An' you speaks thet to me thet hes been youuns man fur moren fifty yeer, Mertildy?"

"Yes, I do say hit 'bout Hannah," she answered. "Did I think I'd live to see a Warren gal a-tradin' taters like any trash? She'll be a peddlin' next; an' mebbe you'll marry her to Dock Wilson, jest to hev her a-nigh you."

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Hit mout all come true, Mertildy," and the old man's gentle eyes flashed; "fur peddlin' ain't no sin, an' Dock Wilson ain't never knocked a woman yit."

A dull color came into Mrs. Warren's face. "Si were wrong," she admitted; "but thar's one thing a Durket can't stand, an' thet's bein' jawed by a fool, an' Si's Mar were a p'int-blank fool." At the door she met Hannah. It looked almost as if she had been waiting there in spite of the cold wind that was sweeping through the lobby.

And now the happiness that had left her at the wood-pile came back, as kneeling in front of the fire Hannah drew the two silver dollars from her pocket.

“Didn't you git no cawfee an' sugar?" Mr. Warren asked.

"I did thet, an' brung home this fur the ploughin'," and she shook the money triumphantly. Then she told her story, impressing on the old man that she had gone to the shop with money. But she lowered her voice as she told of her meeting Mrs. Harner, and of her engagement for the next day. Mr. Warren, eating slowly, made no comment until she came to the description of her being received in the Wellings's parlor, while a servant emptied her things, and Lizer waited in the kitchen.

"Thet'll tickle Mertildy," he said, with a chuckle; "but if you 'lows to go ag'in to morrer, you must git off 'fore youuns Granny hes time to hender you.' "She can't hold me all day, Gramper, an' she can't tie me."

Mr. Warren regarded his granddaughter curiously. Granny's ole

now, chile," he said, "an' don't you go to makin' her wuss mad 'an is needful. You ain't never seen her rayly mad. I ain't never seen hit but onest, but thet's enough," rubbing one hand slowly round on his bald head. "Fair-aneasy' is a good horse, Hannah, but 'Don't keer' is a galding nag. Thar's no use a-flyin' in Granny's face 'thout thar's a needcessity."

Hannah felt her independence slipping away, and she asked, "What hev you told Granny?"

"Thet you hed gone to trade fur cawfee an' sugar, an' I ain't a-goin' to tell her nothin' mo' tell I'm obleeged to. She's been worrited an' onsettled all day, mad 'bout Lizer a-goin'. Lizer ain't to say a clean-tongued woman.'

"Mrs. Wilson's feared o' me," Hannah said, contemptuously. Then told again of emptying the apples, and the snubbing she had given Lizer at the gate.

"Thet's what Granny 'll call the 'Durket sperret,' and the old man smiled as if at the vagaries of a child. "But she sets a heap o' store by you, Hannah."

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"She's too hard, Gramper," the girl said, coldly. "She stomps youuns feelin's dead, an' then she ain't sati'fy, kase then you've got to feel her way," and the girl's eyes filled with tears. "If I coulder lied or stole, or if I coulder left you an' Daddy, she'd hev druv me to hit long ago. Poor Daddy!" But she dashed the tears away, for without warning Mrs. Warren entered. She looked at them sharply, then seated herself near the fire with her knitting. Hannah did not move; she would do nothing that looked like retreat.

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An' what's you been a-cryin' 'bout, Hannah; is you sick?" "We's been a-talkin', Mertildy," Mr. Warren answered, "'bout you, and me, an' Joshaway, an' Hannah."

Mrs. Warren was silent, for unknown to anyone, her heart was sore about her son Joshua. Her last words to him haunted her. She had abused him in the presence of his child. When she ceased, he had shouldered his axe and gone into the woods, and in the evening had been brought home dead, his life crushed out by a falling tree. Her grief

for his death had been unfeigned, and she had spent all she could lay her hands on for his funeral; but she had never said that she was sorry for any of the hard things she had dealt to him throughout his life, and Hannah's young heart had grown hard toward her. But Mrs. Warren remembered, and any mention of his name was a keen pain.

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Youuns daddy were a good son, boy and man," Mr. Warren went on. He never tole a lie as I kin 'member, an' he never done nothin' he were tole not to do, nur he never hurt nothin' if he knowed hit; an' when youuns Granny were ailin', thar worn't no woman more soffly 'an Joshaway. An' from the time he were born he hed them kind o' askin' eyes like the critters thet can't say what they wants. An' hit allers hurt me, Joshaway's eyes did, an' when he were leetle I were allers a-givin' him ever'thing he looked at; but all the same hisn's eyes kept on askin' an' askin' to the last."

There was a dead silence in the room save for the click of Mrs. Warren's needles, and the whispering of the fire. Presently Mr. Warren spoke again. "I reckon hisn eyes is satisfy now, I reckon

So.

An' weuns never hed no words, me an' Joshaway; but I've been right short on Pete, an' Dave, an' John; but Joshaway never hurt nobody, an' nobody never hed no 'casion to hurt Joshaway. An' now he's gone afore me. But I reckon his eyes is satisfy-I reckon so."

Hannah rose, she could not listen any longer; she would cry out against the hard old woman sitting there with that immovable face. Her taste of freedom that day had unfitted her for the stolid submission of the past. She could not bear it, and she left the room. It scarcely seemed fair that her father should be brought back from his grave to blunt her grandmother's temper. She might be mistaken, and the words have been only loving recollections.

"Ole folks don't hev nothin' to do but 'member things," she whispered, wiping her eyes with the corner of her little shawl, as she stole away to the loft where the apples were stored. She put down the sacks and the measure carefully, and hanging the lantern on a nail in the low rafters, kneeled down cautiously.

"An' Daddy would a-been willin' to be spoke 'bout to save me," the whisper went on, as she carefully picked out the apples and laid them in the measure. The fall of one might call her grandmother up to investigate, and prohibit. When the sacks were filled she lowered them from the window with a rope. It took a long time, and she was shivering uncontrollably when she took the lantern from the nail and tripped downstairs.

The meat and the potatoes were easily arranged, for they were in an out-house. In the piazza she piled wood for the morning, and laid the kitchen fire ready for lighting. Her grandmother should have no extra work to complain of.

She took the milk-pails and kettle into her own room, for all must be done before day. And in after-years it seemed to her that her life dated from that cold, dark March morning. dark March morning. She milked, with the lantern casting weird shadows about her, refusing to listen to the strange noises of the wind, and trembled like a thief when she took off her shoes and crept into the kitchen with the milk. She was glad now that the wind was wild and high; she could hear the branch of a tree her father had planted close to the house, scraping against her grandmother's window, and drowning any little noise that she might make.

She drank a bowl of milk, and put a piece of cold corn-bread into her pocket, to serve until she came back, and as the first light broke in the east, and flashed a crimson flame from point to point of the low-flying clouds, Hannah closed the gate softly and rode away.

The shadows were still black in the woods, and the wind that came tearing down the mountain seemed to wrap round her, and to bend the trees down as if to bar her from this journey. Never before had the sunrise affected her as it did now, and realizing dimly a change in herself, she wondered a little, stopping to look down over the wild, mist-draped scene.

"Everthing seems purtier now," she murmured.

A thread of blue smoke rose from among the trees below; she started, gathering up the reins, she knew where that came from.

"WHERE are you off to, Max?" The young man addressed was adjusting a shabby gown with much precision. "To Miss Welling's," Max answered, as with the same care he put on his square cap.

"If I had such a fossil gown," his companion went on from the bed where, though the day was young, he was lounging with a cigarette between his lips, "and such a crummy mortar-board, I'd not put them on with such 'solemn nity and jurisdiction'."

"If you could show such a cap and gown, Melville, you'd not be a 'Squab;' and taking up some books, Max left the

room.

It was early, but formal visitinghours were ignored in the village of Sewanee, and people kept open house, and "dropped in on each other when they liked. So Max dropped in and found Miss Welling sewing.

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وو

"I have brought the book I spoke of," he began, without further greeting. This poet ought to capture you, to convert you to himself, for he makes one long to live bravely."

"Or die bravely," Agnes suggested. "To live is harder. Death cannot be dodged, so there is no use in being afraid; but many things in life can be dodged. I often wonder if education makes any difference in the way one meets death. Is it easier for these country people to let life go, than for us?

"They live like moles," Agnes said, "in comparison we are squirrels ; and I think they take a pride in dying. I think the ignorant die calmly because they do not know, and the educated because they do know." "What?"

"What? why-why, everything; which comprehensive everything is

after all very limited. Still, I believe in education. I know that educated people are happier and better."

"Whew!" and Max pulled his mustache slowly. "If I were sure of that, I should this day begin a crusade with a 'blue-backed' spelling-book as my banner. And you," leaning forward a little, "your duty is to begin at once to teach. If once we realize what is best to be done for our fellows, we must do it."

The door opened and Hannah stood before them with a sack of apples across one shoulder. "Hardy," she said, her face lighting up as she caught sight of Agnes; "har's youuns apples."

"I am glad to see you," and Agnes held out her hand. Max looked from one to the other curiously, then placed a chair near the fire for Hannah. "It is cold," he said. Hannah looked at him a moment, then taking off her long bonnet, sat down on the edge of the chair.

"Yes, and she has come a long way," Agnes answered for her, then turned away to call the servant. Max took up the bag and followed Agnes into the next room, and she going still further, he returned to his place. Hannah watched him until he came back, then looked at the fire, and Max watched her. It was a beautiful face as he saw it now with the firelight on it, and he spoke to her.

"What Cove do you come from?" he

asked.

"Some; Mammy hed schoolin', an' she larned dad, anʼ he larned me. But I don't hev no time, what with the cows, an' the hogs, an' the wood, an' the cookin', an' washin'; an' Granny says book-larnin' is foolishness."

"You must have too much to do; though work is a good friend."

He

"Thet's what Gramper says. says work b'ars no gredges an' tells no lies; good work stan's up an' says 'good, an' bad work stan's up an' says 'bad,' an' thar's no heshin' them, an' hit's true;" then rising, she took up the bag the servant had brought, and held out her hand to Agnes.

"Farwell," she said, "weuns'd be rale proud to see you down home."

"Thank you," Agnes said, smiling as Hannah, instead of shaking her hand, turned it over and looked at it curiously. Then she turned to Max. must come too, an' what name shell I name to Gramper?"

"You

'Max Dudley," shaking hands in his turn; we camped together one night. I was lost and came on his camp. I will bring Miss Welling down;" then he opened the door for Hannah.

V

“And answered with such craft as women use, Guilty or guiltless, to stave off a chanceThat breaks upon them perilously."

SUCCESSFUL as before, Hannah was happy, for besides a little bag of flour, she had more money than she intended to show even to Mr. Warren. If he knew of this surplus he might reveal it in order to save her from hard words; and if Mrs. Warren knew, it would be stored away and she be left as helpless as before. She had made a long detour to reach Wilson's and engage Dock to plough, as she had the money to pay him. She would say four dollars, the rest she must save for other purposes.

Once more on the main road, she urged old Bess on. There was much excitement in her position, and she was anxious yet afraid. How would it be possible to see Mr. Warren alone first? She stopped the horse. "If I keeps on bein' afeard o' Granny," she said aloud, "I'll do sumpen rale mean some day." Old Bess was urged on again. "I'll go right in an' face her, crooked chance or straight chance." She dropped the reins on the horse's neck, and took the old deer-skin purse from her pocket. It was quite full with her two days' gains, and she drew a long sigh. She took out all the money save the four dollars intended for Dock's wages, and tying it up in her glove, hid it in her bosom, then put the purse back in her pocket.

"Hit looks right sneakin', but I must save hit 'ginst Si."

Reaching the gate, she unsaddled the horse with unusual celerity, and shouldering the saddle and the little bag of flour, went quickly into the house.

It had been a long and weary day to the old man. Hannah's errand was a bitter pill to Mrs. Warren. She had never done such a thing in her life, nor was it customary with women of her station. In those early days, "the man who would let his women-folks peddle was a poor sort of man." the concealment of the expedition had wounded Mrs. Warren also.

But

Often she had complained that she did not understand Hannah, for though she usually held herself very much aloof, Hannah would yet do work and associate with people that shocked Mrs. Warren, and the irritation caused by what she deemed the girl's peculiarities was a very constant thing.

"A goat raised a pup once, Mertildy," her husband had often said to her, "but she never could larn thet pup to butt; an' you'll never larn Hannah youuns ways.

All this ground, and the grievance about Si, had been gone over many times during the day. Mrs. Warren felt herself outwitted, for she was sure the difficulty of the ploughing had been solved. Her sequence had been-no man to plough-no money to pay a man-no crop, then want, or Si Durket.