The Call of the Cumberlands

"Sally," the temporary chieftain spoke still in a patient, humoring

sort of voice, as to a tempestuous child, "thar hain't no place ter

mail a letter nigher then Hixon. No South can't ride inter Hixon, an'

ride out again. The mail-carrier won't be down this way fer two days

yit."

"I'm not askin' any South to ride into Hixon. I recollect another time

when Samson was the only one that would do that," she answered, still

scornfully. "I didn't come here to ask favors. I came to give orders--

for him. A train leaves soon in the morning. My letter's goin' on that

train."

"Who's goin' ter take hit ter town fer ye?"

"I'm goin' to take it for myself." Her reply was given as a matter of

course.

"That wouldn't hardly be safe, Sally," the miller demurred; "this

hain't no time fer a gal ter be galavantin' around by herself in the

night time. Hit's a-comin' up ter storm, an' ye've got thirty miles ter

ride, an' thirty-five back ter yore house."

"I'm not scared," she replied. "I'm goin' an' I'm warnin' you now, if

you do anything that Samson don't like, you'll have to answer to him,

when he comes." She turned, walking very erect and dauntless to her

sorrel mare, and disappeared at a gallop.

"I reckon," said Wile McCager, breaking the silence at last, "hit

don't make no great dif'rence. He won't hardly come, nohow." Then, he

added: "But thet boy is smart."

* * * * * Samson's return from Europe, after a year's study, was in the nature

of a moderate triumph. With the art sponsorship of George Lescott, and

the social sponsorship of Adrienne, he found that orders for portraits,

from those who could pay munificently, seemed to seek him. He was

tasting the novelty of being lionized.

That summer, Mrs. Lescott opened her house on Long Island early, and

the life there was full of the sort of gaiety that comes to pleasant

places when young men in flannels and girls in soft summery gowns and

tanned cheeks are playing wholesomely, and singing tunefully, and

making love--not too seriously.

Samson, tremendously busy these days in a new studio of his own, had

run over for a week. Horton was, of course, of the party, and George

Lescott was doing the honors as host. Besides these, all of whom

regarded themselves as members of the family, there was a group of even

younger folk, and the broad halls and terraces and tennis courts rang

all day long with their laughter, and the floors trembled at night

under the rhythmical tread of their dancing.