As she met the boy's eyes, it was clear that her own held neither

nervousness nor fear, and yet there was something else in them--the

glint of invitation. She rose from her seat.

"I hain't ter say skeered," she told him, "but, ef ye wants ter walk

as fur as the stile, I hain't a-keerin'."

The youth rose, and, taking his hat and rifle, followed her.

Lescott was happily gifted with the power of facile adaptation, and he

unobtrusively bent his efforts toward convincing his new acquaintances

that, although he was alien to their ways, he was sympathetic and to be

trusted. Once that assurance was given, the family talk went on much as

though he had been absent, and, as he sat with open ears, he learned

the rudiments of the conditions that had brought the kinsmen together

in Samson's defense.

At last, Spicer South's sister, a woman who looked older than himself,

though she was really younger, appeared, smoking a clay pipe, which she

waved toward the kitchen.

"You men kin come in an' eat," she announced; and the mountaineers,

knocking the ashes from their pipes, trailed into the kitchen.

The place was lit by the fire in a cavernous hearth where the cooking

was still going forward with skillet and crane. The food, coarse and

greasy, but not unwholesome, was set on a long table covered with

oilcloth. The roughly clad men sat down with a scraping of chair legs,

and attacked their provender in businesslike silence.

The corners of the room fell into obscurity. Shadows wavered against

the sooty rafters, and, before the meal ended, Samson returned and

dropped without comment into his chair. Afterward, the men trooped

taciturnly out again, and resumed their pipes.

A whippoorwill sent his mournful cry across the tree-tops, and was

answered. Frogs added the booming of their tireless throats. A young

moon slipped across an eastern mountain, and livened the creek into a

soft shimmer wherein long shadows quavered. The more distant line of

mountains showed in a mist of silver, and the nearer heights in blue

-gray silhouette. A wizardry of night and softness settled like a

benediction, and from the dark door of the house stole the quaint

folklore cadence of a rudely thrummed banjo. Lescott strolled over to

the stile with every artist instinct stirred. This nocturne of silver

and gray and blue at once soothed and intoxicated his imagination. His

fingers were itching for a brush.

Then, he heard a movement at his shoulder, and, turning, saw the boy

Samson with the moonlight in his eyes, and, besides the moonlight, that

sparkle which is the essence of the dreamer's vision. Once more, their

glances met and flashed a countersign.




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