"When Adam an' Eve was put out of the Garden of Eden, Piney Cridle," he said, "it was ordered that hencefor'a'd mankind should live be the sweat of their brow. Sech bein' the case, it ain't likely the Almighty would plant gold mines every here an' there, so as they'd be handy to git at. No, sir. Snyder County would 'a' spoiled the whole plan. Californy is about the hardest place to git to they is." The preacher paused a moment to let this point sink deep in the minds of his hearers. Then he added: "There's gold in Californy."

"That's the plainest I ever hear it put," cried Lucien Killowell, coming into view again.

"Yes, it is pretty fair," said Piney, undisturbed. "How about the Californians though? I s'pose they has to work their way back to Pennsylwany to git their gold." Preacher Holloberger's theology failed him for the moment, and while he was searching the floor for an idea of any kind with which to meet this impious adversary, Amos Pinking interrupted the discussion. "It ain't so much whether there is gold there or not, Piney," he said. "Mebbe they is; but what are you comin' to huntin' fer it? A year ago, an' there wasn't a popularer man than you in all our walley. You never had much, to be sure, but you could git a livin' outen that clearin' your pap left you. An' now look at you! Jest look at you! Mackinaw jacket as ain't fit fer a horse to wear; boots jest held together be the soles; hair so long tha' you might pass fer an Amishman; clearin' all overgrowed with briers; your wery cow picked offen the roads be Harmon Barefoot! S'posin' you does find a mine-is it worth it? Is it worth all them winter days over there in the mountain diggin' an' dig gin' all alone? Is it worth all them lonely shiverin' nights in the woods?"

"Is it worth it!" Piney cried. "Huh! is it worth it?" He turned to the door again and seized the knob. "You-uns think I'm crazy, because I've got idees beyant a clearin'. Mebbe I'm wrong. Mebbe some day I'll come back an' clean away the briers, an' plant a crop between the stones agin, an' go on jest livin'. But mebbe some day I'll come back, an' I'll come in a side-bar buggy with a slick horse, an' I'll have a cady hat an' a Prince Al-bert instead o' this coon skin an' mackinaw. I'll buy five-cent se-gars in

Mebbe

stead of askin' tick on a poke o' tobacco. I'll have a house with a portico, an' hand paintin's, an' statues, an' a melodium. all that'll happen. Then you all will shake your heads an' say you allus knowd Piney Cridle was a slick one. You laugh now, an' preach at me. You otter wait."

So Piney Cridle went defiantly on his way. The sharp wind clutched at his throat; the door banged behind him, shutting him from the bright stove-lit circle; on the valley's edge before him arose the gloomy mountains, capped with the gray hail-cloud. His honor demanded it. He would never return to plant a crop amid the stones of his clearing, or to claim the cow that Harmon Barefoot had rescued from the roads. When he came again it would be in a side-bar buggy, and all Tuscarora would do him homage. When he came again he would drive right to the gate of the Killowill home and carry off the daughter of the house under the very nose of her spiteful father. But Pet might be married then! Harmon Barefoot's rigging was hitched at the gate that very moment, and Piney paused on the bridge below the mill and leaned against the stone side-wall, while he inspected it. Even now the girl and Harmon might be peeking through the window laughing at him. When he came again she might be Mrs. Harmon Barefoot! Well enough! She would know, at least, what she had lost.

They say in Tuscarora that that is the last picture they have of the old Piney Cridle; of the Piney Cridle the village had known since the days when he used to bring the eggs to the store from the clearing on the ridge-side; of the lanky fellow the village should have loved for his gentle strength, his shiftless charity, and boundless humor. There he stood in the bitter wind, leaning over the bridge wall, gazing into the stream. That had been a curious habit of his, ever since he first toddled down from the clearing. A bit of tumbling water, a white cloud, a shadow on the mountain-side would hold his gaze for hours. Some in the village said that it was only the natural laziness of the Cridles showing even to the fourth generation; some declared boldly that Piney was more than an ordinary man, and that when he studied the ripples in the stream or the castles in the clouds, he was seeing "beyond;" some had held their peace and

tapped their foreheads and looked wise. Then Piney had shouldered his pick and gone forth to fight his way clear of the ridge-side patch, with its stones, its briers, and its weeds. Twice he had come back, each time looking more wan and unkempt, so that the wise ones could tap their foreheads more sharply and proclaim aloud in the store what they had always known. At that very moment they were doing it, and a merry time they were having in the cheer of the glowing stove, while he leaned over the bridge watching the icy stream. Perhaps they were right; perhaps there was no gold in Snyder County; perhaps he was a fool, but he would come again to Tuscarora. Piney smiled. Stretching himself to his full lank six feet two, he turned to the store for a last look. The corners of his mouth twitched just a trifle, and his eyes narrowed. He raised his fist to shake it in a laughing threat. He started. Pet Killowill was watching him, and he waved his hand to her instead. Then he took up the way once more.

That was the last they saw of the old Piney Cridle.

Winter came and passed. The last white patch of snow had melted into the freshening hillsides; one enterprising hen was proudly showing her three bedraggled offspring the way about the village, while old man Killowill, sunning himself on the store porch, discussed the heavy mortality among the "airly chickens"; the gentle tap-tap-tap from the cobbler's shop across the way showed that Andrew Rickaback had opened his window at last, and was pounding in the pegs with a vigor newborn of the balmy April air. The village was awakening from its winter's sleep. It was rubbing its eyes and sitting up. Then Piney Cridle came to shake it rudely from its slumber. He came as old man Killowill was in the midst of his discourse on the store porch; as Andrew Rickaback was tap-tap-tapping to the time of an old war tune; as Solomon Holloberger sat in his kitchen, an open Bible across his knees, his eyes intently watching his young tomato plants sprouting from a starch-box, while two kittens hurdled to and fro across his feet. He came in a side-bar buggy.

Piney Cridle's mare was the finest Tuscarora had ever seen. She was a long, slender trotter with very thin legs, and her

head was carried high in check, so that her nose kept poking gracefully ahead of her at every step. Boots guarding all her fetlocks gave a further hint of her value, though nothing more convincing of that was needed than the way she pawed the air when the buggy drew up before the store. Piney just nodded to Lucien Killowill and his cronies, waved a hand to Amos Pinking, tossed reins about the whip, and leaped to the road. After he had walked twice around the trotter, critically inspecting her, he led her to the long rail and hitched. Then, wonder of wonders! he came up the store steps, drawing off a yellow kid glove.

"Pleasant weather we are having," he said cheerily. "I had hoped for a spell of rain about this time. Rain allus helps. the farmers, doesn't it?"

"It does," said Lucien Killowill, solemnly. "But see here, Piney

"Jest a moment, please." Piney waved a gloved hand very politely, but still insistently. "I've some leetle business I want to settle first with Mr. Pinking." He drew forth a roll of bills and looked inquiringly at Amos. "Five, ten, or twenty -I can't recollect?"

"Only four ninety-six," the storekeeper stammered. "See here, though, you needn't mind payin' it now. I never

"I insist," said Piney.

Amos was moving backward from the presence. Waving a note, Cridle followed him. After them, from the porch, into the store, hobbled old man Killowill and his cronies, Solomon Holloberger, breathless with running, bringing up the rear. “I insist," said Piney again, and he tossed the bill on the counter.

Amos took it and laid down four pennies in change, but Mr. Cridle's eyes were not. strong enough to see coins of such small denomination. He deliberately turned his back on them, and, gathering up the tails of his Prince Albert, sat down on the only solid chair in the place.

"Mebbe you have some good se-gars," he said carelessly over his shoulder. "I've a very fine two-fer," returned the store-keeper, rather apologetically.

"Come, come," said Mr. Cridle, laughing and waving his hands about the company, "do you s'pose I'm goin' to buy these gentlemen two-fers? I want five-cent se-gars."

This demand was fairly thundered at

poor Pinking. He was now thoroughly intimidated, and lost no time in getting a step-ladder and climbing to his topmost shelf. Somewhere behind a wall of glass and crockery he found a box which he handed meekly to his arrogant customer. "It's my treat, boys," said Piney, passing the cigars around. "I'm sorry they ain't better, as it's not often I've a chance to set you-uns all up. There's a dollar, Amos. Take a se-gar yourself, an' I'll put four in me pocket--that makes an even eighty-five cents. Now, as I was sayin'

"So you've found a mine after all-well— well-well-but that is fine!" Solomon Holloberger had pushed to the front and was holding out both hands. "I congratulate you, Piney. You deserves it. You

"I guess I do," returned the young man, allowing the preacher to shake just two fingers. Then, by a sudden thought, he turned to the store-keeper. "Let the children have the change in mint-sticks," he said.

"Now, Piney, I'd an idee all the while that you knowd," said Lucien, lighting his cigar and taking one long, delicious puff. "There was somethin' about you all the time that give me the belief you had drumt where the gold was. I'm right, now, ain't I?"

"I allow you ain't," replied Piney, brusquely, tossing his cigar into the coalscuttle, although it had hardly begun to burn, and lighting another complacently. Killowill retired behind Andrew Rickaback. The cobbler was beaming all over, a condition rather unusual for him, as he is by nature a gloomy, taciturn man. Now he disclosed the cause of his joy.

"It seems to me that my tract in them Snyder County mountains joins right on to the one your pap left you, don't it, Piney ?” "It does," replied Cridle. "That's a fine tract, too. You otter look after it more."

This was a hint that rejoiced the cobbler's soul. He, too, was having visions of side-bar buggies, and trotting horses, and melodions.

"Amos, Amos," he cried in sudden excitement, "git Mr. Cridle one of them fivecent se-gars."

Pinking, being a man of sober judgment, hesitated, but the cobbler arose from the bench and shouted, "Can't you hear me― a five-cent se-gar fer Mr. Cridle.”

Piney accepted the attention politely. "You otter look after your tract," he said.

"An' you, Preacher Holloberger, haven't you a bit of property next mine in the north?" Solomon whistled. It was a long, low, wailing note, and when his breath failed him, he sank down on the bench and began to fan himself with his Dunker hat. "I sold it to a sawmill man last month," he gasped.

'I told you-I told you!" Lucien Killowill had never been a property-holder in the mountains, and what he suffered in hearing of Andrew Rickaback's great good luck had its balm in the absurd bargain of his intimate enemy, the preacher. "Jest last month I told you-uns to hold on. I sayd all along you otter wait till you heard from Piney, yander.”

Solomon turned angrily on Cridle. "Why didn't you send me word?" he cried. "You might 'a' dropped me a postal.”

"Now I'm sorry, Preacher, really I am." There was a touch of regret in the young man's voice. "Still, you know, I was mindin' your warnin'. Didn't you say gold was a mocker?"

"I sayd the Good Book sayd it," retorted Solomon.

"Well, then, that there was a mistake of mine, now wasn't it?" Piney appealed to the rest of the company to condemn him as he deserved; but the cigars had had a wonderful effect, and in all the long line on the counter, there was not an accusing eye. "It's terrible to cause others sufferin,'" he went on;" but when you know I didn't mean it, when you know I miscal'lated what you was drivin' at, you won't be hard on me, will you, Preacher?"

"You otter 'a' sent me a postal," snapped Solomon.

Andrew Rickaback had made it evident by many sage winks where he stood in this controversy over Piney's inconsiderateness of others.

"It's only natural you wouldn't have time to think of them things," he declared softly. "By the way, though, how does the vein run? I should jedge that naturally it 'ud foller along the mountain, or mebbe it splits up in all directions. Am I right?"

If I could tell you, I would," was the reply. "There ain't nobody I'd rather tell it to than you, Andrew, if I could; but that's a pint I ain't follered out yit."

"Didn't your diggin' give you some idee of the general direction? Didn't it'