," said Brother Braxton solemnly, 
 as he prepared to take his departure, "let us be thank 
 ful that it is now over, and grieve in our hearts that the 
 peace of this blessed Sabbath day should have been so 
 violently broken." 
 
 " Over!" said Hedrick under his breath as he watched 
 the preacher go down the steps and out into the hot 
 sunshine. "Over! This here little difficulty, in my 
 opinion, wont be over as long as Kip an Dave s both 
 erlive." 
 
 At the schoolhouse door, after the preacher s safe 
 departure, as each man made his appearance he was 
 met and challenged by Adrian Blair. 
 
 "Any feller want ter fight?" he inquired genially. 
 207
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "I ll fight ther whole shootin match singly er in pairs. 
 Aw come on, somebody!" 
 
 His eyes were alight with the joyous intoxication of 
 combat, and he was wild for more. "Want ter fight?" 
 he persisted, squaring himself with clinched fists in 
 front of Hedrick and Snyder as they made their appear 
 ance together. The storekeeper paused and regarded 
 his whole excited personality for a long minute in 
 infinite disgust. 
 
 "No, I don t want ter fight," he returned disdain 
 fully. "An Orin don t want ter neither, so yer needn t 
 go ter foolin with him. An what s more I d think ter 
 look at yer mouth yer d hed ernough fightin yerself." 
 
 Adrian put his hand to his swollen lip nonchalantly. 
 " Jest tastes like more," he declared, sparring scientifi 
 cally before them. 
 
 "Gee!" he exclaimed; "but I d er give everything 
 I own jest ter er hit Dave back ergin. But I kep from 
 doin hit," he added with complacency. Hedrick 
 snorted. 
 
 " You kep from doin hit," he cried. " Mary Reddin 
 kep yer from doin hit, yer mean. An I kin tell yer this 
 much right now, Adrian Blair, whatever else yer may 
 do you ll never make yer fortune as er peacemaker." 
 
 "An ef I hed er hit Dave back," Adrian went on, 
 ignoring the other, and his eyes dancing at the idea, 
 "we d er hed one er ther prettiest fights this Draft ever 
 seed; an hit would er took more n you an Orin ter git 
 us separated." 
 
 "Yer wouldn t er hed me tryin ter git Dave offen 
 208
 
 ADRIAN BLAIR FLINGS DOWN HIS GLOVE 
 
 you," the storekeeper returned contemptuously; "one 
 less fool in ther world wouldn t er worried me none. 
 But ef yer was so full er fight, whyn t yer take after 
 Kip?" 
 
 "I did f oiler him er right smart little piece up ther 
 road, an hollered er thing er so ter him, but onct he got 
 started chain lightnin wouldn t er caught him. An 
 from ther way he run I sorter think Dave must er 
 skeered him up right bad when he lit on him all ter 
 onct that erway. Oh! but Gee!" he cried again, "I 
 jest wish hit had er bin me Dave jumped on"; and for 
 want of a better antagonist he doubled up his fist and 
 struck the schoolhouse door a tremendous blow, mak 
 ing thereby a considerable dent in it. 
 
 George Hedrick, who had started on, paused at this 
 demonstration, and turned round. 
 
 "Now let me tell yer somethin , young feller," he 
 said warningly. "You ll keep on till you ll git yerself 
 inter trouble ef yer don t mind out. An jest now 
 yer re ther best imitation of er fool thet I most ever 
 seed." 
 
 What Adrian might have returned to this hardly 
 complimentary remark in his present state of exhilara 
 tion is questionable, had he not been diverted just 
 then by the appearance of Ellen Daw. She was almost 
 the last to leave the schoolhouse, and she slipped 
 quietly down the steps, hoping now to make her escape 
 unobserved; but the moment he caught sight of her 
 Adrian drew himself up and took off his hat with a 
 flourish. 
 
 209
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "May I have ther pleasure of yer company home?" 
 he said, bowing grandly. 
 
 "I ain t goin home, I m goin down ther road ter 
 A nt Mary Thompkins ," she answered shrinkingly, 
 her eyes downcast, and very conscious of the ripple 
 of laughter his elaborate bow and request had occa 
 sioned among the group of young men, who, fail 
 ing themselves to secure girls to walk home with, still 
 loitered about the schoolhouse. None of them, Ellen 
 knew very well, would ever have asked her, and she 
 was bitterly hurt that Adrian should thus make her 
 their laughing stock. Adrian, too, heard the titter, and 
 spun swiftly round upon the group, his eyes on fire, and 
 clenching his fists danced joyously up to them. 
 
 "Now then!" he cried, "any feller here ready ter 
 take up my offer? Ef he wants er fight all he has ter 
 do is jest ter snicker onct more!" 
 
 He paused in front of them hopefully, but each one 
 of the group turned away with a suddenly calmed and 
 preoccupied air and an expression of being deeply 
 concerned with thoughts infinitely distant from their 
 present surroundings for next to David Cree, Adrian 
 was the strongest man in the Draft, and was by far the 
 readiest fighter for miles around. 
 
 He paused for a short space before them, and then, 
 as no one took up his challenge, he turned disap 
 pointedly back to Ellen. 
 
 "I don t keer which erway yer goin ," he said politely, 
 placing himself beside her, and taking up easily the 
 somewhat broken thread of conversation; "up ther 
 
 2TO
 
 ADRIAN BLAIR FLINGS DOWN HIS GLOVE 
 
 road or down ther road s all ther same ter me so long 
 es I m in yer company"; and at the words he cocked 
 one bright, defiant eye at the spectators to catch even 
 a baby chuckle of derision. None came, however, 
 and with an airy tread just touched with truculency, he 
 swung down the hill and across the foot log by Ellen s 
 side, and with her turned down the road toward Mrs. 
 Thompkins . 
 
 Adrian walked with a buoyant step, and every now 
 and again he broke into a gay tune, whistled with his 
 usual exuberant shrillness. 
 
 Ellen, on the other hand, walked with downcast eyes, 
 in which were almost tears, for it stung her shy sen 
 sitiveness to the very quick to have been made so con 
 spicuous. And in her mind s eye, as well, she could 
 see very plainly the picture of her own shabby self 
 walking down the road by Adrian, and she would 
 have given worlds to have run away to the solitude of 
 her mountain-top, where she told herself bitterly she 
 belonged; and where she might hide, and try to forget 
 the laughing glances that the other couples of young 
 people, dotting the road at intervals, bestowed upon 
 them as they passed. She did not speak as they went 
 along, but maintained a cold silence, and in her shrink 
 ing hurt mood she almost hated the gay personality 
 at her side, with whom she was so dully out of tune, 
 and who had so carelessly chosen to bring the eyes of 
 everyone upon her. Moreover, her agitation and 
 distress for Mary and David served to strike her dumb 
 as well. She was appalled by the disaster opening so
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 suddenly before them at the very outset of their splen 
 did happiness, and for them, and for her own wretched 
 ness, she could have wept bitter tears. 
 
 Silence, however, was never long to Adrian s taste, 
 and breaking off in the midst of a most elaborate suc 
 cession of whistled trills, he turned to her with: 
 
 "Well, an what did yer think of ther scrap? Did 
 hit skeer yer?" 
 
 "No," said Ellen dully, "I wa n t skeered." 
 
 "No, I bet yer wa n t," Adrian said suddenly with 
 admiration. "I don t b lieve yer ther kind ter skeer 
 easy. I mind onct at school when we was all 
 little, my ole Tuke an ernother dog got ter fightin 
 an all ther other girls was skeered most ter death, an 
 hollered an jumped onter ther desks, an run ter 
 ther teacher an all, but you jest pitched right in an 
 helped us fellers ter git em stopped. Der yer mem 
 ber of hit?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered in the same indifferent voice, 
 "I wa n t skeered then, an I don t know when I ever 
 was skeered till one evenin las week when I was er- 
 comin home long erbout dark from Linden." 
 
 "An what skeered yer then?" Adrian inquired. 
 
 "Why, when I got bout ha f way up ther mountain, 
 all ter onct I heered somethin comin jest er little 
 piece up ther road round ther next bend, an I do know 
 why, but hearin hit jest up there out er sight skeered 
 me good. Hit all seemed so kinder lonesome an 
 dark an an kinder far erway ef anything bad was ter 
 come erlong." 
 
 212
 
 ADRIAN BLAIR FLINGS DOWN HIS GLOVE 
 
 "I bet hit did!" said Adrian. "What was hit any 
 how?" 
 
 "Why, when hit come erround ther turn I seed hit 
 wa n t nothin but er man hit was Kip Ryerson, but 
 I didn t know who he was then. He was drunk an he 
 jest went by without seein me, sorter blunderin an 
 stumblin erlong an talkin ter himself." 
 
 "I don t wonder you was skeered out in ther moun 
 tains all alone; an ef I was you I d mind how I went 
 erround much fer er spell whilst Kip s in these parts. 
 Though really I don t reckon he ll stay round here 
 much longer after that everlastin skeer Dave give 
 him." 
 
 "Der yer reckon Dave ll go fer him ergin?" Ellen 
 demanded with a sudden awakening in her voice, and 
 her cheeks in spite of herself beginning to burn with a 
 slow scarlet. 
 
 Looking around at her question, Adrian saw the 
 colour come into her face and noted the interest in her 
 tone, and his manner grew suddenly cold. 
 
 "Ef I was Dave," he answered, "Kip shouldn t be 
 let ter stay in this Draft. But I really don t know 
 whether Dave ll keer ter tackle him ergin er not," and 
 he threw into the last words an intentional scorn. In 
 stantly anger leaped up in Ellen s face and she answered 
 him like a flash. 
 
 "An ef yer think, Adrian Blair, that yer er better 
 man than David Cree, I kin tell yer right now yer mis 
 taken," she said. 
 
 In a second Adrian s face was as angry as her own. 
 213
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "I know mighty well you don t think any man s 
 equal ter Dave," he flung back. 
 
 Ellen stopped still in the road and faced him 
 proudly, and again, as in the corn-field, her shy self- 
 consciousness was forgotten as she rose to her own 
 defence. 
 
 "Adrian," she said compellingly ; and Adrian also 
 stood still and looked at her. "I told yer once yer 
 shouldn t speak that erway ter me, an now I tell yer 
 ergin," she said low and warningly. "An onless 
 yer kin behave like yer orter yer sha n t walk ernother 
 step er ther way with me. I should think, anyhow," 
 she added bitterly, "that yer d come fer ernough now 
 ter satisfy yer foolin an ter make everybody la f at me 
 er plenty." 
 
 Her dark face before him was quite beautiful as the 
 mingled emotions of pride, anger, and bitterness went 
 across it, and Adrian looked at her with unconcealed 
 admiration. 
 
 "I m awful sorry, Ellen," he said humbly. "What 
 I said slipped out without my thinkin , an I promise not 
 ter do hit ergin. Though," he added gaily, his anger 
 all melted away, and his serenity returning, "hit was 
 worth sayin jest ter see yer git so mad." At his laugh 
 ing tone, which was half teasing and half admiring, 
 Ellen shrank back into her shy awkwardness, and in a 
 moment the animation died from her face, and she 
 was the same stiff, frightened girl with averted eyes, 
 as always; and though Adrian tried several topics of 
 conversation hopefully, he succeeded in getting nothing 
 
 214
 
 ADRIAN BLAIR FLINGS DOWN HIS GLOVE 
 
 more from her than scant monosyllables, and some 
 times not even that, and at length even he was daunted, 
 and fell into an uncomfortable silence, which lasted 
 until they came to Mrs. Thompkins s, where he took 
 his departure, as stiff for once as Ellen herself. 
 
 215
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 A MATCH FOR LOVE 
 
 MEANTIME David and Mary walked home together 
 in a silence which was half bewilderment on David s 
 part, and on Mary s was dumb terror. They took 
 their way along the same little green path and along 
 the same pleasant road that had brought them to the 
 schoolhouse such a few short hours before; and it 
 seemed to Mary as though the face of all the world she 
 knew had suddenly been darkened; as though in the 
 twinkling of an eye the gaiety had gone out of life. 
 
 She had not recognized Kip Ryerson, but the moment 
 she heard his name flung about in the startled crowd, 
 she had known in a flash what David s sudden spring 
 meant, and in the same flash she realized all that it 
 would mean to her for since childhood she had been 
 familiar with the story of Alderson Cree s murder and 
 of David s promise. 
 
 Under her gay Sunday hat her face looked tragically 
 small and white, and every now and again a little ner 
 vous quiver went over it, yet for all her fear, her ex 
 pression showed no weakness ; instead, it was older and 
 stronger than it had ever been, and she kept pace be- 
 
 216
 
 A MATCH FOR LOVE 
 
 side David with a firm, even step, her hand lying com- 
 pellingly on his arm with an unshaken pressure. 
 
 Guided by her touch, David walked almost unseeingly. 
 His eyes were on the ground and his head bent forward, 
 and he was like a man in a dream, dazed by the tumult 
 of his own stormy emotions. His blood raced fever 
 ishly through his veins, and pounded like trip-hammers 
 in his ears. All the reasoning power of his thoughts 
 was gone, and the thoughts themselves were turned 
 into waves of tingling emotion, which reeled dis 
 tractedly through his brain in a chaos of surprise, 
 hatred, passionate anger; the physical remembrance 
 of Ryerson s writhing body under him; the tumultuous 
 struggle with the men who tore him off, and again his 
 mad anger; and all this tangle and mosaic of confused 
 sensations reeled blindly up to, and culminated in, the 
 touch of Mary s hand upon his arm, her delicate 
 presence standing between him and his enemy, her 
 fearless eyes looking into his face, her voice, and again 
 her hand drawing him away. And as all his emotions 
 were stirred and quickened to an abnormal degree, so 
 he had never before loved her with such an intensity 
 of passion never so overwhelmingly loved, and 
 never so terribly hated. 
 
 Thus in silence the two came at length almost to the 
 Reddins gate. A little way from it David paused a 
 moment, and with an effort threw off something of the 
 overmastering sick confusion under which his brain 
 was giddy, and like a man waking from a trance he 
 looked about him in surprised question. Here was he 
 
 217
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 at the Reddins gate, and what power had brought 
 him down the road when the man he hated the man 
 who had murdered his father had fled up it ? 
 
 For an instant he stood still, realizing his surround 
 ings and collecting himself, then he turned slowly 
 toward Mary and took both her hands in a tight grasp, 
 looking down into her eyes, and in silence Mary gave 
 back the look. 
 
 "Good-by Mary sweetheart," he said at length, 
 and started to draw his hands away, but Mary caught 
 them suddenly in a firm grasp of her own. 
 
 "Where aire you goin , Dave?" she questioned, in a 
 low steady voice, though fear sat in her eyes. 
 
 "You know where I m goin ," he said; "you know, 
 Mary. That was Kip Ryerson at the schoolhouse, an 
 you know everybody in ther Draft knows what he 
 done"; and again he strove to. tear himself away. 
 But Mary held him with such passionate strength that 
 it was impossible for him to free himself without hurt 
 ing her. Her face was very close and her eyes looked 
 into the depths of his. 
 
 "David," she said, and her voice was hardly more 
 than a whisper, yet it was vehement with feeling, 
 "David Cree, ef yer love me ther least little bit in ther 
 world, you ll wait here a spell and think things over; 
 yer too mad now ter look at anything straight. Jest 
 stay O Dave! jest stay with me er little, little spell!" 
 she begged piteously. "Can t yer! Oh! can t yer 
 Dave?" she cried, her breath warm on his cheek and 
 her eyes beseeching him. 
 
 218
 
 A MATCH FOR LOVE 
 
 "I can t, I can t, honey!" he said desperately "I 
 got ter go, I made er promise, you know I made er 
 promise," and again he sought to release himself, but 
 still she clung to him. 
 
 "David, do yer love me? Do yer, do yer, Dave?" 
 she cried insistently. 
 
 David looked down one moment at her anguished 
 face. 
 
 "God knows I do, Mary," he said in a shaken voice. 
 
 "Then," she cried, "ef yer goin ter giv yer life ter 
 yer hate, can t yer giv yer love jest one little hour? 
 O Dave, Dave! can t yer?" she begged, her lips almost 
 against his. "Don t giv yer hate everything, giv yer 
 love one little hour," she breathed. 
 
 For a space David hesitated, then suddenly the full 
 rush of his passion leaped up, and turning he caught 
 her in his arms and kissed her hard upon the lips. 
 
 "Fer an hour I ll wait," he said. 
 
 And Mary drew a long exhausted breath and freed 
 herself from his arms. 
 
 "Come into ther house," she said in a weary voice. 
 "I reckon dinner must be most ready." 
 
 At dinner, David ate in silence, with scarcely a word 
 flung into the general conversation, which ran along 
 ordinary topics guided there by Mary s anxious ma 
 noeuvring, aided by Mrs. Reddin, who guessed with 
 a quick instinct something of the situation. 
 
 The heat had increased and the atmosphere was 
 lifeless and oppressive with the promise of the approach 
 ing storm; which, with the remembrance of the scene 
 
 219
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 at the schoolhouse, at which the older members of the 
 family had been present, together with David s sombre 
 face, all combined to make the meal one of embarrassed 
 constraint. Yet for all that they sat long over it, de 
 layed by Mary, who introduced one topic after another 
 feverishly, for she knew instinctively that when they 
 rose David would slip away from her. 
 
 At length, however, even she could detain them no 
 longer, and her father pushed back his chair with a 
 decisive scrape. David got up, and leaving the kitchen 
 abruptly, went through the small living-room, and out 
 to the porch. 
 
 "I m goin now, Mary," he said, turning to the girl 
 who had followed him. Without a word she turned 
 back quickly into the house, and catching up her sun- 
 bonnet reappeared again. 
 
 "I m goin er piece er ther way with yer, Dave," she 
 said quietly. 
 
 He hesitated a moment, but in the end made no 
 objection or comment; and together they went down 
 the path leading to the yard gate, bordered on either 
 side with the fresh brown earth where Mary had hidden 
 the coxcombs, bachelor s buttons, maid-in-the-mist, 
 and all the little assembly of seeds that Martha Lam- 
 fire had given her. 
 
 David s face had lost its surprised bewilderment, 
 but its quietness of determination was more terrifying 
 to Mary than the other had been. 
 
 Outside the gate he wavered a moment, and finally 
 turned in the direction of the path leading over a low 
 
 220
 
 A MATCH FOR LOVE 
 
 ridge of Drupe Mountain, past the Hull graveyard. 
 The same path that Mary had taken on her way home 
 from Martha Lamfire s. 
 
 "I m goin by ther path," he said; "hit strikes inter 
 ther road nearer home than ther lane." 
 
 Relief leaped up in Mary s eyes. Yer goin home ? 
 she cried gladly. 
 
 "Yes fer my gun," he answered, and his voice was 
 absent, as though Mary s presence were half forgotten. 
 
 For a moment everything went dizzily black before 
 the girl s eyes, and a wave of sick fear engulfed her; 
 nevertheless she kept bravely on by his side, and to 
 gether they made their way into the woods. They 
 walked in silence until they gained the crest of the hill, 
 and came out onto the level spot where the burying- 
 ground lies. "Dave," Mary said wistfully, as they 
 passed it, and she saw the withered bridal wreath still 
 lying on Amabel Lamfire s grave, "Dave, do you 
 remember what happened here last week?" 
 
 But David gave no reply, and looking up at him 
 Mary saw that her words had gone unnoticed. She 
 felt as though he were slipping away from her; as 
 though every step, though she kept even pace with 
 him, was dragging them miles and miles apart. She 
 put out her hand desperately and took hold of his, 
 clinging to it; for somehow she realized her touch 
 had more power over him than anything else. As her 
 hand closed on his David came back a little from his 
 aloofness, and looked down at her with a faint lighten 
 ing of his sombre face. 
 
 221
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "What was hit yer said, honey?" he asked. 
 
 "Nothin, nothin ," Mary answered, not repeating 
 her words for she knew it was useless. And again 
 they fell silent; and again Mary felt the distance yawn 
 between them. 
 
 At length they came to the last fence, where the path 
 runs out into a steep little field, and so down to the 
 main road of the Draft, which here it overhangs. 
 
 David paused, and turned to Mary resolutely. 
 
 "Good-by, swetheart," he said again, as he had 
 said before at the Reddins gate. 
 
 "Wait, wait," Mary panted feverishly. "O Dave! 
 aire yer aire yer goin fer Kip?" 
 
 David nodded, looking down at her. "Yer know I 
 am, Mary," he said simply. 
 
 "But, Dave," she faltered, a breathless terror in her 
 voice, "they ll hang yer fer hit." 
 
 David still looked down at her in silence, and she 
 saw that though her forebodings might be true it 
 weighed not one whit with him. 
 
 She was like a little tortured bird beating its wings 
 against its cage in a vain endeavour to find an escape 
 to happiness. And at length, looking into his stern 
 face from which the tenderness had fled, she cried in a 
 sort of poignant astonishment 
 
 "But, Dave, I love yer, I love yer!" 
 
 To her that fact outfaced everything else. It was 
 the one great event of her existence nay, it was her 
 existence. And it seemed to her stupendous and un 
 believable that David could place anything before it.
 
 A MATCH FOR LOVE 
 
 At her words David drew her to him tenderly, and 
 pushed the arching waves and mists of shining hair 
 back from her forehead. 
 
 "Sweetheart," he said softly. 
 
 But there was still that fatal aloofness in his tone, 
 and with senses sharpened by dread Mary detected it. 
 Suddenly she sank down upon her knees before him, 
 and caught both his hands to her breast. 
 
 "Dave!" she cried again desperately, "I love yer!" 
 
 She felt that she must make him understand that 
 that was the first and the greatest fact the only 
 overmastering reality of their lives. 
 
 "I love yer! I love yer!" she repeated wildly. "O 
 Dave, I ve giv yer all myself. Don t yer see that our 
 love s ther greatest thing, an ther only thing? O 
 Honey ! ain t hit right ter put love before hate ? Dave, 
 I love yer. You you don t seem ter know what that 
 means, but hit s everything ter me hit s jest every 
 thing I am. I love yer! I love yer! I love yer!" 
 
 Passionately she fell to kissing his hands, first one 
 and then the other, and pressing them against her 
 breast, while she looked up at him with wide terrified 
 eyes, shining out of her drawn face. Looking down 
 at all her beauty and passion of love, laid at his feet, 
 a great surge of emotion went over David. 
 
 "Mary," he cried, "I love ther very ground yer walk 
 on ! But I can t go back on my promise don t yer 
 see I can t, sweetheart?" he pleaded. 
 
 "Yer made me er promise this very mornin ," she 
 returned in a low stricken voice. "Yer promised 
 
 223
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 nothin shouldn t never come betwixt us have yer 
 fergot that already, Dave?" 
 
 "God knows I ain t fergot," he said. "But I giv 
 ther other promise first. An ther man I promised hit 
 to died with me givin him my word I wouldn t fergit 
 an I giv hit with all my soul." 
 
 "David," she said, "ef yer break your promise ter 
 me hit ll kill me. O Dave!" she pleaded; "put yer 
 love before yer hate. Hit ought ter come first yer 
 know hit ought." Again she kissed his hands, looking 
 up at him with wet beseeching eyes. 
 
 "Put yer love first," she whispered. 
 
 David s face was tortured with suffering, neverthe 
 less he spoke steadily. 
 
 "Mary," he repeated, "I can t go back on my 
 promise." 
 
 At his words the tender pleading went out of 
 Mary s face, and she got to her feet with a quick 
 spring. 
 
 "No" she said low and fierce "no, yer can t 
 break ther promise yer made ter Alderson Cree ten 
 years ergo er bad, wicked promise but yer can 
 break ther one yer made ter me jest this mornin easy 
 ernough." Her tone was very bitter and an angry proud 
 look settled about her mouth. "David Cree," she 
 said, bending close to him, all the appealing sweetness 
 gone out of her face, "I ve laid my very heart an soul 
 at your feet an you ve jest tramped on em. Now 
 listen ter me onct fer all ef yer kill Kip Ryerson 
 no, ef yer so much as try ter kill him, yer sha n t ever 
 
 224
 
 A MATCH FOR LOVE 
 
 hev me. Do yer onderstan ?" she cried vehemently, 
 her eyes flaming. 
 
 For a moment she looked into his face, her own dead 
 white then, with a passionate gesture, she flung his 
 hands from her, and bursting into bitter sobs she 
 turned and ran blindly down the path up which they 
 had just come. 
 
 David stood and watched her go with a doomed 
 look upon his face, as though Fate had slammed in 
 exorable doors upon him. 
 
 Yet the woods had scarcely lost the last pink flicker 
 of her gown, before suddenly they gave it back again, 
 and in a moment she flashed forth from the green 
 bushes and fled back to him, flinging her arms about 
 his neck and clinging to him again. 
 
 " Dave," she cried distractedly, " Dave, I ain t really 
 mad, I ain t, Dave! But ef yer ef yer keep yer 
 promise yer ll be er murderer. An ef yer do hit, Dave 
 ef yer do, yer ll kill me!" 
 
 She lay against him exhausted and panting, and 
 very piteous, the hardness and anger gone from her 
 face, and all the tender pleading and sweetness come 
 back again. 
 
 "Hit ll kill me hit ll jest kill me," she whispered, 
 gazing up at him like a pathetic child, tears upon her 
 cheeks, and her eyes dark with terror. And looking 
 at her for the first time David s face softened with a 
 quiver of emotion, and he made a quick gesture, as 
 though to comfort her with kisses. But the next 
 moment he checked himself, and raising his hands he 
 
 225
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 unclasped her clinging fingers, and putting her reso 
 lutely from him, without a word he climbed over the 
 fence and went slowly down the hillside; but though 
 he went firmly and steadily, his head was bent, his face 
 was haggard, and his eyes began to burn with an almost 
 distraught light. 
 
 Mary stood looking after his retreating figure in an 
 utter bewildered stupefaction; and the fact that in spite 
 of everything, in spite of all her anguished endeavour, 
 and her agony of pleading, in the end, her love and 
 David s, that had seemed just that morning such an 
 overwhelmingly strong thing, should in a few short 
 hours have been swept aside by another passion as 
 though it had never been, was to her appalling and un 
 believable, and crushed her out of all her familiar 
 paths of thought. 
 
 Could it be, was it possible that David, who had held 
 her that morning in his arms with such an adoration 
 of love, was going from her now to do a thing which he 
 knew would tear them away from each other forever? 
 Oh! surely, surely, her heart cried out that it was im 
 possible. And yet yet, there was David going 
 steadily, inexorably on his way! Mary reeled dizzily 
 against the fence, and sank to the ground sobbing in 
 little low, heart-broken gusts, with the frightened pathos 
 of a child who has had a glimpse before its time, of the 
 pitilessness of the world. For in a woman the power 
 of love is first developed, and that of hate comes later, 
 born most often of the first. So to Mary Reddin, who 
 had never known the taste of a real live hate, it was 
 
 226
 
 A MATCH FOR LOVE 
 
 crushingly strange to find another force in the world 
 capable of matching strength with love an emotion 
 which had seemed to her strong beyond everything else. 
 
 At the foot of the hill David turned to take one last 
 look at the place of their parting, and in doing so he 
 caught sight of Mary s figure sunk down by the fence 
 just a faint splash of pink showing between the 
 grey rails. David stood suddenly still, looking up at 
 her with a sharp desire in his eyes. In the silent 
 appeal of her little broken figure, all her vanished gaiety 
 and wistful, frightened sweetness rushed upon him, 
 and called him madly; and that he who had brought 
 upon her the first sting of suffering could not go to her 
 now, and taking her in his arms shield her from it 
 with the protection of his strength, seemed monstrous 
 and unendurable; yet the way between them was 
 barred by the demon of his promise, and devil 
 ridden by it he turned at length into the road toward 
 home. 
 
 But at the last he went barely a hundred yards along 
 the road before he turned abruptly, and climbing the 
 fence on the other side went away into the low bushes 
 and undergrowth, and the still remoteness of one of 
 the hollows of Peter s Ridge. 
 
 As Mary lay and wept a huddled heap upon the 
 moss-cushioned ground she became aware of a 
 slight stir in the bushes at her back, and knew that some 
 one was behind her. Stifling her sobs, and springing 
 quickly to her feet, she turned and beheld Ellen Daw 
 standing in the pathway, and looking at her. 
 
 227
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Ellen s eyes were misty with tears, and her strong 
 dark face was full of compassion. 
 
 Mary looked at her a moment and then turned her 
 gaze away. Below in the valley the curving road lay 
 like a wriggling white snake, and from end to end of it 
 there was no sign of David Cree and to longing eyes 
 an empty road is desolate beyond conception. 
 
 Mary turned back to the other girl with a poignant 
 surprise. 
 
 "O Ellen, Ellen!" she cried wistfully. "Dave s 
 gone he s gone!" 
 
 "I know," Ellen answered softly. "I heered 
 I was settin back there in ther bresh." 
 
 Then with a sjiy, constrained movement she opened 
 her arms. "Po little thing," she said tenderly. 
 
 At the gesture Mary wavered toward her, dropping 
 her head upon her shoulder, and Ellen s arms closed 
 strongly about her. 
 
 Mary was tall, but Ellen was unusually tall, with a 
 frame almost like a boy s, and made strong by her 
 constant farm work. In her arms Mary felt very 
 slender and delicate, and her grief shook her from 
 head to foot. 
 
 Ellen put up her hand and stroked her hair awk 
 wardly, and pressed her head against her own neck, 
 murmuring softly, "Po little honey, po little thing!" 
 
 She pitied her intensely, but it gave her a feeling of 
 wondering, exquisite delight, as well, that this lovely 
 little creature whom she had so adored in secret should 
 be clinging to her now for sympathy and support. 
 
 228
 
 A MATCH FOR LOVE 
 
 It was the first time that any one had ever sought her 
 store of love, and it waked within her a very passion 
 of tenderness, and a fierce, almost maternal desire to 
 protect Mary from all suffering. She loved her with 
 an exulting, triumphant love, and she felt as though the 
 wealth and force of her love and compassion must 
 fling about the other girl a sort of encompassing and 
 protecting cloud of affection. 
 
 For a little while longer Mary lay still and let Ellen 
 caress her, but at length she straightened up and drew 
 herself away, pushing her hair back from her forehead 
 with a weary, bewildered touch. 
 
 "I got ter go home, I got ter go now," she said in a 
 stunned voice, yet with a certain quiet strength begin 
 ning to come to her. She moved a few paces away, 
 and then on the moment came back to Ellen, flinging 
 her arms about her neck and kissing her. 
 
 "Yer been mighty good ter me an I love yer," she 
 said simply, and turning again went slowly down the 
 path toward her home, a desolate and pathetic little 
 figure. 
 
 229
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 HATE PLAYS A CARD 
 
 WHEN David swung himself over the fence into the 
 woods of Peter s Ridge, he felt as though a crushing 
 and inexorable fate encompassed him on every side, 
 and the tug of his different emotions, which dragged 
 him now in this direction and now in that, drove him 
 almost frantic. 
 
 He went a little distance up the gentle slope of the 
 hollow, with indifferent stumbling steps, and at a 
 secluded spot flung himself full length upon the ground, 
 burying his head upon his arms; and the still woods, all 
 suffused with the green mysterious light of after 
 noon, heard him groan from his heart, as a man only 
 groans when there are no other human beings by to 
 offer the pity or contempt of their eyes. 
 
 For a long time he lay thus; then he gradually 
 stretched out his benumbed arms and dug his fingers 
 into the mossy depths of the ground, his face pressed 
 against its whispering coolness; and again for a long 
 time he lay still, his love keeping watch over him on 
 one side, while hate sat upon the other. The one 
 came to him in the remembrance of Mary Reddin s 
 tender, appealing face, and the other looked at him 
 
 230
 
 HATE PLAYS A CARD 
 
 with Kip Ryerson s hateful eyes. Love cried to him 
 in Mary s voice, "Oh! ain t hit right that love should 
 come first?" and "O Dave, put yer love before yer 
 hate," and with the cry it seemed to him he could feel 
 once more the quiver of her clinging arms about his 
 neck, and her breath upon his cheek; and hate taunted 
 him in his own passionate words of ten years ago 
 "I ve promised yer, Pappy! I ve promised, an I 
 won t fergit!" And as the old promise leaped through 
 his brain he matched it with the keenly remembered 
 feeling of Kip Ryerson s struggling body under his 
 own, and of his throat beneath his clutching hands. 
 Thus love sat upon one side, and hate leered at her 
 from the other; and between them David Cree lay upon 
 his face and strove with himself to find the right way. 
 Yet he knew instinctively, in spite of all the strength 
 of his love, that if Kip Ryerson were to come suddenly 
 before him again, he would leap upon him with the 
 same quick fury with which he had leaped that morn 
 ing. For the physical presence of the man enkindled 
 always within him an absolute overmastery of hate. 
 And at even the thought of coming on him again, David 
 half drew himself to his feet to go without further 
 delay, and accomplish his revenge. But with the 
 movement Mary s words came back upon him "An 
 ef yer kill Kip Ryerson no, ef yer so much es try 
 ter kill him, yer sha n t ever hev me." And again he 
 dropped back upon the ground. So if he kept his 
 promise to his father a promise into which he had 
 flung his very self besides the wrecking of his life, 
 
 231
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 together with possible hanging and almost certain 
 imprisonment he was to lose the love for which he 
 cared more than for anything else in the world. 
 
 David Cree was not a man of subtle argument, it 
 was more instinctive with him to keep his reasoning 
 powers quiescent, and to let the strength of his emo 
 tions decide for him in other words, he reasoned 
 almost entirely by his feelings. If he felt a thing to 
 be right or to be wrong he acted accordingly; but if his 
 instincts failed him, or came together in conflict, he 
 was bewildered and uncertain how to act, unable to 
 argue it out with himself, or to draw precepts from 
 other men for right or wrong for other people was 
 not right or wrong with him if his own conscience did 
 not speak. And the whole outcome of his actions now 
 hinged upon the question of whether his love or his 
 hate were stronger within him. 
 
 The hate that he had lived with and nourished 
 through his boyhood was a very intense passion, 
 matched only in strength by his love and that was 
 such a newly acquired feeling that as yet he had scarcely 
 guessed the power of it. 
 
 Yet whenever the hot waves of hate went over him 
 and he would have risen to his feet, and securing his pis 
 tol gone in search of Ryerson, always some poig 
 nant remembrance of Mary came back upon him 
 and restrained him. And though hate whispered that 
 if he stayed too long in the woods his revenge would 
 escape him, still he tarried, his hand stayed by love. 
 
 When at length he got slowly to his feet and made 
 232
 
 HATE PLAYS A CARD 
 
 his way down the hollow, the afternoon had gone some 
 distance toward evening, and what he should do in the 
 next few hours he himself did not know; but for the 
 moment his love was very alive within him, fostered 
 perhaps by the long hours in the still remoteness of 
 the woods. 
 
 When he emerged from the undergrowth, and step 
 ping absently over the low fence faced toward home, 
 he became dimly aware that the day s intensity of heat 
 had abated, and that the promise of the storm was near 
 its fulfilment. 
 
 The low rays of the sun struggled through piled-up 
 grey and black clouds and strangely thick white ones, 
 making an ominous background for the western peaks 
 of Drupe Mountain, and darkening the mountains 
 themselves to an expectant purple, streaked here and 
 there with faint sunshine where some higher ridge 
 caught a few wandering rays which transformed its 
 gloom into a delicate effulgence of yellowish green 
 light. 
 
 Sometimes, as the wind shifted the cloud ramparts, 
 so that the sun looked through at ever changing loop 
 holes, these tender streaks of light went stepping 
 silently from ridge to ridge of the mountains like a 
 wandering halo that had lost its saint or like the 
 unexpected smile of God moving over the world. 
 
 A light wind swirled hither and thither in uncertain 
 gusts, silvering the new leaves with its breath, and 
 sending little dust devils rioting away up the road. 
 
 The air was full of the looked-for relief of the storm 
 233
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 after the breathless oppression of the day. The frogs 
 called with eager voices, and in the distance a rain 
 crow gave forth its hollow prophetic note; and every 
 now and again sharp tongues of lightning licked out 
 from the banked-up clouds and sent a grey rumble of 
 thunder artillery growling off into silence among the 
 valleys and narrow hollows of the mountains. 
 
 For the most part David walked along the deserted 
 road with unnoticing eyes, but once a nearer and 
 louder thunder-clap than usual waked him to the 
 present, and raising his eyes he took in the signs of the 
 coming storm. 
 
 "When she comes she ll be er big one," he muttered. 
 
 Then as the thunder spoke again more sharply he 
 whispered, " Ef that s God s voice I wished He d speak 
 ter me. God," he cried suddenly, deep within him 
 self, "I don t know what s right show me!" 
 
 For a moment afterward he stood still, half expecting 
 some new revelation of thought, but all remained un 
 changed, and presently he went on slowly upon his 
 way again. 
 
 All that afternoon Judith Cree had sat upon the low 
 step of the Crees porch and looked across the valley 
 and up the road with searching eyes, awaiting David s 
 return. 
 
 She sat frozen to perfect stillness, except that every 
 now and again her thin hands lying in her lap clinched 
 upon each other with a hard tremor. Her face had 
 lost its expression of dead horror the expression 
 that seemed as though with her mental vision she be- 
 
 234
 
 HATE PLAYS A CARD 
 
 held always the calamity of ten years ago and now 
 was stamped with a burning look of live hate. 
 
 Every now and then Susan Cree, her daughter 
 a pretty, delicate girl, a few years older than Mary 
 Reddin, with wide blue eyes, and rather colourless 
 brown hair came nervously out onto the porch and 
 looked at her mother in a frightened, irresolute way. 
 Occasionally she asked her some trivial question, 
 timorously anxious to break the spell of her strained, 
 unnatural attitude. Judith answered her in mono 
 syllables which did not lessen one whit the intensity 
 of her expression, or else was silent altogether; and 
 after looking at her for a little while with a scared, wist 
 ful face, the girl would go back into the house again, 
 attending restlessly to the household tasks, only to 
 come drifting back presently to the doorway, to cast 
 more anxious glances at her mother s stern figure. 
 
 Judith Cree, unlike most of the Draft people, had 
 not been at preaching that morning, but Susan, com 
 ing home with the two younger Cree boys, Ed and 
 Bud, had told her of the reappearance of Kip and of 
 David s having to be dragged off of him. 
 
 At Susan s words that Ryerson was still alive, a 
 frightful look flashed over all her mother s face, dis 
 torting it sharply, and rising hastily from the dinner 
 table at which she had been seated, she put her hands 
 to her throat as though she could not catch her breath, 
 and stood a moment staring into the girl s gentle, 
 startled face. Then she took her hands down and 
 dropped them to Susan s shoulders. 
 
 2 35
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "Go on, go on" she cried fiercely, glaring at her 
 and shaking her slightly to and fro. " Go on, yer little 
 f 00 l w hen they got Dave offer him what happened ?" 
 
 "Why then," Susan faltered, "Kip, he lit out up ther 
 road, an Mary got Dave sorter quieted down, an made 
 him come on home with her." 
 
 " Kip Ryerson went up the road an Dave come down 
 hit with Mary?" Judith cried with savage astonish 
 ment. 
 
 The girl nodded in frightened silence. 
 
 "An what d you all do?" Judith demanded, whirl 
 ing upon Bud and Ed Cree boys of sixteen and 
 eighteen. 
 
 "We didn t know who he was first off, an afterwards 
 Mr. Reddin an Jack an one or two other fellers got 
 betwixt us an him, an kep us outer hit," the oldest 
 boy answered sullenly for both. 
 
 "An then I suppose you all come home with Sue," 
 Judith cried with biting scorn. 
 
 The boys looked at each other but said nothing. 
 They had never seen their mother, always so quiet and 
 so cold, in such a white fury of passion, and it surprised 
 them into silence. 
 
 Judith turned from them contemptuously, and stri 
 ding to the door looked eagerly up the road. Seeing 
 nothing she came back to the table, but in a moment 
 she sprang up restlessly, and going out on to the porch 
 flung herself down upon the top step and began her 
 long vigil for David. 
 
 Again and again throughout the afternoon Susan 
 236
 
 HATE PLAYS A CARD 
 
 came out to her, trying to induce her to eat some 
 thing, or to come into the house out of the full glare of 
 the heat. But her entreaties had absolutely no weight 
 with her mother, and the girl s face grew more and 
 more anxious. Hers was a sweet but not a very 
 strong nature, and her mother s behaviour alarmed her 
 excessively, and each time she went to the door to look 
 at her she came back with a nervous tightening of her 
 throat. Through the long hot afternoon Judith Cree 
 held the same rigid position. Her attitude was one of 
 crouching, as though the next moment she might leap 
 furiously to her feet; her eyes were red and burnt from 
 staring across the dazzling sunshine, and the out 
 spread panorama of the valley seemed to her to have 
 seared itself everlastingly upon her brain. It was a 
 spring landscape that faced her now, yet to herself she 
 seemed to be looking across the shining fawn-coloured 
 fields of autumn, and to be met by the glory of the 
 mountains in the full splendour of their October colour 
 ing instead of the soft spring greenery. For it seemed 
 to her all to have slipped back to the fall of ten years 
 ago, with herself standing happily in the doorway 
 looking across the valley, her baby s head upon her 
 breast, and her ears listening to heavy footsteps that 
 approached the house from the rear. She seemed to 
 be herself of ten years ago and herself of the present 
 mysteriously combined. To be listening to the foot 
 steps with her wonder of the past, yet to know what 
 they were with the knowledge and hate of the present. 
 Through the whole afternoon she lived this double 
 
 237
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 role of past and present. And with a curious trick 
 of her brain perhaps induced by the intense heat of 
 the sun she did not go over the past in retrospect, 
 but seemed to be actually living over each succeeding 
 moment of her life s catastrophe. In her dual exist 
 ence of past and present, with heedless eyes she watched 
 the sun drop slowly toward the west; the long black 
 shadows creep away from it to the eastward, and the 
 thunder-clouds pile themselves up across the horizon. 
 She saw without realizing that she saw her Ellie 
 dancing and pirouetting down the hill before the house, 
 in mad excitement over the wind s cool invitation, and 
 the exhilarating promise of the storm. Once or twice 
 the little girl dashed breathlessly up to her, and snug 
 gling down beside her on the step like a darting 
 bird touching ground for an instant asked some 
 gay, childish question. But Judith gave her no answer, 
 and in a moment, disappointed at her silence, Ellie 
 would flash away again on buoyant feet, her hair 
 blown in long flying strands across her elf face, and 
 her light skirts twisting and untwisting about her, as 
 she danced and whirled this way and that, like some 
 little mad storm sprite intoxicated by the call of the 
 wind and the joy of young life. 
 
 The swallows swooped through the watery grey 
 sky in mad twittering races, and in the distance the 
 rain crow sent forth his blue note, that seems somehow 
 in tone to match the wistful tint of the haze that over 
 hangs the far mountains in spring. 
 
 The whole valley lay in the clutch of the melting 
 238
 
 HATE PLAYS A CARD 
 
 afternoon light, touched to unfamiliarity by the storm, 
 and at length, in this yellow mystery of atmosphere, 
 Judith Cree saw David coming slowly up the long 
 slope of the hill toward the house. 
 
 At the first sight of him she shot up to her feet, her 
 hands clinching into hard fists ; then her impulse chang 
 ing, she sank again to the steps, moistening her dry 
 lips every now and again, and holding the sight of him 
 with burning, unwinking eyes. 
 
 David walked with head down, and he was almost 
 upon the steps before he caught sight of his mother. 
 He paused abruptly as he came before her, and stood 
 looking down at her in silence. 
 
 Judith rose slowly, terribly to her feet. 
 
 "Is he dead?" she demanded in a voice that was 
 hardly more than a whisper, and which held the con 
 centrated brooding of ten silent years. 
 
 David s face whitened sharply. 
 
 "No, he ain t dead," he said. 
 
 "Ain t dead ain t dead!" she cried. "Why ain t 
 he dead?" 
 
 "They took me offer him at ther schoolhouse, an 
 he got erway up ther road, an I ain t seen him since," 
 he answered. 
 
 "You ain t seen him since?" she cried, and the words 
 leaped at him stingingly like a lash. "Where hev yer 
 been all this time?" she demanded. 
 
 "I been over at ther Reddins er good bit er ther 
 time," David answered, a slow, ominous colour begin- 
 ing to burn in his face. 
 
 239
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "You been over at ther Reddins ?" she said, a pause 
 of scorn between each deliberate word. "You been 
 over at the Reddins an ther man what killed yer 
 Pappy is erlive an goin erbout ther Draft," she 
 paused. "But you been over at ther Reddins , she 
 repeated. "I hope yer hed er real pleasant time," 
 she cried in slow, furious mockery. 
 
 David s eyes began to light with the same dangerous 
 fire as her own, yet he answered low and steady : 
 
 "Mary Reddin says ef I so much es try ter kill Kip 
 I sha n t ever marry her," he said. 
 
 "Mary Reddin! Mary Reddin /" the woman almost 
 screamed. "What s Mary Reddin?" Suddenly she 
 broke off and imitated a child s voice with terrible 
 sarcasm: "I won t fergit, Pappy! I won t fergit! I ve 
 promised yer an I won t fergit!" 
 
 Again she paused, looking into his shaken face, then 
 she stepped closer, clasping his arm with intense vibrant 
 fingers. 
 
 "What s yer name?" she cried, her wild face 
 thrown back, and looking at him from under half- 
 closed lids. 
 
 "David Cree," he answered in a strained voice, too 
 overwrought and played upon by her passion to realize 
 the strangeness of the question. 
 
 "David Cree!" she screamed, and sprang back. 
 David Cree ! It s er lie yer not David Cree ! David 
 Cree made er promise. An he made ther fellers run 
 Kip Ryerson out er this Draft. An he tole me Kip 
 Ryerson shouldn t ever go by this house ergin. That s 
 
 240
 
 HATE PLAYS A CARD 
 
 what David Cree done. But you ain t him ! You ain t 
 Alderson s boy, an you ain t mine neither." 
 
 With furious eyes blazing at him she stood back a 
 pace or two, panting. Then suddenly she held up her 
 withered and twisted hands before him. 
 
 "Look at them hands!" she cried, and shook them 
 in his face. "Look at em! Do yer reckon I d er hed 
 hands like that ef Kip Ryerson hedn t er killed Alderson 
 Cree? Look at me! Look at me all over!" She 
 straightened up before him, a wasted, drawn figure, old 
 and work- wrung at forty. "Do yer reckon I d er 
 looked like this ef I d er hed er man ter work fer me?" 
 she demanded. "An why ain t I got er man? Be 
 cause Kip Ryerson killed him stole up behind him 
 an shot him in ther back." 
 
 She was sobbing now, beside herself with hate, 
 excitement, and the breaking down of long held self- 
 control. 
 
 "Oh!" she cried bitterly, "Oh! wished / was er 
 man!" 
 
 David laid his hand firmly on her shoulder. 
 
 "Hush," he said sternly; and beside her shaken, dis 
 torted passion he seemed very strong and very quiet. 
 "Hush," he said again; his firm hand upon her, and 
 his touch pressing her to silence. 
 
 He stood over her for a time, until her wild sobbing 
 spent itself and trailed brokenly into silent, heaving 
 breaths. Then he took his hand from her shoulder, 
 and turning went past Ellie, who watched with a small 
 excited face, and past Susan who was crying with 
 
 241
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 nervous fright, and disappeared into the house, and 
 when he came out again he held his pistol in his hand. 
 Still in silence he passed them all, and stepping off the 
 porch went away down the hill, and by and by the 
 dusk, which backed by the storm was almost darkness 
 now, swallowed up his powerful figure from sight. 
 
 Susan sank down upon the top step, crying hysteri 
 cally. But Judith stood and watched until David was 
 utterly lost in the gloom, her head held proudly and 
 her eyes lighted with an exultant fire. 
 
 242
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 ELLEN DAW SAYS FAREWELL 
 
 FOR a little while after Mary Reddin left her, Ellen 
 Daw stood still, looking with eager eyes at the spot in 
 the yellow green mist of the woods where Mary s 
 slender figure had disappeared. At length, from look 
 ing down the path, she turned and placed both hands 
 on the top rail of the fence which had long since been 
 softly enshrouded in the grey tenderness of moss and 
 lichen growth and standing thus her wistful eyes 
 took the landscape of the still valley below her, and the 
 greeny blue hills of Peter s Ridge opposite to witness, 
 that at last out of all the world, and out of all her 
 colourless procession of lonely, uncared-for days, Mary 
 Reddin had come into her arms with a need for some 
 of her heaped-up store of affection nay, more 
 had not only sought Ellen s hitherto unvalued affec 
 tion, but had given her as well some of her own; be 
 stowing it in the simple words, "You been mighty 
 good ter me, an I love yer!" 
 
 She loved her! Mary Reddin, the sweetest and 
 prettiest thing in the Draft, loved Ellen Daw Ellen 
 Daw for whom nobody had seemed to care the least 
 little snap of a finger. It was all to her a wonderful 
 
 243
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 and beautiful revelation, and with the revelation there 
 leaped up within Ellen a very wildness of delighted 
 love for the other girl. 
 
 Sometimes to herself, in her starved life, she had 
 pretended that she was her own mother, friend, or 
 lover, that in imagination at least she might throw 
 around her neglected personality some of the different 
 varieties of love that seemed to go wandering freely 
 through the world, alighting so easily upon every one 
 save herself. And now, with a quick turn of the hand, 
 reality had given her the love of a friend and of one, 
 too, that Ellen had always extravagantly adored in 
 secret. And Ellen s heart sprang to meet the gift 
 with an overwhelming wave of tenderness. 
 
 Moreover, in this new and radiant gift all Ellen s 
 imagined love for David melted a\vay into nothingness. 
 He had never been a real person to her he was 
 merely a frame upon which she had built her wistful 
 dreams, and now in the face of reality the man of straw 
 vanished vanished so entirely and completely that 
 Ellen never even comprehended that she had lost him. 
 He had been created in her mind to fill her need for 
 something to love, and as soon as there came a tangible 
 outlet for that need the intangible shrivelled up and 
 blew away like a cloud that had never been. 
 
 At length the long slant of the sun, and the gathering 
 storm clouds, warned her that she must not dawdle 
 there longer, hugging her new-found treasure, while her 
 evening chores lay unattended at home; and with a last 
 full sigh of happiness she took her hands lingeringly 
 
 244
 
 ELLEN DAW SAYS FAREWELL 
 
 from the fence and, climbing over it, started briskly 
 on her homeward way. 
 
 Once started she walked quickly, for she should have 
 been at home long since. Indeed she had left her 
 aunt s almost directly after dinner with the intention 
 of getting home early, for there was always plenty of 
 work to call her, and also that afternoon she had had 
 a more than usually shrinking desire to get away from 
 people s eyes, and be alone in the mountains once 
 more. She had started homeward by way of the 
 road, but the path that ran away into the hills past the 
 Hull graveyard had lured her from the hot dustiness 
 of the main track, and thus it chanced that sitting 
 down to rest a few moments a little back among the 
 undergrowth and wild azaleas she had been a witness 
 to the scene between Mary and David. 
 
 As she went on her way now, the knowledge of her 
 new possession kept pace with her and seemed to touch 
 all life with a radiant inspiration putting the elas 
 ticity of happiness into her whole being, and her mind 
 went eagerly in quest of something that she could do 
 for Mary to save her from the coming disaster for 
 with Ellen to love was to do. 
 
 Ellen Daw had not lived a normal life, and its un 
 natural lack of affection and companionship had 
 warped her nature and made her different from most 
 young women, and thus, when at last some little offer 
 of friendship came to her, she returned it with an 
 extravagant, almost an erratic, wealth of love. 
 
 It did not occur to her that Mary was nearly as old 
 245
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 as herself, and that she had certainly many more pro 
 tectors than she had, for when Mary came into her 
 arms she had seemed to Ellen like a little bewildered 
 child, appealing especially to her for protection; and 
 Ellen answered the appeal with an aching desire to be 
 the one to shelter and defend her. But how was she 
 to do it? If she could only think of some way. 
 Suddenly, as her mind groped thus for a golden solution 
 to Mary s unhappiness, a suggestion sprang all at once 
 into her mind and took quick shape as a possibility. 
 Ellen stood still in the middle of the road, her heart 
 leaping in great alarmed bounds, and her face blanch 
 ing as the idea opened out before her like a flash. 
 
 At first it was only a horrifying thought, but as she 
 walked on again, slowly it turned itself over in her 
 mind, showing each side with a terrible insistent allure 
 ment; and Ellen, fostering it at first only in a sort of 
 terrorized fascination, found presently that it gripped 
 her more and more with a clutch from which she 
 seemed powerless to escape. Yet appalling as the 
 idea was, did she honestly desire to escape from it? 
 What she desired more than anything else in the whole 
 universe at that moment was to serve Mary Reddin, 
 who with her sweet touch had pushed back a little the 
 heavy doors of her loneliness; and the carrying out of 
 this suggestion would serve her would deliver her 
 from the approaching ruin of her love. 
 
 Ellen let her mind pause in fatal speculation before 
 it, and presently, thinking of her own unimportant and 
 unloved existence, as compared to Mary, beloved and 
 
 246
 
 ELLEN DAW SAYS FAREWELL 
 
 needed by so many, she whispered half out loud, "Hit 
 don t matter erbout me I ain t really nothin ter no 
 body"; and with the words, the idea that had come at 
 first merely as a vague possibility congealed suddenly 
 into a definite purpose, and with a look of white finality 
 on her face, Ellen began to walk very quickly, almost, 
 indeed, to run, up the steep road of the mountain. 
 
 When she reached home she found Silas Daw im 
 patiently and angrily awaiting her return, that he 
 might be released from looking after Mrs. Daw, to 
 hobble over to a near-by neighbour s for a Sunday 
 chat; for the warm weather had lately eased his rheu 
 matism sufficiently to enable him to get about a little 
 with his two sticks, but not enough for him to feel that 
 he could take part in any of the farm work. 
 
 Ellen gave no answer to his storm of querulous abuse, 
 and watched him depart presently with keen satisfac 
 tion; for it suited well with her purpose that he should 
 be absent. 
 
 She had run a good part of the way home, and 
 though she was breathless, time had been saved, and 
 there was yet a good stretch of daylight before her 
 even allowing for the brewing thunder-storm which 
 would bring the darkness down earlier than usual. 
 
 She found her adopted mother sitting stupidly in the 
 back doorway watching the meanderings of an old 
 hen and brood of chickens. At the girl s approach 
 she raised her blank face and stared foolishly. Ellen 
 looked down at her. Used as she was to the emptiness 
 of the face, it came over her now, in her aliveness to 
 
 247
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 all emotion, with a fresh shock of revelation, as though 
 she saw it for the first time. Yet in the very shock she 
 put the feeling from her, and stooping quickly kissed 
 her mother with a keener pity than ever before. Then 
 tossing off her sunbonnet she went swiftly into the 
 kitchen, and lighting the fire set about her evening 
 tasks with feverish haste. 
 
 She brought fresh water, filled the kettle and set it 
 on to boil; made the usual soda biscuits and set them 
 to rise; sliced the bacon ready to fry later, and then 
 catching up her milk pail turned with the same eager 
 ness to her out-of-door work. Yet though she worked 
 so quickly, everything she did was done with a strange 
 precision and careful finish, as though she were doing 
 it all for the last time, and in so doing dwelt upon it 
 with a fondness which long familiarity, and continual 
 repetition, had thrown around it. 
 
 Out of doors it was the same way. When she milked 
 the two cows she felt a close affection for them, and 
 when she fed the old mare she even put her arms about 
 her neck and laid her cheek against her mane. 
 
 "You an me s seen some pretty tough times together, 
 ain t we?" she whispered, "an do know but what 
 you ve had er harder time n I hev but maybe horses 
 don t keer like folks do. But I keer " she cried 
 with quick sympathy, "cause you ve allers hed sech 
 er hard scuffle. You an me s allers been sorter erlike, 
 an I keer, I do keer," she said again, and tightened 
 her arms about the mare s neck. "I hope Pappy 
 won t be mean ter yer," she added wistfully. " But any- 
 
 248
 
 ELLEN DAW SAYS FAREWELL 
 
 how, ef he is, yer right ole an yer won t hev ter stan hit 
 so very long." 
 
 Every step she took about the stable yard was at 
 tended by a hurrying, anxious flock of heterogeneous 
 poultry, and when at length she emerged with the pan 
 of chicken feed, the whole multitude swooped toward 
 her on flying wings. Turkeys with long swinging 
 gait and cruel eyes, ducks with cheerful black eyes 
 and widely expansive countenances, and hasty fat 
 waddles assisted by outspread wings; a stray goose or 
 two, and one lonely grey guinea, besides all the assembly 
 of hens, pullets, roosters, and little chicks, the latter 
 of varying ages numbered by weeks; all came to her 
 half flying, half running a soft wave of outspread 
 wings. Some flew upon the rim of the pan, snatching 
 a few eager pecks before being sent fluttering to the 
 ground ; some, more adventurous, flew on to her shoulder, 
 and leaning over with cautious balancing reached 
 outstretched necks toward the pan, only to end by 
 over-toppling themselves and going squawking to the 
 ground, panic-stricken at their own venturesomeness ; 
 and all about her feet they were so thick that the girl 
 could scarcely move without trampling upon them. 
 
 She knew them all so well ! Every one of them in 
 dividually, as she had known their mothers, grand 
 mothers, and great-grandmothers before them. Just 
 a hungry, selfish, squabbling horde, intent only on 
 their own welfare, and yet she cared for them in 
 spite of all she cared for them; for they were all part of 
 the life that she was leaving, and truly, now that she 
 
 249
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 came to the wrenching away from it, there was in 
 finitely more in her shut-away existence on the moun 
 tain-top than she had ever dreamed she cared for. 
 
 Flipping the last damp crumbs of the corn-meal 
 dough from her fingers, she went slowly toward the 
 house, the chickens still pursuing her, and she herself 
 casting more than one backward glance at the landscape 
 that she knew so well. Mountains piled and tumbled 
 upon one another, little half-hid valleys lying in their 
 arms; and mellowed farm lands in the distance, cut 
 across by the silver flash of the Drupe River. In the 
 doorway she paused and cast one long look at it all; 
 and there was not a littlest valley, nor haziest distant 
 stretch of farm land, nor shimmer of the river, nor 
 least little rounded knob of mountain peak, with which 
 she was not achingly familiar. 
 
 How many, many times had she stood as she stood 
 now in that doorway when life was lonely and hard and 
 bitter, and looking over at the mountains had gained 
 quiet and fortitude from their large stillness. And 
 now what else would she ever find to take their place ? 
 
 Ellen turned at length in doors with a certain feeling 
 of resentment that on this last evening there should 
 have been no painting of the sky in glorious sunset 
 colours as a remembrance, but that the sun should 
 have dropped instead into the colourless bank of 
 sullen storm clouds. 
 
 Indoors she finished getting supper, and laid the 
 table with care. Her father had not yet returned, but 
 it was nearly time for him, and she must hurry. She 
 
 250
 
 ELLEN DAW SAYS FAREWELL 
 
 pushed the coffee and crackling bacon to the back of 
 the stove, and opened the oven door that the biscuits 
 might keep hot without burning, and then pausing in 
 the middle of the poorly furnished little kitchen she 
 stood for a time taking in all its well-known details. 
 The dour familiarity of the room seemed all at once to 
 take on personality, and creeping toward her, silently, 
 intangibly, to wrap long-accustomed arms about her, 
 holding her in a curious wistful grip; as though all the 
 inanimate objects with a sudden life, born of long 
 association, cried to her that because for so long they 
 had struggled together in a hard existence she could 
 not leave them now. 
 
 And the keenest pathos of it all was, that nature, 
 inanimate objects, and indifferent animals were all, 
 now that it came to parting, that Ellen Daw s whole 
 life had brought to her from which to take leave. 
 
 For a little while she stood thus in the centre of the 
 kitchen, then with a whimsical impulse she moved a 
 step or two until she trod upon a rickety old board 
 that creaked with her weight. Its protesting cry was 
 a long-heard voice which for years had answered at 
 intervals to the girl s hurrying feet as she went to and 
 fro across the kitchen; and Ellen chose now to wake its 
 complaint once more, because it was part of the accus 
 tomed whole, which, now that she was breaking away 
 from it, all tugged so suddenly and so strangely at her 
 heart. 
 
 She stood in her place on the old board, and as she 
 did so tears began to burn slowly into her eyes. 
 
 251
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "I I dunno why I keer ter leave yer all so much," 
 she faltered, putting her unsteady hands up to her 
 face. " I ve jest hated it all lots of times. Hated ther 
 lonesomeness an ther hard work an everything, an 
 now, seems like I must er keered fer hit after all." 
 
 She stretched out her arms to the room, and, with 
 the action, again the closeness of long familiarity 
 rushed upon her achingly. 
 
 For a moment longer she stood, then dropping her 
 arms quickly she turned and went resolutely. into the 
 main room. 
 
 Her mother still sat in the same blank attitude in 
 the doorway, only now that the chickens were gone 
 she played childishly with her fingers. 
 
 Ellen went past her, and going to the high chimney- 
 piece stood upon tiptoes and reached one hand up, 
 groping along the shelf. In a moment her fingers 
 struck the thing for which she sought, and when she 
 drew her hand down again she held in it Silas Daw s 
 pistol. Searching hastily in an old cigar box she found 
 the cartridges, and with trembling fingers slipped a 
 load into place. With the snapping to of the barrel, 
 the sudden full revelation of what she meant to do 
 rushed upon her, and with a sick repulsion she flung 
 the pistol upon the table, and springing back a pace 
 or two stood looking at it with staring frightened eyes 
 of fascination, as though she looked at a snake. 
 
 For a moment she gazed at it, facing all that it 
 meant, and slowly she began to be overwhelmed by a 
 desolate bewildered fright, a terror of her very self 
 
 252
 
 ELLEN DAW SAYS FAREWELL 
 
 and of her intention. She had broken from all her 
 accustomed anchors, and faced a thing that was 
 appalling. 
 
 Oh! what was she planning to do? And why was 
 there never any one by to give her aid or counsel when 
 she needed it ? 
 
 An overpowering desire for human touch and com 
 fort came upon her something, some one, to save 
 her from her own mad self. Wildly, in the extremity 
 of her need, she looked toward her mother. The 
 woman s eyes answered hers with their perpetual 
 blankness, but empty as they were, still they were 
 human, and with a frightened cry Ellen fled across 
 the room, and buried her face against her shoulder 
 "Mammy, Mammy!" she cried, clinging to her 
 and it seemed as though the sharpness of her necessity 
 must wake some response in the other s dead personality. 
 
 "Mammy, Mammy," she sobbed again, cowering 
 closer against her. A light stirred in the expression 
 less face and some old far-away memory of the days 
 before her fall, and before her little babies had slipped 
 away, seemed to come faintly back to the old woman, 
 and as though Ellen were a tiny child she put her 
 arms about her and soothed her with murmuring 
 baby talk. 
 
 "What is hit, honey; what is hit can t hit tell hit s 
 Mammy?" 
 
 Ellen drew herself up in swift surprise and searched 
 the withered face. Was there a gleam of returning 
 reason there? But even while she gazed eagerly, the 
 
 2 S3
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 momentary maternal expression died away, swallowed 
 by the old vacant look, and pushing the girl from her 
 the old woman clapped her hands together and broke 
 into the fragment of a foolish song, her body swaying 
 with the tune and her eyes lit with empty merriment. 
 
 Ellen sprang to her feet and turned again to the 
 table. For a little space longer she stood wavering 
 before the pistol, then with a sudden swoop she caught 
 it up and fled desperately out of the house. 
 
 She ran with bent head, scudding along like a 
 pursued animal, past the stable and along the path out 
 to the main road, which, running up from the Jump 
 ing Creek Draft, dips over the mountain here, and 
 going down to the free bridge crosses Drupe River 
 there and runs away to the farms beyond. 
 
 Ellen checked her rapid pace when she came into 
 the road, and drew herself down to a walk, for she needed 
 time to think and to plan. 
 
 The daylight was almost gone and the murky thunder 
 clouds made the sky very black in the pause between 
 daylight and dark. The strength of the storm seemed 
 gathering itself for a terrific climax in deeper and 
 deeper drawn breaths. Occasionally a gust of wind 
 went by, only to leave the stillness more still and 
 oppressively expectant than ever. 
 
 Ellen had gone only a little distance when she be 
 came aware of two of the lumber men from Whit- 
 comb s mill approaching her swiftly out of the gloom. 
 
 With a hasty movement she hid the pistol under her 
 apron and stood waiting, and when the men came up 
 
 254
 
 ELLEN DAW SAYS FAREWELL 
 
 to her, her overwrought manner was gone, and she 
 was just the shrinking, reserved girl that they were 
 accustomed to meeting occasionally on the road. 
 
 " Kin you all tell me where I kin find Kip Ryerson ?" 
 she inquired, after the customary "good evening" had 
 passed between them. "I I got er message fer 
 him!" 
 
 "Then you better look sharp an giv hit ter him 
 ternight fer termorrer mornin won t find him in these 
 parts," one of the men laughed. 
 
 "Where is he?" she persisted. 
 
 "He s in camp, right this minute er he was when 
 we come erway, but he s ergittin his kit tergether ter 
 light out. He laid up in ther woods back er camp all 
 ther evenin thinkin that Cree feller d be after him, 
 but some way he didn t come, an Kip he crep inter 
 camp jest er little while ergo an tole ther boss he was 
 goin ter quit an I don t reckon even this storm ll 
 keep him from leavin , he s scared up so bad." 
 
 "Which way will he go?" Ellen demanded. 
 
 "He ain t said; but he s most sure ter go erlong this 
 erway, an make down fer ther free bridge, fer he 
 certainly ain t goin back into ther Draft. Ef yer jest 
 wait here er little spell you ll be most sure ter see him 
 d rectly, fer I reckon he mus er got started by now." 
 
 A sharp thunder- clap cut his words off. 
 
 "But ef yer message ain t mighty important," he 
 added as the thunder rolled away; "you better let hit 
 go, an shoot fer home; fer its comin one er ther biggest 
 storms I ever seed, an that s sayin er right smart"; 
 
 255
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 and as though in confirmation of his words a high gust 
 of wind and driven spatter of rain-drops struck them. 
 
 "Come on!" he cried to his companion, "er we ll 
 not make hit ter kiver fore she busts." And clapping 
 their hats tightly on their heads, they set off running 
 up the road, their thick boots clumping heavily over 
 the stones. Almost immediately the darkness snatched 
 them from Ellen s sight, but for some time she could 
 still hear their running feet, until the sound was lost 
 in another thunder crash and scud of wind and rain. 
 
 Overhead the wind hissed through the tossed 
 branches, and only by putting her hand against the 
 trunk of a tree could Ellen herself stand against the 
 fury of it. Through the darkness the lightning winked 
 incessantly, like the opening and shutting of a great 
 eye, and in sharp cracks the thunder followed close in 
 its wake. In the distance the main body of oncoming 
 rain roared with the full sound of a cataract, coming 
 nearer and nearer in blown sheets. 
 
 Ellen cowered against a tree for shelter and support, 
 and waited, her throat tight with nervous excitement, 
 and waves of trembling surged over her every now and 
 again. But her fear was not the fear of the storm, it 
 was the agonizing terror of herself, and of the thing 
 she meant to do. 
 
 Blown through and through by the wind, and 
 drenched to the skin, she sank down to a sitting posture, 
 and bending forward clasped her arms about her knees, 
 sheltering with her body the pistol, which lay a dead 
 weight in her lap. Sitting thus in the riotous grip of 
 
 256
 
 ELLEN DAW SAYS FAREWELL 
 
 the storm and of her own emotions, she listened with 
 drawn breath for the sound of approaching footsteps. 
 And at last in a moment s lull of the wind and storm 
 she heard them; heavy footsteps, stumbling and gro 
 ping over the rough way, and once a curse went with 
 them. 
 
 Very slowly and very quietly, like a stealthy wind- 
 driven shadow, Ellen Daw rose to her feet; very cau 
 tiously, with a tiny unheard click, she cocked the pistol. 
 
 Except when an occasional blue flame of lightning 
 drank up the darkness, all her senses were merged 
 in that of listening, and she stood with ears keen for 
 every sound. Suddenly a flash lit the whole road in 
 dazzling brilliance, and in the moment of its intensity 
 Ellen saw a man s figure still a little distance away 
 coming up the uneven track toward her. Then the 
 soft lid of darkness shut down once more, and the girl 
 drew a faint quivering breath, and again set herself 
 to wait and to listen for the footsteps, through the up 
 roar of the storm the violence of which increased every 
 moment. Stumbling among the loose stones the man 
 came on. He was opposite her on the road now, but 
 all was still dark. Silently she extended her arm, 
 finger on trigger, ready for the next instant of light. 
 She heard him utter a protesting complaint over the 
 obscurity of the way, and his footsteps went on a little 
 further. Then it came an intense vividly illuminat 
 ing flash. In the outspread wings of light Ellen saw 
 the man held sharply up to view, flashed upon, and 
 enveloped in the brilliance as though he were the 
 
 257
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 only thing to see in all the world. His back was 
 toward her, and at that she fired, and on the instant 
 the lightning disappeared into darkness. 
 
 She heard the man utter a startled cry, but it was one 
 of surprise, not pain, and she knew that she had missed; 
 then the sharp crackling of the thunder leaped out en 
 gulfing all in its heavy voice; and as it died away, the 
 lightning flash, the report of the pistol, the man s cry 
 and the grey roll of the thunder seemed all fleeing away 
 into the darkness and out into space, to quiver forever 
 down the ages upon each other s horrified footsteps. 
 
 As the thunder died Ellen heard a crashing and 
 scattering of stones and knew that the man was plun 
 ging toward her furiously in the dark. 
 
 She had fired her shot and missed, and with the action 
 all power had gone out of her. Like a limp and dead 
 winter vine she clung to the tree trunk, unable to move, 
 though she knew the man rushed upon her, beside him 
 self with anger, and that the next breath of lightning 
 would deliver her into his hands. 
 
 She was not dead to the fear of it all, yet she could 
 not move, even to steal around the tree and place its 
 trunk between herself and the groping eager vengeance 
 that the dark held. He was very close now, and she 
 could hear his quick breaths. She leaned against the 
 tree all but unconscious with terror and dread of the 
 lightning. 
 
 The lightning held off; yet feeling along with out 
 stretched arms one of the man s groping hands brushed 
 against her shoulder. 
 
 258
 
 ELLEN DAW SAYS FAREWELL 
 
 The sudden touch, the nearness of him, and the 
 black intensity of it all, tore away Ellen s numbed 
 silence, and on the instant that he touched her she 
 screamed piercingly and sprang away. 
 
 With a plunge he was upon her, flinging furious 
 gripping arms about her waist. Again and again she 
 screamed in an ecstasy of mad terror; and as though in 
 answer to her cries, the lightning opened wide sudden 
 eyes of horror upon the scene, and for an instant held 
 the man and girl in the white hollow of its light. 
 
 With struggling panic-stricken strength Ellen tried 
 to tear herself free; and as her assailant held her in his 
 raging grasp he lifted his face, and all at once she saw 
 that it was the face of Adrian Blair and on the instant 
 he recognized her. 
 
 " Ellen Daw! "he screamed, mad with excitement; 
 and reeled aside to let the fury of his strength pass her. 
 Ellen fell away out of his relaxed arms an unconscious 
 heap, and the black darkness shut down upon them. 
 
 259
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 THE REASON FOR THE HOUSE 
 
 WHEN Ellen Daw opened her eyes once more to 
 renewed consciousness, it was to find herself lying 
 upon the hay heaped in one corner of the little sloping 
 shed backed against Silas Daw s dilapidated stable. 
 The lantern that she usually kept there, in case her 
 chores at the barn detained her after dark, was lighted 
 now and swung from its peg in the wall, its rays send 
 ing a faint illumination over near-by objects, and creep 
 ing away into the shadowy corners glimmered almost 
 to obscurity in their blackness. 
 
 Outside the wind still went by in shrill gusts; the 
 rain trampled upon the roof, and every now and again 
 pallid blue lightning stooped suddenly out of the 
 black wilderness of the sky and looked in at the shed s 
 open sides. 
 
 Evidently Adrian Blair had brought her there after 
 she lost consciousness, for he was standing over her 
 knee deep in the hay, his face excited and very angry. 
 
 "What do yer mean by shootin at me outer ther dark 
 like that?" he demanded furiously as their eyes met. 
 
 Ellen put her hands to her temples and looked about 
 her in wild bewilderment; than all at once, pressing 
 
 260
 
 THE REASON FOR THE HOUSE 
 
 her face deep into the hay, she broke into a storm of 
 low desolate sobs. 
 
 At first her tears came only from the awfulness and 
 terror of the last few hours; but gradually as she wept 
 the vividness of the present relaxed a little, and one 
 after another all the lonely miseries of her past rose up 
 before her, demanding their full measure of tears, 
 which always she had denied them. The desolation 
 of her whole life; her unhappy neglected childhood; 
 the bitter impossibility of the work laid upon her; the 
 poverty and shabbiness staring at her always with for 
 lorn eyes; her own hard shyness, that came so fatally 
 between herself and any show of friendliness; Mary s 
 tragedy; and lastly again the horror of herself, and of 
 the thing she had tried to do; all these heartaches 
 strung themselves into a rosary of grief, and to each 
 she gave a portion of her bitter tears. For the misery 
 of the past she wept ; for the awful present, and for the 
 barren stretches of the dead future which opened be 
 fore her. 
 
 Adrian stood looking down at her shaken figure, 
 and presently a little of the anger began to die from his 
 usually gay face, which was never meant for any long 
 holding of wrath. 
 
 Leaning down at length he put his hand upon her 
 shoulder : 
 
 "What did yer shoot at me like that fer?" he per 
 sisted shaking her a little. 
 
 At his touch Ellen struggled again to a sitting pos 
 ture. Her sobs checked themselves, and pushing her 
 
 261
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 hair back from her forehead she looked at him for a 
 moment in dazed silence. 
 
 She was forcing herself out of her confusion of 
 accumulated suffering and overwrought excitement, 
 and trying to place Adrian and bring her mind to take 
 hold upon his question. 
 
 In the lantern light her eyes shone through their mist 
 of tears with a flame of mysterious unhappiness, as 
 though they had looked into the unknown waste places 
 of grief. 
 
 Her hair lay heavy and very black upon her brow, 
 and her whole appearance was unusual and different 
 from anything Adrian had ever known. And as always 
 when her real emotions were touched, her true self 
 awoke suddenly and sweeping away the barrier of her 
 shyness took swift and rightful possession of her per 
 sonality. 
 
 "I thought you was Kip Ryerson," she said at length, 
 answering his question. 
 
 "Kip Ryerson!" he cried in amazement. "What s 
 Kip done ter you?" he demanded quickly. 
 
 "He ain t done nothin ," she answered, her voice 
 far-away and lifeless. 
 
 "Ain t done nothin ! An yit you tried ter shoot him 
 out er ther dark!" he cried incredulously. Suddenly 
 an idea rose before him, and again anger leaped into his 
 eyes. 
 
 "I know why yer done hit," he cried, "yer done hit 
 cause yer love David Cree!" 
 
 Ellen looked at his flushed face steadily for a moment 
 262
 
 THE REASON FOR THE HOUSE 
 
 before she answered. She was not angry as she had 
 been the other times when he had accused her of caring 
 for David. Then her anger had been kindled sharply 
 by mortification, for he had laid a scornful hand upon 
 what she believed to be the truth; but her feelings had 
 travelled so far from that old imagined emotion that 
 his facing her with it now seemed almost preposterous; 
 and too impossible an idea even to humiliate her. 
 
 "No," she returned finally, "no, I don t keer fer 
 him." She spoke so quietly, and with such unmoved 
 strength of conviction, that Adrian knew beyond a 
 doubt that she spoke the truth. 
 
 "Then what in ther name er sense did yer do hit 
 fer?" he questioned, dumbfounded. 
 
 "I did hit cause I keer erbout Mary Reddin," she 
 answered simply. 
 
 Adrian gave vent to a long whistle of astonishment; 
 and Ellen knew that her reply had brought his imagina 
 tion to an incredible standstill, as though a blank wall 
 rose up before him, and suddenly a desire to make him 
 understand seized her. 
 
 "Set down here fer er little bit," she said laying her 
 hand upon the hay at her side, "an I ll tell yer how hit 
 all was." 
 
 Adrian hesitated a moment, but finally dropped 
 down beside her, awaiting her explanation in silent 
 mystification. 
 
 Ellen clasped her hands about her knees and began, 
 her expression aloof, and her eyes looking out into the 
 soft murk of darkness, as though there on the curtain 
 
 263
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 of the night she saw the events of the afternoon thrown 
 magic-lantern like. 
 
 "I was comin home from A nt Mary s," she said 
 with simple directness, "an hit was so awful warm by 
 ther road that when I come ter ther little path goin 
 through ther woods by ther Hull graveyard, I turned 
 erlong hit; an when I come ter ther place where hit 
 runs over ther fence an down ergin ter ther road, I 
 was so hot I jest set down on er log back er little piece, 
 in ther woods, ter rest an cool off er spell. An while 
 I was er settin there Dave Cree an Mary Reddin come 
 erlong, but they didn t see me fer I was sorter hid by 
 ther bresh an wild honeysuckles. Mary was walkin 
 holdin on ter Dave s hand, an jest lookin up into 
 his face every little bit, so scared an so pitiful, like she 
 thought every second he was goin ter slip erway from 
 her, an Dave he looked like he was way off ter hisself 
 in some lost place. An when they come ter ther fence, 
 Dave jest turned round an said Good-by speak- 
 in right quiet, an when he said hit I knowed all in er 
 minute what he was goin ter do. An Mary " 
 Ellen faltered a moment, and when she went on her 
 voice had taken on new shades of tenderness. "An 
 Mary," she continued, "jest went down on her knees 
 an begged him not ter go, an done everything she 
 knowed ter keep him; but hit didn t do no good, fer 
 in ther end he climbed over ther fence an went on 
 down ther hill. An Mary stood an watched him fer 
 er little spell, like she jest couldn t take hit in that he d 
 left her, an then all of a sudden, when she knowed hit 
 
 264
 
 THE REASON FOR THE HOUSE 
 
 was really so, she put her head down against ther fence 
 an cried like she d cry her heart out fer she d tole 
 David ef he did anything ter Kip he shouldn t never 
 hev her, an I know she ment hit." 
 
 Ellen paused as she had paused often during her 
 narrative, looking out into the darkness as though the 
 scene flashed out before her and she waited a moment 
 looking at it before going on again. 
 
 "An , an then after Dave had gone," she resumed, 
 "I come out from where I d been settin , an when 
 Mary seed me she jest come inter my arms like er little 
 hurt child what didn t know hits way. An then after 
 er little bit she went on home, but first she put her 
 arms round my neck an said she loved me." 
 
 Ellen got slowly to her feet, clinching her young toil- 
 worn hands hard together, and when she spoke it was 
 in a low voice all to herself, as though Adrian Blair 
 were forgotten. 
 
 "She was ther only livin soul on God s earth ever 
 said she loved me," she said softly. "I ve lived all my 
 life," she went on after a little, with bitterness in her 
 tone "I ve lived all my life jest natu ally hungry an 
 thirsty fer somebody ter say they keered whether I 
 lived in ther world er got out er hit; an ther ain t never 
 been one soul ter say hit till she did. I wouldn t er 
 keered who hit was er ole woman er a ole man 
 any po pitiful thing nobody didn t hev no use for 
 would er been better n nothin , an good ernough fer 
 me, so long es they keered fer me. But ther jest ain t 
 never been nobody. Not one single living soul. I ve 
 
 265
 
 loved lots er folks in my heart, an kinder tried ter 
 fool myself by playin like they keered fer me but I 
 allers knowed well enough they never did they 
 didn t even want my love, let erlone givin me any er 
 their n." 
 
 She paused, her face flushed and the tears gathering 
 again slowly in her eyes. 
 
 "Lots an lots er times," she went on, "I ve fed 
 stray dogs that come erlong an petted em, an took 
 home little half-starved cats, folks hed lef erlong ther 
 road, cause hit allers seemed ter me they was jest what 
 I d er been ef I d er been er dog or a cat ther wouldn t 
 er been nobody ter keer fer me neither, an I d er been 
 flung out on ther road ter starve jest like they was. 
 An when I took em home, I allers wondered ef God 
 keered ernough fer them ter send me erlong ter take 
 em in and be good to em, why he didn t keer ernough 
 fer me ter send somebody erlong ter love me. An 
 an then," she faltered painfully; "I got er think n 
 that maybe even God didn t keer fer me not even 
 God es ef ther was somethin wrong an cur us 
 erbout me, that jest rose up betwixt me an any kind 
 er love er happiness. An then " her eyes suddenly 
 grew luminous, and her whole face lit up " an then," 
 she cried triumphantly, "Mary Reddin, ther sweetest 
 little thing an ther prettiest little thing in ther whole 
 Draft, she come inter my arms, an said she loved me, 
 an when she said hit her face looked jest like one er 
 these here little white spring flowers with ther rain on 
 hit. She said she loved me," she repeated lingering 
 
 266
 
 THE REASON FOR THE HOUSE 
 
 over the words. " She said she loved me, an an God 
 knows I would er died fer her." 
 
 She stood perfectly still, in silence, and though she 
 made no gesture save the tight clinching of her tired 
 hands, Adrian know that the whole foundations of her 
 being were shaken. 
 
 He watched her for a moment, and then put out his 
 hand and just touched her shoulder softly. 
 
 "Po little thing," he said. Ellen turned and looked 
 at him, as though she came back from far away; and 
 at his touch and look her face took on a swift surprise. 
 
 She sank down upon the hay once more, and draw 
 ing a deep breath stumbled on with her story. 
 
 "An then on my way home, wilst I was thinkin 
 what I could do fer Mary, hit come ter me all at onct 
 that ef I ef I killed Kip, hit would make hit all 
 right fer her. An I kep thinkin ter myself that hit 
 didn t matter what happened ter me, cos I was jest 
 nothin ter nobody. An so I I fixed ter do hit 
 but oh!" she broke off suddenly, wild terror in her 
 eyes. " Oh ! I was skeered, I was skeered ! Hit seemed 
 so awful an wicked." She shrank away, burying her 
 face in her arms and shivering in long frightened 
 tremors. In a moment she raised her face to his 
 again, looking at him with dark beseeching eyes. 
 
 "I didn t do hit, did I?" she cried distractedly. 
 "Oh! say I didn t do hit"; she begged. "Fer oh! 
 I m skeered I m skeered er myself!" 
 
 For a moment the strain and the terror of it had all 
 but tossed her into insanity. Looking at her distraught 
 
 267
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 face, Adrian realized this with the quick insight which 
 underlay all his apparent gay indifference and 
 knew that he must act, and act quickly. Sinking down 
 beside her he took her cold hands in his. 
 
 "You po little thing po little thing," he said 
 soothingly. 
 
 "Did I do hit?" Did I do hit? she breathed, her 
 fear-lit eyes imploring him. 
 
 "No, yer didn t do hit er course yer didn t," he 
 answered. "God wouldn t er let yer do hit. He 
 wouldn t er let er po little lonely thing fling herself 
 erway like that." 
 
 His strong hands quieted her with a gentle tender 
 ness, and his voice was very kind. 
 
 "Yer ve lived so long erway from folks up here, 
 that yer got ter thinkin all sorts er cur us things; but 
 even ef yer didn t b lieve hit I reckon God was er- 
 keerin fer yer all ther time." 
 
 Suddenly he put out his arm and drew her 
 strongly to him. "An I was erkeerin too," he said 
 softly. 
 
 But his gesture startled her and she drew away with 
 quick fear. 
 
 " Don t be skeered don t be skeered er me, honey," 
 he murmured, and drew her back to him, pressing her 
 head down against the hollow of his shoulder. 
 
 For a moment Ellen struggled against him, but he 
 held her tenderly, reassuringly, and at length she lay 
 still, for she was utterly weary and half beside herself 
 with fright, and in her exhausted bewilderment she 
 
 268
 
 THE REASON FOR THE HOUSE 
 
 only knew that it was good for once to be held in the 
 shelter of a strength greater than her own. 
 
 Outside the storm went on tumultuously, the rain 
 beating upon the roof, and the lightning showing in 
 occasional flares; but inside for a long time there was 
 silence. 
 
 At length, however, looking down at her dark face, 
 beautiful and pathetic in its weary loneliness, a tender 
 whimsical smile began to play about Adrian Blair s 
 mouth. 
 
 "Who d yer say hit was keered fer yer?" he said 
 at last, in scarcely more than a whisper. 
 
 Low as the words were they nevertheless broke the 
 frozen spell of Ellen s bewilderment, and the confused 
 mist of her mind cleared to a sudden realization of the 
 present; and with the colour sweeping over her face 
 in hot waves she struggled away from his arms, look 
 ing at him again with frightened eyes. 
 
 But Adrian persisted in the question. 
 
 "Who did yer say keered fer yer?" he said. 
 
 "Mary Reddin said she did," Ellen answered 
 wonderingly, and made a motion to rise to her feet. 
 
 But Adrian with a laugh drew her suddenly back 
 into his arms. 
 
 "Who did yer say ?" he repeated. 
 
 And "Mary Reddin," Ellen faltered again, though 
 her voice shook and her eyes were wide with mingled 
 terror and surprise. 
 
 At her words Adrian stooped quickly and kissed her 
 full upon the lips. 
 
 269
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "Who? Who?" he cried again. 
 
 And Ellen s heart leaped into her throat with a sud 
 den astonished bound, and she was silent. 
 
 Adrian laughed again, a low ripple of triumph. 
 
 "Mary Reddin! Mary Reddin!" he cried scorn 
 fully. "I m ergoin ter tell yer now who loves yer sure 
 nough." 
 
 Ellen s eyes lighted with a brilliant astonishment, 
 and again Adrian kissed her. 
 
 "I allers knowed yer was erlive," he said tenderly, 
 "but I never knowed jest what was ther word ter wake 
 yer up with. How long," he broke off, " der yer reckon 
 I ve loved yer?" 
 
 Ellen shook her head, her eyes still incredulous. 
 
 "I never knowed yer loved me at all," she answered, 
 for she thought he played with her, and again she tried 
 in vain to draw herself away from him. 
 
 "I ve loved yer," Adrian went on, "ever since that 
 time I was tellin yer erbout this mawnin when ther 
 dogs got ter fightin in ther schoolhouse, an you was 
 ther only thing in petticoats thet wa n t skeered. I 
 knowed then thet yer hed ther stuff in yer thet I wanted, 
 an I ve knowed hit right erlong ever since. An er 
 heap er times I was watchin out fer yer when yer 
 never guessed hit. Why " he laughed suddenly - 
 "ther worst fight I most ever hed at school was with 
 Len Cooper cause his sister laffed at yer fer comin 
 barefoot ter school after all ther other children hed put 
 on their shoes. Len was er right smart size bigger n 
 me, an I hed er terrible scuffle fer hit, but in ther 
 
 270
 
 THE REASON FOR THE HOUSE 
 
 end I got him licked good an plenty but he do 
 know ter this day why hit was I jumped him that time," 
 he concluded chuckling. 
 
 Ellen s eyes still dwelt upon his face in a great 
 surprise. 
 
 "An then do yer recollect how ther us ent ter be 
 no foot log over that there little crick at ther foot er 
 ther mountain ? You hed ter cross hit every day comin 
 ter school, an one day I heered ther teacher givin hit 
 ter yer, because you was all wet, an yer said ther stones 
 at ther crossin was so slick that you slipped offen one 
 er them an fell inter ther water. The next day was 
 Sat dy, an I went up right soon in ther mornin an 
 fixed er foot log acrost ther crick there" he laughed at 
 a sudden thought; "I recollect I wrote on er little 
 piece er paper an put hit under one end er ther log 
 where wouldn t nobody ever see hit "Ain t nobody 
 ter walk on this log but my sweetheart! " Reckon that 
 paper s rotted erway long ergo, an heaps er other 
 folks hes walked over on that log, but they wouldn t 
 none er them er got ther chanst ter, ef my sweetheart 
 hadn t er slipped in there that time," he concluded, 
 looking down at her with smiling eyes. 
 
 "But whyn t yer never tell me before?" she asked 
 wonderingly, and even yet it had not truly come home 
 to her. 
 
 "Well, really I do know. I wanted ter allers 
 but some way I was jest natu ally skeered ter. When I 
 was er little feller I said I d tell yer when I was growed ; 
 an when that time come, I said I d save up some 
 
 271
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 money first, an then when I got ther money, I said I d 
 wait till I d built yer ther finest house anywhere round 
 here, an then I d tell yer. But when ther house was 
 done I was jest es skeered es ever, cause yer allers 
 seemed so sorter froze up an cold. I did low ter tell 
 yer that day I helped yer plant yer corn, but sted er 
 tellin yer I jest made yer mad erbout Dave. An then 
 this mornin ergin when I was all sorter warmed up 
 from fightin I meant ter do hit, but yer got mad ergin 
 erbout him, an I commenced ter be fraid yer keered 
 fer him sure nough. An then I got mad with myself 
 fer bein so skeery an I jest lowed I d come up this 
 evenin an tell yer no matter what happened but I 
 didn t guess what would happen sure nough," he 
 laughed. "An now, sweetheart, I ve told yer," he 
 finished; "an yer needn t never say ergin nobody 
 don t keer about yer er want yer love fer I want hit 
 all of hit more n I want anything else in ther 
 world." 
 
 He paused a moment searching her dark eyes. 
 
 "Have yer got any fer me, honey?" he asked softly. 
 
 Ellen struggled away from him, and holding herself 
 off at arm s length, looked long into his face with 
 questioning eyes. 
 
 "Oh! is hit true," she cried at length painfully - 
 "is hit true that yer want me an want my love?" 
 
 "Hit s true, honey," he answered earnestly; "hit s 
 every word true. I want yer love I want every bit 
 yer got, fer all mine s yours." 
 
 And looking at him Ellen knew at last that it was 
 272
 
 THE REASON FOR THE HOUSE 
 
 true, and as she went back to the shelter of his arms 
 all the old wistful unhappy question of her face was 
 lost in the glorious light of this undreamed of answer. 
 
 "An yer house is all ready fer yer too, sweetheart," 
 he whispered after a pause. "I ve got ther garden 
 all dug an hit s jest waitin fer you ter put in ther seeds." 
 
 "Ther house is mighty nice, but hit ain t ther house 
 I keer about," she answered; and her glance swept 
 over him with the stored intensity of the love that she 
 had gathered out of all the lonely years of weary 
 neglect. 
 
 "An jest you mind this," Adrian went on master 
 fully; "don t yer go tryin ter settle things fer Mary 
 Reddin an Dave; cause now yer belong ter me, so 
 yer ain t got no right ter fling yerself erway like that, 
 fer yer don t own yerself no mo ." 
 
 A little shy smile danced about Ellen s mouth, though 
 her eyes were surprised to tears by the wonder of it all. 
 
 "I m glad I don t," she answered; "for hit s hit s 
 nice ter belong ter somebody." 
 
 273
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE PLAYERS 
 
 WHEN David Cree went past his mother and sisters 
 and was gathered into the murk of that sombre evening, 
 he walked with a resolute step, and a white determina 
 tion of face. To all intents and purposes he was once 
 more the passionate boy of twelve, with his promise 
 fresh upon him, and the loss of his father poignantly 
 new. The wave of his mother s fury had swept him 
 back to his boyhood. Her terrible words, her voice, her 
 gestures, had brought him face to face with the past, 
 had washed his memory of the last ten years as though 
 they had never been, and all the passion of that bygone 
 time rushed back upon him in currents of fire. With 
 the accumulation of her frenzied bitterness, she had 
 suddenly lifted away the weight and obscurity of the 
 deadening years, uncovering, as it were, the live rage 
 of his childhood. The past was upon him, and the 
 boy he had been and the man he was struck close hands 
 in the fellowship of hate, and went forth together upon 
 their path of revenge. 
 
 To any one else it would have been difficult walking, 
 for the storm and the night approached in company 
 
 274
 
 THE PLAYERS 
 
 on black wings; the objects seen faintly through the 
 dusk took on fantastic and uncanny shapes, and the 
 wail of the wind seemed just the voice of the lost dark 
 ness made audible; but David knew the Jumping 
 Creek Draft from end to end. All the smallest irregu 
 larities of the road were familiar landmarks to him, 
 and the swing of his stride was almost as steady as 
 though day and not night held the valley in its hand. 
 
 Evenly, silently, revenge incarnate, he went up the 
 main track of the Draft; past the little schoolhouse; 
 past the huddle of farms just beyond it, where the dogs 
 set up a furious barking at the sound of his footsteps, 
 and where the lamps winking from the different scat 
 tered windows were evidence of a life which seemed 
 to him very remote, and very far away from anything 
 with which he was concerned or ever had been; past 
 the knoll where Adrian Blair s empty house stood 
 waiting Ellen Daw s dark presence, he went, and at 
 last struck into the narrow roadway making up Drupe 
 Mountain to the Daws farm and to Aleck Whitcomb s 
 lumber camp. In the desolation of that lonely path, 
 where the mountains on either side went up like black 
 ramparts, he took out his pistol and held it ready in 
 his hand, for there was no telling to what the loneliness 
 and obscurity might give sudden birth. 
 
 Here the road was more difficult to pick, and of 
 necessity he went slowly, and was glad every time the 
 lightning fled along the way before him on winged 
 feet. Glad, too, of every crash of thunder, and every 
 blown devil that the wind loosed. And once or twice 
 
 275
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 when the wind was very strong, and the lightning 
 sharply forked, he stopped still in the path and laughed 
 furiously, for he was on fire with the need of fierce, 
 blinding action, and it was good to him that the storm 
 should answer his mood; that the darkness should be 
 shriekingly, flaringly rent asunder by the wind and 
 lightning, and the stillness shivered by the crackling 
 thunder; that all the elements should be torn into a 
 riotous uproar, as he was torn with the dizzy swirl of 
 his own anger. 
 
 At the top of the mountain where the road divides, 
 the left fork leading down to the river by way of the 
 Daws farm, and the right-hand one running along the 
 mountain to Whitcomb s lumber camp, David turned 
 down the latter, and that short mile to the camp, be 
 cause of the tantalizing nearness now of his revenge, 
 seemed longer to his impatient feet than all the miles 
 from the Draft added together. 
 
 But in spite of its infuriating distance, he was met at 
 last by the sharp smell of sawdust, and saw in the 
 darkness the dim shapes of the piled lumber, the mill 
 shed, and the other few buildings of the camp. 
 
 At the door of the main shack Aleck Whitcomb 
 himself faced him out of the lamp-lit interior in answer 
 to his knock. 
 
 As he saw David s face in the outside gloom, which 
 the rays from the faint kerosene lamp at his back 
 seemed only to play across and not to pierce, Whit- 
 comb started slightly. 
 
 "Reckon you come lookin fer that feller who s been 
 276
 
 THE PLAYERS 
 
 goin by ther name of Jake Green, but who s really 
 Kip Ryerson they tell me," he said. 
 
 "That s what I am," David answered quietly, mak 
 ing no attempt at concealment. He was going to kill 
 Ryerson, and all the world was welcome to a knowledge 
 of his intentions. There was no caution in his ven 
 geance. He had a sort of furious scorn of any attempt 
 to save himself, and if it had been possible he would 
 have liked to kill the man with all the Draft lined up 
 as witnesses to the accomplishment of his oath, and to 
 do it before them all with his bare hands. 
 
 Whitcomb laughed shortly at his reply. "Well, you ll 
 hev ter look fer him somewheres else," he said. "He 
 left these parts this mornin fore dinner I hear you 
 giv him er right good reason fer goin at preachin ." 
 
 "Which way d he go?" David demanded. 
 
 "Well, really he was in sech er hurry he didn t leave 
 no address, but I know mighty well he didn t go down 
 inter ther Draft," the other answered jocosely. 
 
 "Then he s gone over ther mountain, an down ter 
 ther river," David said restlessly, and turned to go. 
 
 "Yer d better lay up here in camp till ther storm s 
 over," Whitcomb urged him; but David shook his 
 head, and went away again into the darkness, though 
 already the rain was beginning heavily, and the roar 
 of it upon the iron roofing of the mill shed was deafen 
 ing. 
 
 Whitcomb turned back into the shack, shutting the 
 door after him, though he did so with some difficulty 
 against the full breath of the wind. 
 
 277
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "Yer kin come on down ergin now," he said, raising 
 his voice to almost a shout to make it audible above 
 the storm. "He s gone." 
 
 From the loft above, at his words, two lank legs 
 swung down on to the ladder, and then paused in hesi 
 tation. 
 
 "Come on," Whitcomb shouted again, and this time 
 there was a savage ring in his voice. 
 
 The legs came down a rung and then another rung, 
 and as they descended the body and then the face of 
 Kip Ryerson came into view. The face was very pale. 
 
 "What in all H did yer want ter ask him in for ?" 
 he demanded, a shake in his voice. 
 
 "Cause I pretty well guessed he wouldn t come; an 
 ef he had I lowed I could trust yer ter lay right close 
 outer sight upstairs," the other returned. "An now 
 let me tell yer something, Jake Green, er Kip Ryerson, 
 er whatever yer call yerself you ll clear outer this 
 by ther very first crack er day er I ll know ther reason 
 why. Hit won t pay yer ter hide round here no longer 
 thinkin I m goin ter keep Dave Cree offer yer. I ve 
 lied ernough erbout yer a ready, an ef yer think I m 
 ergoin ter keep hit up yer powerfully mistaken. I 
 done hit this time not out er any perticular regard fer 
 yer, but jest because Dave s worked fer me, an he s 
 erbout the best hand in ther woods I ever seed; an 
 hands is too scarce a ready fer me ter want ter run ther 
 resk er havin one er ther best ones I know sent ter ther 
 penitentiary er maybe hung fer good. So yer ll jest 
 erblige me by tryin ter keep outer Dave Cree s way 
 
 278
 
 THE PLAYERS 
 
 when yer light out in ther mornin jest ter erblige 
 me, yer understan ," he concluded with a roar of scorn 
 ful laughter. 
 
 He was a powerful man and arrogant with the knowl 
 edge of his strength, and of his ability to manage other 
 men, and he stood now with open contempt, regard 
 ing the other s weakly evil face, consumed as it was 
 with fear and with furtive rage. 
 
 "Lord!" he went on with a fresh burst of laughter. 
 "How yer ever got up ther spunk ter resk comin back 
 inter these parts, beats me. I reckon yer must er 
 thought Alderson Cree s murder hadn t made no more 
 impression on other folks than it had on you Now 
 don t trouble yerself ter say yer didn t do hit," he con 
 tinued quickly, as Ryerson opened his mouth in blas 
 phemous denial, "cause everybody knows yer did, an 
 you ll be powerful grateful ter me when Jedgement 
 Day comes erlong that I kep yer from one lie anyhow." 
 He paused again, and again the contempt of his glance 
 swept over the cowering figure before him. Again he 
 laughed, and at the laugh and the hectoring gaze, hate, 
 like a smothered flame, played stealthily in Ryerson s 
 dropped eyes. 
 
 "Now mind what I say," Whitcomb went on, cross 
 ing over to the door; "daylight sees yer cleared outer 
 here, er else ther next daylight mightn t see yer at all 
 understan ?" he said coolly, pausing one moment 
 to drive home his words with the fixed scorn of his 
 eyes. Then he jerked open the door and still laugh 
 ing turned out into the lumber yard. 
 
 279
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 In just the second that his retreating back was pre 
 sented to him, the smouldering hate of Ryerson s face 
 blazed up, and he drew his pistol like a flash. But in 
 that second fear spoke to him sharply, and though 
 rage was strong, terror was stronger, and his pistol arm 
 fell back harmless. 
 
 And Aleck Whitcomb, crossing to the kitchen where 
 most of the men were at supper, never knew in his 
 careless arrogance that the moment before he had 
 walked upon the edge of the next world. 
 
 David groped his way back to the top of the mountain 
 where the roads divide, and went a little way along the 
 one leading to the river, but the full shock of the storm 
 was upon him now, and the wind and rain and darkness 
 were thick like a curtain, and as he struggled to make 
 head against them the impossibility of finding his way 
 safely down to the river in such darkness came home 
 to him. 
 
 Even in broad daylight the path was an uncertain 
 one, with innumerable confusing branches, and dan 
 gerous too, in places where it ran along the edge of a 
 cliff, a misstep from which might send one to the 
 bottom with a broken arm or leg, or very possibly a 
 broken neck; and even in his passionate haste David 
 knew it would be the wildest folly to attempt it now. 
 
 By the roadside a short distance further on stood 
 a deserted cabin, and remembering it David decided 
 to seek shelter there, and thither, with his anger fretted 
 to a white heat at the delay, he at length groped his 
 way, and entering this forlorn and decaying refuge, 
 
 280
 
 THE PLAYERS 
 
 in the dryest corner he flung himself down to wait for 
 a cessation of the storm and the lifting of the darkness. 
 He was drenched to the skin, and the rain, coming as it 
 did in the wake of such an exceedingly hot day, would 
 have seemed, at any other time, chillingly cold, but 
 David s whole being was on fire with his anger, and he 
 lay in a fever of hot impatience, chafing savagely at 
 the darkness which flung such soft infuriating arms 
 across the path of his vengeance. But gradually as 
 the night crept on, and the severity of the storm lulled 
 to a delicate whispered melody of rain, which was 
 infinitely soothing, and yet did not abate anything of 
 the impossible darkness, his feelings began to lose a 
 little of their violence, and then to settle to a strong 
 quiet, and after this peace had been with him for a 
 space, slowly, irresistibly, on silent feet his love came 
 stealing back upon him, to fling her arms about him 
 in his remembrance of Mary; to whisper to him with 
 her voice, to kiss him with her lips ; to look at him with 
 her eyes. The feeling was illusive, intangible almost 
 terrifying, and with all his distracted soul David fought 
 against it, for every thought and remembrance of Mary 
 struck deadly blows at the power of his hate. Des 
 perately he called back all that he had imagined of the 
 carrying out of his revenge; the tingling thought of 
 Ryerson under his hands, which made him almost sick 
 with a desire for its accomplishment flinging this 
 rekindling of his fury in the face of his love. And as 
 hate looked at her with red eyes, love fled. But only 
 a moment later to come stealing, stealing, maddeningly 
 
 281
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 back, the instant hate relaxed her clutch ever so little. 
 And once, in a sudden aching remembrance of Mary s 
 agonized face, David leaped to his feet with a great 
 spring, and seizing his pistol would have flung it through 
 the doorway, far away from him, to whirl over and 
 over in its flight, and then to lie still lost in the dark 
 wet woods. But even as he swung his arm up his 
 promise fled back upon him in frightened surprise, 
 and with an oath that came from the very bottom of 
 his soul his hand dropped. Staggering like a drunken 
 man he went back to the corner where he had lain, 
 astonished at himself and appalled by the weakness 
 that had almost made him forget. Once more he lay 
 down, and once more the tides of conflict rent him 
 back and forth; and always Mary s white face looked 
 at him, and her voice cried to him, "Hit ll kill me 
 Dave! Hit ll jest kill me!" 
 
 But far in the night, wet and uncomfortable though 
 he was, and torn though he was by his emotions, never 
 theless before the dawn broke he fell heavily, dream- 
 lessly asleep and so for a time the players, love and 
 hate, cried off their game perforce. 
 
 282
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 IF the heavens had opened for Ellen Daw when Mary 
 had given her her first kiss of affection, and left her 
 standing by the rail fence on the brow of the steep 
 ridge overlooking that part of the Draft, and in her 
 joyful heart calling upon Peter s Ridge as a glad wit 
 ness of her new-found happiness, Mary s state of mind, 
 on the other hand, as she left Ellen and went slowly 
 homeward was a very different one. The heavens of 
 her world had indeed opened, but not to happiness. 
 In the rift they had suddenly uncovered to her a thing 
 that was appalling beyond all her comprehension. 
 In spite of her very agony of loving effort, David had 
 left her; had broken the bonds of love as easily as Sam 
 son had snapped "the seven green withes that had 
 never been dried," and had set out on his feverish path 
 of vengeance, swept along by hate, though all the time 
 he knew he knew love stayed behind and stretched 
 anguished arms to him. She had gathered herself for 
 her supreme effort never doubting her power, 
 coupled as it was with love had made it, and had 
 failed utterly. 
 
 David s putting her from him, and going down the 
 283
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 path, had been to her a stunning, an utterly incom 
 prehensible blow. For with her love was everything, 
 was her universe and that in David another emotion 
 should have risen up suddenly stronger was to her 
 unbelievable for Mary was still very young, too 
 young for any sustained feeling of hate, only for love. 
 And now in the face of this new revelation her heart 
 stood still within her, overwhelmed and dumbfounded. 
 
 She was frozen by the utter weary terror of it all; 
 by the suddenness with which her happy paradise of 
 the morning had been shattered, and by the thought 
 of the awful thing which might even then be taking 
 place. Moreover, she was physically and mentally 
 exhausted by her supreme effort of pleading, and by 
 the last strained hours of watching David and trying 
 with a fearful intuition to anticipate his every impulse. 
 
 Her heart lay like a cold weight in her bosom, and 
 her feet dragged heavily down the path, yet had she 
 guessed that just across, on the other side of the valley, 
 David lay upon his face in the green silence of the 
 woods, while love and hate fought through him, her 
 tired feet, forgetting all their weariness, would have 
 fled along the way to him with incredible swiftness. 
 
 Brushing her hand across her forehead every now 
 and again with a dazed gesture, and trailing the gay 
 little sunbonnet indifferently after her by one string, 
 Mary came slowly down from the woods and made 
 her way home. 
 
 Her mother, dressed in her clean Sunday print, sat 
 upon the porch alone, save for the baby in her lap, the 
 
 284
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 other small Reddins having scattered to the four winds 
 of heaven. As Mary sank down upon the top step of 
 the porch and put her head wearily back against one 
 of the roof pillars her mother gave her a quick look. 
 
 "Where s Dave?" she said. 
 
 "He s gone," Mary answered dully. 
 
 "Gone?" Mrs. Reddin cried. "Aw, Mary, you d 
 oughten ter er let him go all mad like he is, I m 
 mighty fraid he ll git inter trouble with Kip!" 
 
 " Let him go!" cried the girl sharply; "how could I 
 keep him from goin ? I I got down on my knees 
 ter him not ter go, but hit didn t do no good how 
 else could I er kep him?" she questioned. 
 
 "Which way d he go," her mother asked soothingly. 
 
 "He s gone home he s gone home fer " the girl 
 faltered and broke off, her face growing slowly white. 
 
 "Never mind, honey, never mind," her mother 
 cried tenderly. "Don t you take on; I wouldn t be er 
 bit surprised ef Kip wa n t way outer reach by now, 
 an your keepin Dave so long with you ll giv him er 
 chanst ter git clean off," and she hugged the baby in 
 her arms to show her sympathy and compassion for 
 her older child. 
 
 Mary s face lit up pathetically. 
 
 "I did keep him er little spell, didn t I? He did 
 keep er way from Kip er little while fer me, didn t he, 
 Mammy?" she begged. 
 
 "Er course he did, honey, er course," her mother 
 answered, bestowing more eager caresses on the baby. 
 
 "But, oh!" Mary cried, and pressed her hand to 
 285
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 her temple "Oh! Mammy, I ought ter er kep him 
 altergether there must er been somethiri* I could er 
 said to keep him some way ef I could er jest 
 thought of hit! Oh! Mammy," she appealed to the 
 older woman, "what was hit I oughter er said ter him ?" 
 
 Mrs. Reddin s reply was drowned in a sudden burst 
 of deep baying from old Turk, the hound, who had 
 been lying to all appearances fast asleep in the damp 
 delicious coolness of the lengthening grass of the yard, 
 but who now aroused himself to apparent ferocity, as 
 he perceived the approach of Johnny Snyder Orin 
 Snyder s fourth boy. Arrived at the yard gate this 
 young gentleman paused discreetly. 
 
 "Why, howdy, Johnny! Come r. ght in," Mrs. 
 Reddin called out hospitably. 
 
 "I m fraid er ther dog," he cried back, still keeping 
 the gate securely closed. 
 
 "Aw, he won t trouble yer. Turk you behave yerself 
 now go lie down, sir ! There now yer come right 
 in, an ef yer don t act like yer scared of him he won t 
 do er thing ter yer." 
 
 "Well, yer keep er watch on him then," Johnny re 
 plied, opening the gate with extreme caution, and ready 
 to slam it hastily shut at any further demonstration 
 from the enemy, for he had an immense regard for 
 the calves of his slim ten- year-old legs. Coming timor 
 ously up the yard path he paused at length at the 
 porch steps, flicking at the long grass with a peeled 
 switch which he carried, and keeping one eye still 
 cocked on the hound. 
 
 286
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "Ole An t Marthy Lamfire s took mighty sick," he 
 said; "an she lows she wants Mary ter come an set 
 up with her Mammy sent me over ter say so." 
 
 "Oh! I can t go!" Mary cried sharply, passing her 
 hand over her face. "I can t go, kin I, Mammy?" 
 she appealed. 
 
 "Maybe I kin go in yer place," her mother suggested. 
 "Is she took much worse than she hes been?" she 
 asked, turning to Johnny. 
 
 "She says she don t want nobody but jest Mary," 
 he answered, still flicking the grass indifferently, and 
 still watching the dog. "Yes m, she s mighty bad off. 
 I don t look fer her ter git well er tall they hes ter feed 
 her altogether outer a teaspoon, an yer know when 
 folks gits that bad ther ain t much show fer em," he 
 concluded, with the hardened philosophy of youth. 
 
 Mary rose to her feet with sudden changed deter 
 mination. 
 
 "I ll go," she said. "I promised her I d go ter her 
 ef she was took sick. I might jest es well go," she 
 went on, answering her mother s look of protest, " I ain t 
 doin no good here, an I feel like I must do somethin . 
 An anyhow I promised her " ; and so saying she slipped 
 into the house to change her Sunday frock. 
 
 "Well, ef yer aire goin yer d better hurry," her 
 mother called after her. "Ther s er powerful big 
 storm comin , an I m mighty fraid hit ll ketch yer 
 fore yer git ter ther Mossy Holler." 
 
 Johnny Snyder squinted one knowing eye at the 
 heavens. 
 
 287
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "I don t look fer hit ter break much fore dark," he 
 said with masculine reassurance; "hit s been ergrowlin 
 round jest this erway fer over er hour er more." His 
 air was that patronizing one of tolerance which a man 
 assumes to calm a woman s nervous fears. 
 
 Was it chance, or was it in answer to the thunder, 
 that at this moment of masculine superiority old Turk, 
 from his retired spot in the grass, should have opened 
 one sleepy red eye, and whispered one faint growl to 
 himself? Whichever it might be was not for Johnny 
 Snyder to pause and inquire, and a twinkle of bare 
 legs saw him outside the yard gate in a flash. From 
 this haven he stopped to explain to Mrs. Reddin, mind 
 ful of her earlier advice. 
 
 "I ll jest step out here," he said elaborately, "fer 
 fear ef I stayed in ther yard I might do somethin ter 
 make that ole dog think I was erf raid of him." 
 
 When Mary made her way up the dark little path of 
 the Mossy Hollow which, seen now in the gathering 
 shadows of evening, and in the black threat of the 
 storm, was more than ever sombre and eerily desolate, 
 and entered at length Martha Lamfire s forlornly small 
 cabin, she found assembled there some half dozen of 
 the matrons and old women of the Draft. They sat 
 in an ominous whispering group about the bedside, 
 their faces showing strangely white and solemn in the 
 room s uncertain gloom. 
 
 Old Martha was lying under the gay patchwork 
 quilt in a seeming stupor when Mary entered, but as 
 the girl stepped across the creaking boards of the 
 
 288
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 floor and bent over the bed, she opened her eyes with 
 startling brilliance. 
 
 All her days Martha Lamfire had lived with intense 
 aliveness. All the monotony of the Mossy Hollow, 
 the bare thought of which would have made 
 many people shudder with depression, had never 
 succeeded in crushing out the vivacity of her spirit. 
 In all the little that life had brought her she had been 
 strongly, keenly alive; in her love for Amabel, in her 
 hate for Alderson Cree; and now, in the hour of her 
 death, she was still the same indomitable personality, 
 vividly alive, in spite of the fact that her eyes, as they 
 opened, looked into Mary s face with the bright aloof 
 ness of delirium. 
 
 "Ammy Honey!" she cried; and a wave of sur 
 prise swept over the watching women, for there was 
 not one among them who had ever heard just that note 
 of broken tenderness in the old voice. Mary took the 
 hard fever-burnt hand in hers and pressed it softly. 
 
 " Don t yer know me, An t Marthy ?" she said. " It s 
 Mary Mary Reddin. I promised yer I d come ef 
 yer sent fer me." 
 
 The old woman looked at her a moment in per 
 plexity, as though her bewildered brain groped for 
 enlightenment in remote places. 
 
 "Mary Reddin Mary Reddin," she murmured 
 turning the name over; "Mary Reddin." Then sud 
 denly light leaped into her eyes, and cleared them of 
 their lost look. 
 
 "Mary Reddin David Cree Alderson Cree 
 289
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Amabel Lamfire," she cried quite loudly, and very 
 quickly, as though her strayed senses fled breathlessly 
 along the stepping-stones of the names and came home 
 at last to that familiar treasured one which no amount 
 of delirium could blot from her mind. There she 
 paused, and for a little space she lay whispering the 
 name. 
 
 "Amabel, Ammy, Amabel Lamfire," over and 
 over, as a mother tries over her baby s name to take 
 the strangeness from it. But all at once the sibilant 
 tenderness of the whispering ceased, and she spoke out 
 loud, a harsh surprise in her voice 
 
 "Alderson Cree!" she cried. "O Lord! Alderson 
 Cree!" The words came with a startled rush of aston 
 ishment. Then with the same quickness her mind 
 swept her on, and all at once the little withered figure 
 which scarcely wrinkled the bed clothes was shaken by 
 gust after gust of low witch laughter laughter which 
 shook her all over yet scarcely altered the brilliant, 
 strange look of her face. Once as she laughed Mary 
 wondered as she caught the muttered words, "A-ha, 
 Judy Leister." 
 
 Mary took both her hands in hers, and spoke with 
 low insistence, for the laughter and brilliant face to 
 gether were terrible. 
 
 "A nt Marthy A nt Marthy," she said firmly; 
 "Don t yer know me? I m Mary Reddin Mary 
 Reddin," she repeated. "I ve come ter set up with 
 yer like I promised. Don t yer know me, A nt 
 Marthy?" 
 
 290
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Gradually the old woman s scattered senses returned, 
 and looking into the girl s face attentively she spoke 
 slowly. 
 
 "Mary Reddin " she said and Mary saw that 
 at last she knew her "Mary Reddin, promise me 
 yer ll stay by me till I die; promise me yer won t leave 
 me promise," she cried feverishly. 
 
 But Mary drew back a little, "I do know s I kin, 
 A nt Marthy Dave may " she faltered and broke 
 off. 
 
 "Girl!" Martha cried with sudden fierce strength; 
 "ef yer don t stay by me yer ll be sorry fer hit ter yer 
 dyin day yes! ter yer dyin day an afterwards." 
 
 Mary shrank away from the awful face and from the 
 passion of the voice, but as the eyes still threatened her, 
 at length she gave her promise to stay, though she did 
 it fearfully and reluctantly. 
 
 A whisper of argument and dissent arose now among 
 the women, and the group began to disintegrate. 
 
 "Ef yer ll stay ternight, Mary, Mis Cooper says 
 she ll stay with yer an watch, an some of us ll 
 be over soon in ther mornin ," Mrs. Snyder said, 
 shaking out her ample figure and reaching for her 
 sunbonnet. 
 
 "Ther doctor said ther wa n t nothin we could do 
 fer A nt Marthy an ther rest of us hes ter go now, 
 seem hit s most dark, an er powerful big storm comin 
 an anyhow I bet my baby s been cryin fer me fer 
 ther last hour er more. I ll take ther word ter your 
 folks that yer won t be home ternight," she went on to 
 
 291
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Mrs. Cooper; "an I ll drop in myself ther very first 
 thing in ther mornin ." 
 
 At the scrape of their chairs and the rustle of their 
 skirts, old Martha shut her eyes determinately, and 
 lay motionless and indifferent, though more than one 
 woman bent over her with a forboding shake of the 
 head, and a whispered, "Po soul, po old soul!" 
 Then with low-spoken "Good-bys," and lingering 
 glances, they emerged into the relief of the spring air, 
 and turned toward their homes severally, and in little 
 groups, gossiping over the condition of the old woman, 
 the approaching storm, and the state of the crops, all 
 with equal interest. 
 
 Mary, settling herself by the bedside in a chair 
 vacated by one of the departed women, was conscious 
 of a keen relief in their going away, for the continued 
 low whisper of their remarks and the gravity of their 
 pale faces had been nerve-racking in the extreme, and 
 for a little while, in the silence and almost entire dark 
 ness of the cabin, she seemed to be gathered as it were 
 into soft arms and to slip away a little from the vivid 
 present of her own tragedy. 
 
 But presently Mrs. Cooper, with a fretful exclama 
 tion that "Hit was so dark yer couldn t see yer hand 
 before yer face," rose, and groping about found matches, 
 and lit the small glass hand lamp, which from its high 
 perch on the mantel shelf sent a desolate light over 
 the room, worse than actual darkness. 
 
 "An I m that hungry too," the woman complained, 
 " I m jest erbliged ter hev somethin ter eat. I hadn t 
 
 292
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 got more n two or three bites er dinner when here come 
 Allie Snyder sayin A nt Marthy was took worse an 
 ter come there. Reckon ther mus be some sort er 
 cold victuals in that there ole press," she continued in 
 her whining voice, which held always a grievance 
 against the rest of the world. 
 
 On heavy feet whose steps jarred the whole cabin 
 she crossed over to an antiquated tin-studded cup 
 board, and pulling open the door with a fretful jerk 
 explored within; presently bringing to light a plate of 
 cold soda biscuits and a half- emptied jar of peach 
 butter. Sighing, she let herself ponderously down into 
 a chair by the bare wooden table, and began her meal 
 - first, however, holding out the plate and jar to Mary 
 as an invitation to partake also. The girl shook her 
 head almost in disgust and turned away, fixing her 
 eyes on the darkest corner of the room. In her over 
 wrought and anxious state the mere thought of food 
 was distasteful to her, and the relish with which the 
 fat woman fell to was sickening. Besides, Mary knew, 
 with quick intuition, that though Martha lay with 
 closed eyes, apparently dropped again into stupor, she 
 was in reality keenly and resentfully aware of the 
 other woman s prying into her things, which no hand 
 save her own had wandered among for so many years. 
 
 The old woman lay for a time rigidly still; then 
 gradually her muscles relaxed and she fell at length 
 into what appeared to be a light doze. 
 
 Mary sat on quietly in her chair, her wide eyes bent 
 upon the darkness, and every nerve following David 
 
 293
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 in fearful imagination. By the table the fat woman 
 continued her noisy meal, running the blade of the 
 wooden-handled knife into the glass jar in an eager 
 quest for the last little scrapings of the peach butter. 
 The clock on the high mantel struck the hour with a 
 vibrant tin-pan tone, followed by a sharp click, as 
 though tiny hands applauded the performance as each 
 stroke shimmered away into silence, and save for 
 these sounds the room was very quiet, until, with a 
 sudden blue sheet of flame and crack of thunder on 
 top of it, the storm broke heavily over the hollow. At 
 the crash Mary jumped in her chair, and Mrs. Cooper 
 dropped her knife clatteringly down upon the emptied 
 tin plate. 
 
 "Thunder allers did make me jest es nervous es a 
 cat"; she said, rising hastily and going over to shut the 
 door. 
 
 Old Martha had started broad awake and was 
 staring about her with wild eyes. She drew herself 
 feebly towards the edge of the bed, and made an effort 
 to set her feet upon the floor. 
 
 "Hit s rainin ," she muttered. "Hit s rainin , an 
 Ammy ll git wet I gotter go fetch her in. Yes, 
 honey, yes!" she cried; "Mammy s comin !" and 
 again she attempted to get out of bed. But Mary 
 pressed her gently back. 
 
 "Lay still, lay still, A nt Marthy,"she said soothingly. 
 " Ammy s all right you jest lay still." 
 
 For a moment the old woman looked at the girl in 
 mysterious question, then she took up her words and 
 
 294
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 turned them over and over slowly " Ammy s all right, 
 Ammy s all right she s all right"; and in spite of 
 the monotony of delirium her voice held in it a wistful 
 interrogation. Afterwards she fell into a long wander 
 ing babble of broken phrases and idle, foolish words, 
 all strung together and interwoven with the repetition 
 of the dead girl s name, which ran like a ray of light 
 through all the entanglement of her bewildered brain. 
 Now it was Ammy as a baby, and she crooned baby 
 words to her; now a little girl at her play; now at work 
 in her garden and thus with her rambling thoughts 
 the old woman groped her way back through the dim 
 past or was it the past with her ? Was it not instead 
 all an intense present? Certainly Mary heard her 
 cry out sharply once "Yes, honey, yes! Mammy s 
 goin ter tell don t look that erway!" as though she 
 spoke to someone at her side. 
 
 Outside the roar of the wind and rain and crash of 
 thunder made wild pandemonium in the narrow hollow. 
 At every fresh clap Mary s heart leaped within her in 
 frightened bounds, though usually she was healthily 
 unafraid of thunder-storms; while Mrs. Cooper cowered 
 frankly in her chair, burying her head in her arms at 
 each streak of lightning. 
 
 "I allers did hate er lightnin storm," she quavered; 
 "an shet erway up here in this terrible lonesome 
 holler with that old crazy woman is ernough ter drive 
 er person jest plum distracted." 
 
 In truth, caged by the steep sides of the hollow the 
 force of the wind and crash of thunder were doubled 
 
 295
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 and seemed bounding back and forth in a wild en 
 deavour to escape, and in their tumultuous fury the 
 flimsy cabin rocked again. 
 
 Distracted with terror Mrs. Cooper began to pray 
 out loud, in long whining ejaculations of complaint 
 and terror; Mary also had to take fierce hold upon her 
 self to keep from screaming. And through it all old 
 Martha went on with broken phrases and babbled 
 remembrances of Amabel. 
 
 Gradually, however, the fury of the storm swept 
 on to further ravages beyond, leaving behind only a 
 gentle steady summer rain. 
 
 Mrs. Cooper stretched herself in weary relief. "I 
 declare I m jest clean beat out with it all," she an 
 nounced. "An I b lieve I ll jest take er little rest ther 
 first part er ther night, an then I ll take ther watchin 
 an you kin git er good sleep. I wisht ter ther good 
 ness ther was any chanct of my snatchin er forty winks, 
 but I m that wrought up hit don t seem like I could 
 sleep ergin fer er week but I ll jest try ter rest er 
 little spell anyhow." 
 
 She stretched her large frame expansively and tho 
 roughly, and then not waiting for any reply from Mary 
 she put her head down upon her arms on the hard 
 table, and fell asleep almost instantly a great lump 
 of inanimate blue gingham. 
 
 Mary shifted her position stiffly in her chair, and 
 settled to her long watch. The clock ticked with 
 monotonous heavy beats, the fat woman s breath came 
 in long deep snores, and Martha babbled on. 
 
 296
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 At first Mary was pulsingly awake, and she felt as 
 though at each breath of the sleeper her racked nerves 
 would give away, and she would scream out that 
 David Cree was killing Kip Ryerson, in hysterical 
 protest to the indifference of the world. 
 
 But after a time, as the night dragged wearily on, 
 and Martha s wanderings died again into a stupor, 
 Mary, quieted by the tranquil freshness of the atmos 
 phere after the storm, and by the delicious sharp smell 
 of the thirsty earth, began to feel a certain lethargy 
 and indifference creeping upon her, which was not 
 sleep. Sitting thus in the little desolate room, her 
 thoughts began to turn away from David and to dwell 
 upon Amabel Lamfire the report of whose extreme 
 beauty had always had a fascination for her. 
 
 She thought of her living there her retired life in all 
 her delicate radiance of youth and loveliness. What 
 sort of an existence could hers have been, which in 
 doors was bounded by the drearily dull confines of 
 that small room, so sparsely furnished even to the 
 Draft notions; and which out of doors was encom 
 passed by the hollow s sombre walls, with only an 
 occasional trip to the store, and to the schoolhouse 
 for preaching and prayer-meeting, or perhaps a few 
 visits to a neighbour s? What had she had in all her 
 life to make up for the monotony of it ? First she had 
 had her mother s passionate love; then she had had 
 her extreme beauty; and lastly she had loved Alder- 
 son Cree. Of these three seeming happinesses, 
 the first and third, between them, had broken her 
 
 297
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 heart, and the second had done her more harm than 
 good. 
 
 Mary sighed as she thought about it. Amabel 
 Lamfire had loved Alderson Cree and it had broken 
 her heart. Mary Reddin loved David Cree and 
 was her heart to be broken also? And with the 
 thought Mary half echoed old Martha s bitter cry 
 "Oh! them Crees!" 
 
 Again turning back to Amabel she let her eyes 
 wander idly about the room trying to fit into its sur 
 roundings that delicate personality, which like a butter 
 fly, a little flower, or any beautiful fragile thing, had 
 been so easily crushed by the first blow. And gradu 
 ally as she did so, in her lethargy of overstrained nerves, 
 Mary began almost to think of herself as the dead 
 girl; to be Amabel Lamfire waiting for Alderson Cree 
 who never came, instead of Mary Reddin in a wrung 
 anguish of dread for David. With this feeling upon 
 her she looked down at the old woman on the bed with 
 almost a sense that she and not Mrs. Reddin was her 
 mother. 
 
 The shrivelled old nut-cracker face framed in wisps 
 of grey hair lay upon its pillows very small and very 
 quiet just then. The eyes were almost shut, and the 
 breathless stillness of the whole figure brought Mary 
 with a startled gasp out of her dazed mood, and made 
 her bend down quickly, listening to make sure that the 
 old woman was still alive. But even as she looked 
 and in her doubt was about to call Mrs. Cooper, old 
 Martha opened sudden wide bright eyes upon her. 
 
 298
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 She looked at Mary for a moment, and then her 
 gaze went round the room until it fell upon Mrs. 
 Cooper s sleeping figure. 
 
 "Der yer want anything, A nt Marthy?" Mary 
 questioned, speaking in a somewhat raised voice to 
 catch her attention. 
 
 A frown of annoyance drew the old faint eyebrows 
 together, and Martha made a feeble warning gesture. 
 
 "Hesh, don t talk so loud, you ll wake her up," she 
 whispered, "an I got somethin ter say jest ter you." 
 
 "Yes? What is hit?" Mary answered, speaking 
 clearly, but in a tone to match the other s. 
 
 Martha stretched out one feeble clawlike hand and 
 clutched the girl s delicately strong one. 
 
 "Ther was something I hed ter say somethin I 
 hed ter say jest ter you," she repeated wanderingly, 
 "what was hit ? Somethin erbout er hunt" ; she paused 
 again, pondering, as though her thoughts went slowly, 
 feeling their way. 
 
 "Yes," she resumed suddenly, nodding her head, 
 "ther was er hunt er hunt on Peter s Ridge an they 
 killed Alderson Cree but first Alderson, him an 
 me betwixt us we killed Ammy Amabel Lamfire." 
 She paused as always over the name, and went drifting 
 away on that track. "Ammy Amabel," she whis 
 pered. "Der yer know Ammy?" she questioned, her 
 eyes searching Mary s face with bright interrogation. 
 "No!" she cried with the same suddenness that her 
 mind had been swept from one direction to another 
 all night; "no, Ammy s dead she s, dead! Alderson 
 
 299
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 and me killed her! Alderson Cree Aha-a! Alderson 
 Cree, when you didn t come ter my girl, yer didn t know 
 you d ever be begging me ter take yer word ter Dave 
 that was hit that was hit!" she broke off with 
 quick illumination. "That was what I hed ter tell 
 yer, hit was ther word Alderson Cree sent ter Dave." 
 
 "Ter Dave!" cried Mary. She had scarcely been 
 listening to the tangle of crazy words, but the name 
 arrested her attention sharply. 
 
 "Yes, yes, ter Dave," the other hurried on, her mind 
 clear for the moment. "I was comin erlong ther 
 path by ther Maple Spring that day, an when I got 
 close to hit, I says I ll git me er drink; but jest as I 
 was erbout ter step out ter ther spring I heered some- 
 thin kinder moan, an I stopped an looked an hit 
 was Alderson Cree shot in ther back. Alderson 
 Cree she faltered over the name, and paused, 
 losing the thread of her story. 
 
 "Yes, yes, I understand it was Alderson Cree," 
 Mary cried feverishly. "Yes, A nt Marthy, go on!" 
 
 With an effort Martha resumed. "An es I stopped 
 an looked he was prayin prayin ! " she broke 
 off into her distracted laughter. "Alderson Cree was 
 er prayin !" she cried with peal after peal of crazy, 
 triumphant glee. 
 
 "An then d rectly he heered me," she went on 
 presently, as her laughter spent itself," he heered me 
 an -but there she paused with a quick-drawn 
 breath. Her sharp ear had caught the sound of Mrs. 
 Cooper stirring in her chair. With a deep yawn and 
 
 300
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 stretching herself the latter rose and came leisurely 
 over to the bed. Old Martha s mouth closed tight 
 and her eyes dropped. 
 
 "Yes, A nt Marthy, yes!" Mary begged; "Go on 
 with ther word Alderson Cree sent." But the old 
 woman lay white and still and without a quiver of an 
 eyelash, and looking down at her, Mrs. Cooper shook 
 her head. 
 
 "Po soul she s mighty nigh gone; she don t hear 
 er word you say," she said. "Hit s after one," she 
 went on. "I managed ter git er little drowse after all, 
 an now I kin take ther rest er ther watchin an you 
 kin sleep." 
 
 Mary shook her head. "I don t want ter rest," she 
 said; "besides I m most sure A nt Marthy was tryin 
 ter tell me somethin ." 
 
 "Well, she may have been but she ll not tell 
 nothin ter nobody now," the other returned, looking 
 again at the still face. "An yer d better git some rest 
 fer yer looks white es er sheet." 
 
 Mary looked again hesitatingly at Martha, and truly 
 she seemed to have lost all consciousness of her sur 
 roundings, and of what she had tried to say, and be 
 lieving that the other woman must be right, the girl 
 rose at length from her own chair with a weary sigh, 
 and crossed over to the vacant one by the table. 
 
 Though it had seemed impossible for her to sleep, 
 yet after she had put her head down upon the table, 
 pillowed on her arms, she had not sat thus very long, 
 listening to the rain without, before she was in a troubled 
 
 301
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 tormented sleep, in which all the anguish of the day 
 released by slumber whirled through her brain in 
 fantastic and horrifying dreams, startling her time and 
 again confusedly awake. At length, however, she fell 
 into a deep exhausted sleep in which dreams and all 
 consciousness vanished away. 
 
 In the first dim streaks of dawn she was awakened 
 by Mrs. Cooper shaking her by the shoulder. Mary 
 started up quickly, confused by sleep and by her un 
 accustomed surroundings, and with a feeling that a 
 cold weight of unhappiness was waiting to settle back 
 upon her as soon as she came fully to herself. 
 
 "I got ter go now," Mrs. Cooper said standing over 
 her. "I got ter git home an see ter breakfast Dan 
 hes ter hev hit powerful soon, now that he s working 
 up at Whitcomb s camp. But I ll go by ther Snyders 
 an send some er them right up, so s hit ll only be er 
 little bit you ll be here by yerself." 
 
 "But but I can t stay here all alone!" Mary cried, 
 stumbling to her feet. In the grey light of the rainy 
 dawn, the cabin looked incredibly dreary and deserted, 
 while outside the high wind left by the storm tore up 
 the valley in moaning gusts. 
 
 "I ll send ther Snyder folks right up," Mrs. Cooper 
 urged; "an I got ter go. She s still in er stupor an 
 ther ain t nothin I kin do." Mary looked about the 
 desolate room in shaken dread, and it seemed impos 
 sible that she should stay there all alone with the dying 
 woman. But as her gaze went past Mrs. Cooper s 
 fat shoulder it fell upon Martha and she saw that she 
 
 302
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 was awake and conscious. It seemed to Mary that 
 the old face held in it an eager appeal, and remember 
 ing all at once that she had seemed about to tell her 
 something in the night, which Mrs. Cooper s awaken 
 ing had put a stop to, Mary took a sudden resolve to 
 stay. 
 
 "All right I ll I ll stay," she said. "Only tell 
 ther Snyder folks ter hurry." 
 
 "I ll tell em, an they ll be right up, I know," the 
 other returned, much relieved that she should be able 
 to get away. 
 
 She went over to the door and looked out, pausing 
 dubiously over the weather. <.. 
 
 "Hit s rainin mighty hard still," she said; "an I 
 reckon I d better jest take that ole umbrel er settin 
 over there in ther corner I ll send hit right back by 
 Allie Snyder." 
 
 So saying she crossed over to the corner, and taking 
 the umbrella bestowed one more ominous look and 
 shake of the head upon Martha; and gathering up her 
 gingham skirts about her enormous ankles, she raised 
 the umbrella and waded heavily through the grass of 
 the dooryard, and went away in the damp chill dawn. 
 
 Martha watched her go with resentment in her eyes, 
 and a half-formed gesture of her hand as though to 
 shake her fist at her, but she changed her mind quickly, 
 and instead beckoned to Mary. 
 
 "Raise me up a bit," she panted. "How der yer 
 reckon I kin breathe layin in er holler like this?" she 
 added fretfully. 
 
 303
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Mary raised her almost to a sitting posture, and 
 propped her against the pillows. Her breathing was 
 very hard now, and the light faint in her eyes, and 
 Mary, who had watched by more than one death-bed, 
 knew that she was almost gone. But her mind was 
 clearer than it had been all night. 
 
 "I got ter tell yer I got ter," she gasped, "Lean 
 down close listen good," she continued as the girl 
 bent over her. The voice was almost a whisper and 
 Mary had to lean close to catch it. "Ther word 
 Alderson Cree sent ter Dave was not ter kill Kip Ryer- 
 son not ter kill him, do yer understan ?" 
 
 "What! 11 cried Mary, springing erect and staring 
 down at her. "What der yer mean?" 
 
 "Yes, yes!" the other gasped, nodding her old head. 
 "I come erlong jest after Dave went ter git help, an 
 Alderson was er layin on his side with er great soak 
 er blood on his back an he was er prayin " she 
 paused, struggling for breath; "he was er prayin ter 
 live jest till Dave come, so s he could make him take 
 back his promise." 
 
 "Oh I " cried Mary, and clasped her hands hard. 
 
 "An then he heered me in ther bresh," the other 
 stumbled on; "an he jest begged an prayed me ter 
 come ter him but I wouldn t an then he cussed 
 me cause I never let on I heered, an when I run he 
 heered me, an hollered after me he d be er settin on 
 the door-step er Hell er waitin fer me when I come, ef 
 I didn t tell Dave. But I didn t tell I didn t tell," 
 she cried shrilly. "An I ain t erf raid er you neither, 
 
 34
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Alderson Cree! You kin set ther till Jedgement Day 
 fer all I keer," she screamed. 
 
 For a moment she lay still again, panting. 
 
 "I knowed Kip first of all when he come back," she 
 went on again in a moment, fighting for the words. 
 "I knowed him an that was what I meant erbout ther 
 shadder follerin Dave but I wouldn t er told " 
 she paused suddenly looking hard at Mary with dim 
 strange eyes. "Der yer reckon I m erfraid er Alder- 
 son Cree?" she demanded. "I ain t I ain t erfraid 
 er any livin soul that ever walked, Crees er not," she 
 went on fiercely. "But I m er tellin you cause every 
 night Ammy comes an looks at me with her little piti 
 ful face an says jest like she used ter You an me s 
 best friends, ain t we, Mammy? An then she says, 
 O Mammy, ain t yer done ernough harm ain t yer 
 satisfied yit? " 
 
 She broke off abruptly and there was a gurgle in her 
 throat. "Yes, honey, yes!" she panted, "Mammy s 
 told she s told now." 
 
 For a moment again she was still, and then all at 
 once she shot up suddenly to her knees in the bed. 
 "Aha-a, Alderson Cree!" she cried, doubling her hard 
 fists, and shaking her bony arms straight and stiff over 
 her head. "Keep er settin ther keep er watchin , 
 you ll never git me," she screamed with a broken laugh; 
 "Ammy an me s goin Ammy!" she cried and fell 
 back a dead crumpled heap among the pillows. 
 
 Mary bent over her quickly, feeling for her heart, 
 and knew that she was dead.
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Mechanically she straightened the shrivelled limbs 
 upon the bed, and folded the hands upon the breast. 
 Then she sprang up and fled eagerly out of the cabin, 
 "I got ter tell Dave I got ter!" she cried to herself . 
 "Oh! maybe I ll be in time yit!" 
 
 But at the yard fence she paused in horror How 
 could she leave the lonesome dead body unattended 
 in that deserted place? 
 
 Wildly she looked down the path of the hollow and 
 screamed again and again at the top of her voice, but 
 there was no answer only the echo from the en 
 circling mountains. She wrung her hands frantically 
 together and burst into dry sobs. 
 
 "O Lord, send somebody quick," she wept. "Send 
 somebody quick for I ve got ter go ! " 
 
 She ran distractedly back to the cabin and entered 
 again its one little room, though now for a moment 
 she hesitated upon the threshold in hysterical terror 
 at being alone with what the room held. 
 
 Though she had left it but a second before the house 
 seemed changed and sacred now, and the figure upon 
 the bed, which such a short time ago had been just a 
 poor half-crazy old woman, in the quickness of an eye 
 flash had taken on all the reverent mystery and dis 
 tinction of death. 
 
 Wringing her hands and calling on God to send 
 someone quickly, Mary paced up and down the room, 
 occasionally rushing to the fence to call desperately 
 down the hollow, only to start the echoes once more, 
 and to return at last to watch in the sombre room, 
 
 306
 
 THE WORD FROM ALDERSON CREE 
 
 It seemed hours to the distracted girl that she waited 
 alone in the little remote hollow with only the dead 
 woman keeping her company, and with the message 
 for David crying out to be told; it was in reality only 
 a short time before she caught sight of Mrs. Snyder, 
 and her sister-in-law, Jane McCurdy, approaching 
 along the path. 
 
 With a cry Mary rushed out of the house to meet 
 them. 
 
 "She s dead!" she screamed. "She s dead an 
 I was all erlone an I got ter tell Dave I got ter go 
 before hit s too late!" and without pausing she fled 
 wildly by them and disappeared down the hollow, her 
 hair blown about her face, and her light skirts soaked 
 by the steady drizzle of the morning, and whipped 
 about her by the high wind. 
 
 The two women looked after her in surprise. 
 
 "Po little thing! she s skeered most ter death," 
 they said. "Ann Cooper certainly ought ter er had 
 better sense than ter er left her all erlone that erway." 
 
 And then turning they went on to their duty in the 
 cabin their duty, with the completion of which the 
 history of the Lamfires of the Mossy Run Hollow fell 
 shut, like the closing of a book. 
 
 37
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 THE VICTOR 
 
 AT an early hour, which was no longer true night yet 
 was scarcely dawn, for only the faintest grey tinge of 
 light struck across the darkness, George Hedrick, in 
 the little attic room over his store, was awakened from 
 the first sound sleep which the raging of the storm and 
 the wind had permitted him all night, by a sudden 
 agonized pounding on his outside door. He started 
 broad awake, and again the sound came. Springing 
 from his bed, and crying out "All right!" he dragged 
 on a few clothes hastily, and lighting his lamp de 
 scended to the store. 
 
 The pounding was wildly continuous now, as though 
 someone were beside himself for admission. 
 
 "Yes! yes! I m er comin , he cried fitting the key 
 to the lock and flinging open the door. At its opening 
 the figure of a woman scudded in and stopped in the 
 middle of the room. 
 
 It was Judith Cree, and as she stood in the dim lamp 
 light she faced Hedrick with horror in her eyes, one 
 hand gripping the edge of the counter hard. 
 
 "George," she cried, "O George!" and could get 
 no further. 
 
 308
 
 THE VICTOR 
 
 Hedrick s hand trembled and he set the lamp down 
 quickly. 
 
 "Has Dave done hit?" he said. 
 
 "I don t know, I don t know an I m most crazy," 
 she answered in a low stunned voice. 
 
 She stood motionless, her hand hard against the 
 counter, her dress wet and dishevelled, her faded hair 
 slipping down upon her shoulders, and her terrified 
 wild eyes fixed upon the storekeeper. 
 
 "O George!" she cried again in the same appalled 
 tone. "I sent him ter do hit. He come home an 
 an he didn t seem like he was goin ter, an I stirred 
 him up all I knowed how, an he went inter ther house 
 an got his pistol, an went off jest es ther storm was 
 comin up. I sent him, George I made him go! I 
 don t know what devil s been in me but hit seems 
 jest like I d been dead so s I couldn t feel nothin fer 
 ten years, an yesterday I jest come erlive all at onct, 
 an I didn t think ther was anythin I keered fer cept 
 ter hev Kip Ryerson paid off, till I seed Dave goin 
 erway inter ther dark." Her voice fell away into 
 silence but still her eyes held the man. 
 
 "I seed him go," she went on again, a blind dismay 
 in her face. "I seed him go, an at first I was glad, 
 but then I got ter studyin on ther way he looked when 
 he went off, an I been er seem his face that erway all 
 night, an thinkin how he was when he was er little 
 feller an then seein him over an over ergin, goin 
 erway down ther hill in ther dark, an knowin all ther 
 time that hit was me made him go me, his own 
 
 309
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 mother! Oh! I don t know what s been ther matter 
 with me, George, but hit don t seem like hit could 
 er been me that keered more fer my hate than I did fer 
 my chile!" 
 
 She put her shaking hands up to her face, but she 
 did not weep, and her tearless dismayed eyes still looked 
 over her fingers into the storekeeper s face with a wide 
 and frightened gaze. 
 
 "O George," she cried, "won t yer please, please ter 
 find him an make him come back I d go myself 
 but I know I couldn t do nothin with him now not 
 after what I said an I do b lieve he d do more fer 
 you than fer any other man in ther Draft. O God!" 
 she cried, her voice falling to a whisper, "I been er 
 terrible wicked woman!" She paused a moment and 
 then rushed on again; "tell him I d cut my tongue out 
 to take back ther words I said ter him. Oh! ask him 
 ef he minds what I was fore Alderson Cree was kilt 
 -tell him that s what I am now, an not ther dead 
 devil I ve been all these years." 
 
 "Which way did Dave go?" the storekeeper broke 
 in quietly, shaking himself into his coat the while, 
 and extinguishing the lamp. 
 
 "O George, yer er good man!" she cried fervently. 
 "I don t know which erway Dave went, but he must 
 er gone first up ter Whitcomb s." 
 
 "Well, then I ll go up there right off," Hedricksaid, 
 stepping beside her out into the morning freshness 
 and damp, and locking the door after him. 
 
 They swung into the road together, and all the way 
 310
 
 THE VICTOR 
 
 to the Cree farm Judith kept up a wild stream of 
 talk. The woman who for those ten long years had 
 carried herself so silently and so frozen was almost 
 passionately eager to talk now. The sluice-gates of 
 her reserve were opened, and scarcely seeming aware 
 of what she was saying she poured out all her heart 
 to the storekeeper. She seemed strangely and curiously 
 alive too, as though she had but just found herself, and 
 as though her own personality was a wonder and a 
 surprise to her. Over and over she recited her inter 
 view with David, breaking out upon herself with 
 wild remorse. Then her mind went back into the 
 past, and she told Hedrick all the little details of Alder- 
 son s murder, and of their difficult struggle in the years 
 afterwards, as though the storekeeper had never heard 
 of them and all the time her manner w r as that of a 
 person who had been away from the Draft a long time, 
 and coming back had many things to tell. 
 
 They came at last to the Cree place, and there, as 
 Judith turned in at the gate, she cried once more, 
 "Make him come back, George oh! make him 
 come back fer God s sake!" 
 
 "I ll do ther best I kin fer yer, Judy," he answered, 
 and went away up the road, between the fence rows 
 still cold and dim in the wet greyness of the morning. 
 
 When Judith reached her own door-step, it seemed 
 to her that she could not enter the house and take up 
 the common tasks of the morning in her feverish state 
 and while so much that was awful was happening in 
 her world ; therefore, though she was chilled and soaked 
 
 3"
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 to the skin by the rain, she sat down upon the porch 
 step and strained her eyes in anxious looking up the 
 Draft, if perhaps she might see David come suddenly 
 round the turn. 
 
 As she sat there the figure of Mary Reddin came all 
 at once flying out of the rain and mist of the morning 
 and almost ran into her arms. 
 
 "Where s Dave where s Dave?" Mary cried, lay 
 ing trembling hands upon Judith, and almost shaking 
 her. "Oh! where is Dave I got er message for 
 him!" 
 
 "I don t know," Judith panted. "God knows I 
 wished I did. I reckon he must er gone ter Whit- 
 comb s camp he come home yesterday evening an 
 I mocked him cause he hadn t killed Kip, an then he 
 went erway an I ain t seen him since but he must 
 er gone ter ther camp." 
 
 " You sent him you mocked him?" Mary cried. 
 
 Judith nodded. "I did, God fergive me," she said. 
 
 "Then yer er wicked, wicked old woman, an God ll 
 not fergive you!" cried the girl vehemently, and with a 
 passionate gesture she flung herself away and sped off 
 down the hill in the rain. 
 
 George Hedrick walked along the road heavy with 
 mud, blown through and through by the high wind of 
 the morning, which amounted to almost a gale, and 
 beaten upon by the steady rain, and his frame of mind 
 was scarcely a cheerful one. 
 
 "Go?" he muttered in scorn of himself. "Er 
 course I ll go. I never yit seed er mess er any kind 
 
 312
 
 THE VICTOR 
 
 come erlong that wa n t my business in no ways what 
 ever that I didn t manage ter run my head inter hit, 
 some how er another. Now jest look at this here 
 I ve knowed Crees all my life an I know em ter be 
 jest ther very worst kind er people ter fool with when 
 they re stirred up, an yit here I go er trompin erlong 
 this blamed muddy road er lookin fer Dave Cree, who 
 as fer temper, is er Cree right through ter ther back 
 bone an out ther other side. An anyhow I d jest 
 like ter know what kinder good my sayin Come home 
 with me, Dave, yer Mammy s frettin erbout yer, s 
 goin ter do me erbout comin up ter his shoulder 
 an no mo ." 
 
 Here a fierce gust of wind cut through him and he 
 shivered again in the early chill. 
 
 "An ef Dave don t take my head an jest natu ally 
 crack hit erginst Kip s fer interferin with his business, 
 an settle us both at one clip, I ll certainly git my 
 death er cold in this yere storm an wind," he com 
 plained. "An me not had off my winter flannels 
 mor n er week. But I allers did think ther wa n t er 
 truer sayin than that erbout ther Lord sendin er 
 tempest er wind ter ther shorn lamb." 
 
 But for all his grumbling George Hedrick got him 
 self over the ground very quickly, and his face was 
 grave and anxious. And once or twice as his mind 
 went back to Judith Cree s wild remorseful face, and 
 remembered the torrent of her words revealing all the 
 passionate hate and suffering of her silent years, which 
 now in the telling seemed to come out of her with the
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 tearing fury of the devils of old, he muttered with 
 deep conviction "Hit s er terruble thing ter be er 
 woman!" 
 
 A mile or so behind him up that same rough track, 
 on frantic eager feet, Mary Reddin was labouring 
 breathlessly though the distance now, coupled as 
 it was with her headlong flight from the Mossy 
 Hollow, already began to seem very long and very 
 difficult. 
 
 So it happened that when David Cree awoke that 
 morning in the deserted shanty, and realizing where he 
 was and for what purpose he was there rose quickly 
 and prepared to take up his quest, he came, as he 
 stepped across the rotting doorsill, face to face with 
 the storekeeper, who having been to Whitcomb s camp 
 in his search for him was then on his way to the Daws 
 to make further inquiries. 
 
 Hedrick drew a breath of relief when he saw David 
 and came to a stand. 
 
 "I was lookin fer yer, Dave," he said. 
 
 "Was yer?" David replied coolly and indifferently, 
 preparing to pass him. "I m erlookin for somebody 
 else." 
 
 Hedrick put out his hand hastily and laid it on his 
 arm. "Hole on, Dave hole on," he cried desperately, 
 " I got er message fer yer from yer mother." 
 
 "Then yer kin tell her from me," David answered 
 quickly, "that hit ain t done yit but that hit will be 
 she needn t ter fret"; and again he tried to move on. 
 But Hedrick s grasp tightened.
 
 THE VICTOR 
 
 "Wait, Dave, wait!" he cried. "Hit ain t that - 
 she don t want yer ter do hit. She s pretty nigh crazy 
 over what she said ter yer. She come ter me this 
 mornin most fore day, an asked me ter find yer, an 
 say she d jest giv anythin she d cut her tongue out 
 ter take back what she said ter yer." 
 
 "Then she says hit too late," David returned coldly 
 and grimly. 
 
 "She said," the other rushed on, "ter ask yer ef yer 
 recollected what she was like fore Alderson was kilt 
 she says that s ther way she is now, an not ther dead 
 devil she s been all these years since." 
 
 David shook his head. "I don t recollect how she 
 was," he returned indifferently. "I don t seem ter 
 recollect nothin before that But I tell you, George, 
 ther s one thing I do recollect, an that s ther promise 
 I made ter my father an jest now I m ertendin ter 
 that an nothin else," and the man s mouth set it 
 self into a straight inflexible line. 
 
 "Then, Dave," said Hedrick solemnly, "I hate ter 
 do hit, but I swear ef yer go on after Kip Ryerson, I m 
 ergoin down ter Linden jest as straight es ever I know r 
 how, an notify ther Sheriff; I hate ter do hit, Dave 
 I certainly do, but I will jest es sure es I m er livin 
 man, I will." 
 
 "D n yer Sheriff an d n you too!" David broke 
 out furiously. "Yer kin notify ther whole world fer 
 all I keer yer won t none er yer ketch me not till 
 I ve done what I intend doin an maybe yer won t 
 then!" 
 
 3*5
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "Dave," said Hedrick gently, changing his tone, 
 "I keer er whole heap fer you, an I jest hate ter see 
 you ruinin yerself body an soul this erway jest fer er 
 ole promise, an I don t b lieve fer one minute ef Alder- 
 son hed er hed time ter think twict that he d ever er 
 laid hit on yer he wa n t that kind of er feller. Think 
 what yer er doin , Dave. Think, think, boy," he 
 pleaded. "Der yer reckon fer er second that yer er 
 doin what s right? That yer got any kind of er 
 right ter ruin yer own soul, an send ernother inter ther 
 presence of God, fore He s sent fer him?" 
 
 "An how der yer know God didn t send me fer 
 him?" David demanded. 
 
 "God ll send fer him when He s ready, but He ll 
 not send by you, an yer know hit," the storekeeper 
 returned, "an yer know hit," he repeated. "I ve 
 watched yer scuffle erlong ever since Alderson was kilt 
 an I know ther stuff an ther spunk that s in yer oh, 
 my boy, don t go an ruin yerself now," he implored. 
 "jest es yer gittin somewheres." 
 
 "Where s Dave where s Dave CreeV A girl 
 with drawn face and sobbing breath a drenched and 
 haggard wraith of the storm was demanding fran 
 tically at the kitchen door 0} Whitcomb s lumber camp. 
 
 The cook the first to be up in the camp, and 
 scarcely yet awake looked at her curiously and half 
 startled. "Lord, how m I ter know?" he said. "He 
 come here last night but he went erway ergin almost 
 d rectly." 
 
 316
 
 THE VICTOR 
 
 " He went erway ergin?" the girl repeated, pressing 
 her hand against her heaving breast. 
 
 The man nodded. "Yes, jest es ther storm broke," 
 he said. 
 
 " Jest es ther storm broke," the girl repeated in a 
 dazed voice, and turning stumbled away out of the 
 yard. 
 
 " David Cree," the storekeeper went on sternly, lay 
 ing closer hands upon him. "Look at me an tell me 
 yer b lieve yer doin what s right. Look at me, boy 
 he pleaded. "Look at me like yer would have done ef 
 I was yer father, an tell me yer b lieve in yer soul yer 
 doin right." 
 
 David drew himself away with a bewildered look, 
 and put his hand to his forehead. 
 
 "George," he said, "I don t know what s right an 
 what s wrong no more. Hit s God s truth I don t, I m 
 tore first one way an then tother, an which is right I 
 jest don t know. I only know one thing fer certain, 
 an that is that I give my promise ter settle with that 
 snake, an hit seems like I ve got ter do hit, whether 
 hit s God s work or ther devil s an afterwards they 
 kin settle betwixt em which one I belong ter. 
 
 "Yer er good little feller, George," he went 
 on, laying his hand on the other s shoulder; "an 
 I m much erbliged ter yer. But I promised I 
 promised! An I promised hit harder than I ever 
 did anything in all my life. An I can t fergit hit, 
 George, I can t."
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 "Then God have mercy on yer, Dave!" Hedrick 
 said simply. 
 
 And after a short instant David stepped by him and 
 started resolutely along the road to the river. 
 
 In the water-soaked woods of the early dawn of that 
 May morning, Hedrick stood still in the road, knowing 
 his defeat and watching David s stern figure go steadily 
 on its way. 
 
 The heavy drizzle of rain continued, and added to it, 
 in high sudden gusts, the wind flung down the collected 
 moisture from the green leaves, though in truth they 
 were hardly as yet big enough to hold a full drop of 
 rain. 
 
 In the depressing cold light Hedrick s face looked 
 old and worn, and unusually grave, and as he watched 
 David he took in his breath with a sharp click of regret 
 and compassion. 
 
 But in that moment a sudden broken and exhausted 
 little voice cut the forlorn stillness of the woods, flinging 
 itself past Hedrick and leaping on after David s de 
 parting figure with breathless entreaty. 
 
 "Dave, Dave! O Dave, wait!" it cried desperately. 
 
 The voice was spent, and not very loud, and the 
 storekeeper scarcely made out the words, but David, 
 though he was some distance further away, heard the 
 first faint cry and turned like a flash, and storm-tossed, 
 drenched with rain, and utterly weary, Mary Reddin 
 stumbled past Hedrick and up the mountain to David. 
 
 "Dave," she cried with sobbing breath; and flung 
 herself upon him, clinging to him, and twining her
 
 THE VICTOR 
 
 arms about his neck as though she would never let him 
 
 go- 
 But after that first quick turn, David had stood still 
 in the road, not going to meet her; and when she clung 
 to him, after the one instant when his arms had closed 
 upon her spasmodically, he put up his hands and tried 
 to unclasp her fingers from about his neck, his face 
 resolute but very white. 
 
 "Let me go, honey," he said gently "yer must 
 let me go." 
 
 But with all the strength that was left in her she 
 clung to him closer and more vehemently, and all the 
 time, between her difficult poignant breath, she kept 
 crying his name beseechingly "Dave, Dave!" over 
 and over as though it was all she had voice for. 
 
 Her heart beat as though it would leap into her 
 throat, a mist was before her eyes; her ears roared, 
 and in her mouth was the sharp taste of blood. For 
 her frantic anguished search for David had strained 
 her powers to their very utmost, and only the spur of 
 the message she had to deliver could ever have carried 
 her in such haste over the long difficult miles. She 
 felt as though black waters were rushing upon her, 
 and that only the need of the message kept her from 
 sinking away to be entirely drowned in them; and at 
 last even that need vanished in the surge and roar of 
 the water, and all at once her grasp relaxed from about 
 David s neck, her arms slipped limply down, and, but 
 for his catching her to him suddenly and passionately, 
 as he felt her slip, she would have fallen to the ground. 
 
 319
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 Her breath shook her all over in painful throbbing 
 gasps, her eyes had dropped almost shut, and from 
 violent scarlet her face had gone dead white, with 
 faint ghastly shadows of grey and blue about her lips 
 and under her eyes. 
 
 David thought she was going to die in his arms, and 
 in a frantic agony of fear he clutched her tight and 
 called to her. 
 
 "Mary, Mary, my sweetheart," he cried. He laid 
 her down by the roadside, and with the storekeeper s 
 assistance fanned her and chafed her hands dis 
 tractedly, crying to her wildly, again and again. At 
 last in answer to his voice she opened her eyes for one 
 faint moment. 
 
 "Don t go, Dave don t leave me," she panted out. 
 
 David caught her up against his breast. "My 
 sweetheart, my darlin , I won t leave yer. Never, 
 never! Not for nothin nothin ," and suddenly re 
 membering, with his disengaged arm he caught his 
 pistol from his pocket, and with a great sweep of his 
 hand he flung it far away from him into the green under 
 growth, where it fell through the leaves with a tearing 
 crash. 
 
 "Sweetheart! Sweetheart! My darlin , my honey - 
 I ll never leave yer never!" he cried again; all the 
 poignancy of his love let loose in great bounding 
 waves of fire that tore the very vitals of his being and 
 utterly obliterated and swept away every other emo 
 tion. 
 
 "Not fer not even fer Kip?" Mary gasped. 
 320
 
 THE VICTOR 
 
 "Not fer nothin . Nothin , nothin!" he cried with 
 hot kisses. 
 
 And Mary knew all at once that she had won had 
 won without even Alderson Cree s message. 
 
 She shut her eyes again and lay still, and it was very 
 hard to breathe, her ears still roared and the black 
 waters were still upon her, but David s arm was about 
 her and she was not afraid of anything any more. 
 
 At last the colour began to creep faintly back to her 
 face, changing its deathlike greyness to a delicate pink, 
 and the frantic leaps of her heart grew easier; she 
 opened her eyes and struggled up to a sitting posture. 
 
 "I got er message fer yer, Dave," she said feebly. 
 "Er message from ole A nt Marthy Lamfire. O Dave, 
 listen listen. Alderson Cree sent word by her fer 
 yer not ter kill Kip Ryerson not ter kill him 
 
 "What!" cried David, "what did yer say, honey?" 
 
 Mary nodded her head and went on breathlessly. 
 "Not ter kill Kip. Ter make yer take yer promise 
 back. A nt Marthy tole me all how hit happened. 
 She came erlong by ther Maple Spring jest after you 
 went ter git help, an there she saw Alderson layin 
 on his side an prayin prayin out loud with all his 
 soul jest ter live till yer got back so s he could tell yer 
 not ter do hit Dave ! that he didn t want yer ter do 
 hit." 
 
 "I knowed hit I knowed hit!" the storekeeper 
 burst out. "I tole yer, Dave I tole yer ef he d jest 
 hed twict ter think he wouldn t er done hit I tole 
 yer so!" 
 
 321
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 But David stood still in the road, his eyes astounded* 
 and his face white and amazed. 
 
 " Good God!" he whispered as the words came home 
 to him. "Good God!" 
 
 "An then," Mary panted on, "then while he was 
 prayin he heered A nt Marthy in the bresh an he 
 hollered ter her ter take ther word ter you but she 
 wouldn t let on she heered, an then he cussed her, an 
 when she was skeered an run he hollered terrible 
 things after her. But she never tole, cause she 
 allers blamed him fer Ammy s death, so she wouldn t 
 tell yer out er spite. But I set up with her last 
 night, an this mornin jest fore she died she tole 
 me." 
 
 "Is ole A nt Marthy dead?" the storekeeper ques 
 tioned. 
 
 "Yes, yes, she s dead she died this mornin when 
 I was all erlone with her I was all erlone. Mis 
 Cooper hed gone home an I was jest all erlone, 
 Dave!" she cried, her terror of that time returning 
 upon her. 
 
 But David was still, his mind groping back into the 
 past, to fit this sudden revelation to his last remem 
 brance of his father. 
 
 "George," he said at length with shaken breath, 
 "You was there der yer recollect how he died 
 wantin ter say somethin ter me only he couldn t 
 der yer reckon that was what he was tryin ter 
 say?" 
 
 "Hit must er been, I reckon," the other answered. 
 322
 
 THE VICTOR 
 
 "An I jest got down on my knees an giv him my 
 promise all over ergin," David whispered, "jest all 
 over ergin, never thinkin hit could be anythin else he 
 wanted." 
 
 Mary got up weakly from the bank and laid her 
 trembling hands on his shoulders. 
 
 "Dave," she said, "you ve flung erway yer pistol, 
 an I know yer keer fer me, an now you ve got 
 er message almost like hit was from ther dead 
 won t yer promise me yer won t go after Kip no 
 mo ?" 
 
 David was silent a very long time, his mind going 
 back to that last look on his father s face; to all his 
 arguments and struggles with himself; to Mary s 
 pleadings and to his mother s frantic remorse. 
 
 "Please, please, Dave," Mary begged. Her face 
 had had time to lose its faint return of colour, and to 
 grow white and frightened again, and the storekeeper 
 was fidgeting anxiously. 
 
 David laid one of his hands on each of hers as they 
 rested on his shoulders, and looked down into her up 
 turned face. At last he spoke. 
 
 "I promise yer, sweetheart," he said slowly, a pause 
 between each word, and then he stooped and kissed 
 her solemnly without passion. 
 
 Afterwards the three stood looking into one another s 
 faces in silence the silence after deep emotion. 
 Save for the steady soft roar of the rain, and for the 
 tumultuous wind gusts, the woods were very quiet and 
 the mysterious faint mist which the wind drove here 
 
 3 2 3
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 and there seemed suddenly dropping a curtain be 
 tween the three and the outside world, shutting them 
 into some strange remote chamber, even as the revela 
 tion of Alderson Cree s message had opened for them 
 strange and curious chambers of their souls. 
 
 324
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THE END OF THE GAME 
 
 IT was George Hedrick who, first recovering him 
 self, broke through the awed silence that had settled 
 on all the three out there on the top of the wet moun 
 tain, swallowed up in its enshrouding mists, faced by 
 the strangeness of circumstances, and bewildered by 
 their own emotions. 
 
 "Well," he said shrugging up his small shoulders, 
 and returning to something of his usual buoyancy, 
 "yer runs up erginst er whole heap er funny things 
 in this world, an I m mighty glad yer do specially 
 on this ercasion but hits er powerful wet mornin 
 jest ter be standin round thinkin how cur us things 
 is, an seein es we ain t none of us what yer might call 
 dry, I votes we all g home an change our close an 
 then take er right good think." 
 
 David and Mary shifted their positions, and draw 
 ing deep breaths laughed in weary relief; for after the 
 long strain of sharp emotion it was good and restful to 
 smile once more and take things easily, forgetting for 
 the time that under the blanket of the world s gaiety 
 there lurked always a black, hollow-eyed seriousness, 
 which might at the securest moment look suddenly 
 
 325
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 and terrifyingly forth. Good to laugh, and for the 
 moment to forget, for had they not laughed they might 
 just then have been unreasonably compelled to do just 
 the opposite. 
 
 "You po little honey," David said tenderly, putting 
 his arm about Mary s waist, and supporting her as 
 they started down the mountain; "you po little thing, 
 you must be most dead." 
 
 Mary looked at him with wide bright eyes. "Not 
 so near dead es I was er little bit ergo," she answered 
 with a laugh that quivered. 
 
 Walking behind them Hedrick broke into a shrill 
 whistle, a whistle of many flourishes and much triumph, 
 and of exceeding loudness astonishing loudness, 
 when one remembered the extreme smallness, not to 
 say meagreness, of the person conducting it. A 
 whistle which was partly to drown to his own ears any 
 whispers which David and Mary might have for each 
 other, was partly a stout defiance of the weather s 
 unpleasantness, but was most of all an expression of 
 his own supreme satisfaction over the termination of 
 the morning s work. 
 
 As far as David and Mary were concerned, however, 
 his discretion was wasted, for they were too subdued 
 to talk much, and were besides too shaken out of the 
 usual ruts of reserve to have greatly cared even if 
 Hedrick had chanced to overhear anything they might 
 have had to say. Mary, morover, was still so physi 
 cally exhausted, that the mere effort of walking, even 
 with David s arm about her, required all her strength. 
 
 326
 
 THE END OF THE GAME 
 
 But exhausted as she was, there was yet a joyful peace 
 and relief upon her a peace such as she had never 
 tasted, for it was that which comes after fierce effort, 
 and what fierce, passionate effort was, Mary Reddin 
 had only known since the day before. She felt as 
 though the morning of yesterday were years and years 
 ago, and she herself almost an old woman as com 
 pared to the light-hearted girl who, dressed in her pink 
 muslin, had gone so happily and so gaily to preaching. 
 And it was all true enough, she was older older with 
 the aging of circumstances and the education of fear; 
 and for her ever again to be the same care-free and 
 unafraid personality that she had been was as impos 
 sible as for the hatched chicken to creep back to its 
 comatose condition in the shell. She might be nay 
 she would be gay and happy once more, but it would 
 be a gaiety in the background of which there lurked, 
 to give it balance, a realization of the seriousness 
 of life the realization which comes only with actual 
 experience never by any amount of greybeard 
 warnings. 
 
 David too felt an upspringing of peace and relief. 
 He seemed to himself no longer blown hither and thither 
 by every varying breath of his emotions the play 
 thing of love and hate he had chosen his own path 
 and the weary confusion of indecision had fallen from 
 him. Circumstances had indeed fought for him, but 
 it seemed good to know at the last that he had been 
 sure of his own mind. That he had made the choice 
 for himself, knowing that in the end love, and not hate, 
 
 3 2 7
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 was his master passion. Therefore he went down the 
 mountain, his head held high, the night s dark be 
 wilderment already appearing like an indistinct dream, 
 and he at last his own strong determined self. His 
 love was in the circle of his arm and in front the way 
 lay homeward before them; the calm, the quiet way of 
 their every-day existence, so sweet and so desirable 
 now as compared to the storm-tossed and passion- 
 racked paths of the night. And if in this new tran 
 quillity there was also a certain arrogance, it was bred 
 of the belief that at last he knew himself, and in 
 the knowledge was secure. 
 
 The world seemed water-soaked that morning with 
 the high wind blowing through the trees, and with the 
 remembrance of the night s heavy storm. Confronted 
 by the drenched outlook of wet blown trees and thick 
 sky, Mary and David, after the deluge of their own 
 emotions, felt a little as perhaps Noah and his small 
 company felt when they came down from Mount 
 Ararat to the clean new world below them. In her 
 present tranquillity and sense of security, something 
 of this thought occurred to Mary, and looking up at 
 David she whispered, "I feel jest like I d been most 
 drowned, an then somehow come back ter life ergin, 
 an found everything was all right." 
 
 David looked down at her in answer, and after a 
 moment would have spoken, but in that instant the 
 storekeeper behind them broke suddenly off in his 
 whistle with a low ejaculation of dismay. David 
 raised his head with a quick jerk, and there in the road, 
 
 328
 
 THE END OF THE GAME 
 
 which the previous moment had been empty and 
 peaceful before him, stood Kip Ryerson. 
 
 At the sight David stiffened all over with a sudden 
 tense quiver. But Mary gripped his arm tight 
 
 "Dave!" she cried, "Dave, you promised me!" 
 
 And at her words, and the clutch of her hands, David 
 checked himself, and with the relaxing again of his 
 muscles a long tremble went over him like the sharp 
 vibration of a tweaked wire. 
 
 But in that moment Kip Ryerson made a fatal mis 
 take. He had been walking carelessly, secure in the 
 belief that his enemy pursued him miles distant on the 
 other side of the river, and then raising his eyes he 
 looked suddenly out of this security to behold him 
 instead directly in the way before him. David Cree 
 was the man he most feared in all the world, and as he 
 came upon him thus unexpectedly, with the startled 
 panic of the coward his hand flew back instinctively 
 to his hip pocket. But, quick as the gesture was, 
 David saw it and was quicker, and with a bound like 
 the freed snap of a bent sapling he closed upon him. 
 
 David Cree was a very strong man, much stronger 
 usually than his opponent, but fear in that crisis lent 
 Ryerson a sudden insanity of strength, and he fought 
 with the impetuosity and violence of terror. There 
 are some experiences never translated into words, but 
 which rear themselves for always as grim monuments 
 of certain emotions and for Kip Ryerson, the tear 
 ing remembrance of David Cree s fingers at his throat 
 had come to stand for the very climax of fear and 
 
 3 2 9
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 now met again by that furious onslaught, he fought 
 with the ferocity and anguish of fright of a cornered 
 wild beast; thrashing himself back and forth in the 
 other s grasp, twisting, turning, and biting, a mad, 
 blind, terrified animal fighting neither with sudden 
 anger, nor smouldering hate, but just with the black 
 passion of terror, and the poignant love of his own 
 life. 
 
 Thus the conflict prolonged itself; David, held by 
 his promise, not putting forth all his power, merely 
 trying to disarm the other, and Ryerson with all his 
 frantic strength fighting to turn his pistol and shoot. 
 Up and down and across the road they fought. The 
 little pebbles slipping from under their feet and flying 
 with tiny splashes into the undergrowth; their breath 
 wrung out of them in hoarse grunts as their bodies 
 jerked back and forth; their feet making long struggling 
 scrapes in the wet treacherous road-bed, and the grip of 
 their hands slippery with perspiration. In his con 
 trolled strength David was slow, and time and again, 
 the other, never still for the flash of a second, twisting, 
 wrenching, springing this side and that, writhed out 
 of his grip, and turned like a wriggling steel snake, 
 and then only David s quick spring averted the shot. 
 And always crazy fear looked from Ryerson s eyes. 
 
 As David sprang from her side Mary had screamed 
 piercingly and tried to run in upon, the two men, but 
 Hedrick interposed, holding her off firmly. " " No ! No !" 
 he cried, "you an me can t do nothin now, cept 
 wait fer ther end an keep out er ther way," he 
 
 33
 
 THE END OF THE GAME 
 
 added, dragging her to one side and placing himself in 
 front of her as for a moment Ryerson s pistol wavered 
 in their direction. 
 
 Thus in their helplessness they stood and watched 
 perforce, themselves the only spectators of the con 
 flict ; its setting the steep mountain road, the wet wind- 
 tossed forest, and the grey and sullen skies of the 
 morning, and over all the stillness of the woods. 
 
 Except for the deep catching of his breath David 
 fought in a silent wordless intensity, and in spite of 
 his excitement it flashed back upon the storekeeper 
 that that was the way he had once in his youth seen 
 Alderson Cree fight. Ryerson, on the other hand, spent 
 his breath in gasped oaths and hoarse ejaculations. 
 Once David had him almost overthrown, pressing 
 him back and back against the bank, and he could 
 have laughed savagely, brutally for in the prolong 
 ing of the combat his self-control was beginning to 
 slip at the white panic of terror that looked out of 
 the other s face and bloodshot eyes. But with one of 
 his quick wrenching turns Ryerson sprang away, and 
 for a moment he was free. "D n you!" he cried, 
 "I ll kill yer like I done Alderson!" With the words 
 he fired, and David felt a sting like a hot flame graze 
 his forehead, and afterwards a crimson curtain of 
 blood dripped into one eye, and ran down his face, 
 and the red taste of it was in his mouth and David was 
 glad, riotously, furiously glad of it, for Ryerson s words 
 and the pinch of pain had loosed the bonds of his 
 restraint, and he forgot he forgot his promise, he 
 
 33 1
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 forgot his love, he forgot everything save only the mad 
 passion of conflict and the sick desire to destroy the 
 man he hated. And the taste of blood, the sticky 
 warm trickle of it, were what he wanted, and w r ere all 
 an answer to his fury, wrapping him in a scarlet cloud 
 of passion, in the midst of which only the face of his 
 enemy hung clear. For the fiend that slept in David 
 Cree was loose now, and even with his own mad devil 
 of fright to back him, Kip Ryerson stood small chance. 
 Even as the pistol shot deafened his ears, David sprang 
 once more and his vice-like grip snapped upon the other. 
 One great hand was upon Ryerson s throat, and one 
 upon his outstretched arm, and David bent him 
 slowly, slowly back. Ryerson s free hand tore at the 
 strangling fingers, but he might as well have tugged 
 at iron rods and again he went back a little further. 
 The epitome of fear stared out of his bulging eyes and 
 livid face, and his lips were blue and frothing. Yet 
 now the men were almost moveless, for it was only by 
 slow inches that Ryerson went back. There was no 
 heaving struggle, only the tense meeting of muscle 
 upon muscle, the coughing of Ryerson s breath, the 
 heave of David s, and the slow, very slow, going back 
 of one of them. David s grip was like the steady 
 clinch of great jaws snapping tighter and tighter upon 
 a bone; and presently, inevitably, suddenly, the bone 
 would snap. 
 
 "Great H 1!" the storekeeper cried under his 
 breath, and made a half movement to run forward. 
 Yet in the end he checked himself, and stood still, 
 
 33 2
 
 THE END OF THE GAME 
 
 watching in a stunned breathlessness; and again Ryer- 
 son went back a faint inch. His breath was a chok 
 ing cough now, and David s eyes had the wicked set 
 look that a dog s have just before the bone cracks. 
 Then all at once with a harsh scrape the wet gravel 
 slipped under his feet and Ryerson went down back 
 wards upon the ground, and as he fell David s hand 
 flew along his arm and tore the pistol from his relaxing 
 grasp. 
 
 From then to the end was scarcely a bare wink of 
 time, yet the emotions and actions that flashed by 
 upon one another s heels packed it to such overflowing 
 that afterwards it seemed like a long dream. 
 
 David stepped back a pace or two, steadying himself, 
 and cocking the pistol noiselessly. 
 
 "Get up," he said quietly, terribly. 
 
 And dizzily and still half-stunned, Ryerson obeyed 
 mechanically. Yet when he stood up in the road and 
 faced the gaping mouth of the pistol and the white 
 blaze of the face back of it, he flung his arms up be 
 fore his own eyes with open clutching fingers, and 
 screamed, a hoarse, a horrible scream of fear, that went 
 away on the still air of the morning all up and down 
 the mountain side, and flung its anguish of terror into 
 remote hollows. 
 
 "Stand still 1" said David. 
 
 And save for a long shiver that went over him from 
 head to foot, held in the very paralysis of terror, his 
 face shrinking blindly away in his arms, Kip Ryerson 
 stood still and waited. 
 
 333
 
 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 For a half-second David paused, then suddenly, 
 astonishingly, with the conflict over, and his enemy 
 cowering before him and absolutely at his mercy, his 
 anger went out as instantly, as completely, as a blown 
 candle and on the instant of its going he uncocked 
 the pistol with a tiny click, and dropped his hand. 
 
 But Ryerson heard the click and misunderstood; 
 flinging his arms wide above his head he screamed 
 again, that frantic anguished scream of fear, but half 
 way through the cry broke suddenly into gurgling 
 silence, and as they watched him the man bent all at 
 once at the knees, swayed a moment back and forth 
 with the settling tremble of a falling tree, and then 
 plunged forward into the road, and lay still. 
 
 For a long moment the three spectators were silent, 
 then George Hedrick went slowly forward and turn 
 ing Ryerson over felt for his heart. 
 
 "He s dead," he said at length. "Dead," he re 
 peated. " Just natu ally skeered ter death." 
 
 And he turned with a shudder of contempt from the 
 fixed horror that stared up at him out of the dead eyes. 
 
 David drew a deep breath and looked about him 
 with a half-dazed expression, his hand rising uncon- 
 consciously every now and again to dash the trickle of 
 blood out of his eye. 
 
 "Mary," he cried, "Mary, I wasn t trying to kill 
 him, I was jest tryin to keep him from shootin, " 
 he broke off, looking at her with wild eyes that sought 
 justification in her face. 
 
 "I wouldn t never have troubled him," he went on 
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 distractedly. "I wouldn t have teched him I was 
 goin on by if he hadn t have drawed his gun I would, 
 Mary, I would er gone on by honest I would," he 
 pleaded. 
 
 His gaze wavered every now and again from her 
 face to the limp figure in the road, and he was like a 
 man suddenly awakening from sleep to see the last 
 flash of a terrible dream a real thing before his eyes. 
 
 Mary took his hand in her cold little fingers and 
 pressed it tremblingly. "I know yer didn t mean to 
 jump on him I know yer was goin on by," she said 
 firmly. 
 
 But the remembrance of the overmastery of his fury 
 came flooding back upon David, and the realization of 
 his powerlessness in the clutch of the full strength of 
 his passion appalled him, and he tore his hands away. 
 
 "But I was I was fightin to kill," he cried. "I 
 heered him say I ll kill yer like I done Alderson, and 
 after that I jest didn t keer what happened, and I don t 
 know now why I didn t shoot him at the end, cept 
 when he stood up before me like that an I knowed I 
 could do hit, somehow I jest didn t want to do hit no 
 more." 
 
 He stood back from Mary, waving her hands away. 
 "Mary," he cried, "I was fightin to kill, an I broke 
 my promise to you." 
 
 He said it passionately, insistently. It was as though 
 he would not accept her love without a full understand 
 ing on her part, an understanding of that self within 
 himself, which even he did not understand. Yet 
 
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 THE SOWING OF ALDERSON CREE 
 
 though his hands held her off his eyes besought 
 her. 
 
 Mary stood still looking at him, and in the look her 
 education moved on a step, for in that pause it came 
 home to her the manner of man she had chosen to love 
 a man whose passion of anger came and went as 
 abruptly, as violently, as the wind. This time, in spite 
 of his own sudden horror of himself, she knew that he 
 had triumphed, but the next time what might not some 
 twist of circumstance bring forth? A little longer 
 she paused, facing with clear eyes the possibilities of 
 the future; then she went forward, and taking one 
 corner of her limp wet apron she pressed it against 
 the wound on David s forehead. 
 
 "Never mind never mind, honey," she said. 
 "You wasn t goin ter shoot, I seed you wasn t. And 
 hit s over hit s all over fer now." 
 
 Her look and gesture were almost maternal, and 
 though her voice broke there was in it, nevertheless, a 
 certain new note, a note of knowledge, yet of strength 
 and hope as well, and strong determination. 
 
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