The Mountain Girl. Erskine Payne

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СКАЧАТЬ she said simply.

      There lay three quail, and a large sweet potato, roasted in the ashes on their hearth as he had seen the corn pone baked the evening before, and a few round white cakes which he afterwards learned were beaten biscuit, all warm from the fire.

      "How am I ever to repay you people for your kindness to me?" he said. "Come in and dry your feet. Never mind the mud; see how I've tracked it in all the morning. Come."

      He led her to the fire, and replenished it, while she sat passively looking down on the hearth as if she scarcely heeded him. Not knowing how to talk to her, or what to do with her, he busied himself trying to bring a semblance of order to the cabin, occasionally dropping a remark to which she made no response. Then he also relapsed into silence, and the minutes dragged – age-long minutes, they seemed to him.

      In his efforts at order, he spread his rug over the couch, tossed a crimson cushion on it and sundry articles beneath it to get them out of his way, then occupied himself with his book, while vainly trying to solve the riddle which his enigmatical caller presented to his imagination.

      All at once she rose, sought out a few dishes from the cupboard, and, taking a neatly smoothed, coarse cloth from the basket, spread it over one end of the table and arranged thereon his dinner. Quietly David watched her, following her example of silence until forced to speak. Finally he decided to question her, if only he could think of questions which would not trespass on her private affairs, when at last she broke the stillness.

      "I can't find any coffee. I ought to have brought some; I'll go fetch some if you'll eat now. Your dinner'll get cold."

      He showed her how he had made tea and was in no need of coffee. "We'll throw this out and make fresh," he said gayly. "Then you must have a cup with me. Why, you have enough to eat here for three people!" She seemed weary and sad, and he determined to probe far enough to elicit some confidence, but the more fluent he became, the more effectively she withdrew from him.

      "See here," he said at last, "sit by the table with me, and I will eat to your heart's content. I'll prepare you a cup of tea as I do my own, and then I want you to drink it. Come."

      She yielded. His way of saying "Come" seemed like a command to be obeyed.

      "Now, that is more like." He began his dinner with a relish. "Won't you share this game with me? It is fine, you know."

      He could not think her silent from embarrassment, for her poise seemed undisturbed except for the anxious look in her eyes. He determined to fathom the cause, and since no finesse availed, there remained but one way, – the direct question.

      "What is it?" he said kindly. "Tell me the trouble, and let me help you."

      She looked full into his eyes then, and her lips quivered. Something rose in her throat, and she swallowed helplessly. It was so hard for her to speak. The trouble had struck deeper than he dreamed.

      "It is a trouble, isn't it? Can't you tell it to me?"

      "Yes. I reckon there isn't any trouble worse than ours – no, I reckon there is nothing worse."

      "Why, Miss Cassandra!"

      "Because it's sin, and – and 'the wages of sin is death.'" Her tone was hopeless, and the sadness of it went to his heart.

      "Is it whiskey?" he asked.

      "Yes – it's whiskey 'stilling and – worse; it's – " She turned deathly white. Too sad to weep, she still held control of her voice. "It's a heap worse – "

      "Don't try to tell me what it is," he cried. "Only tell me how I may help you. It's not your sin, surely, so you don't have to bear it."

      "It's not mine, but I do have to bear it. I wish my bearing it was all. Tell me, if – if a man has done – such a sin, is it right to help him get away?"

      "If it is that big brother of yours, whom I saw last night, I can't believe he has done anything so very wicked. You say it is not the whiskey?"

      "Maybe it was the whiskey first – then – I don't know exactly how came it – I reckon he doesn't himself. I – he's not my brothah – not rightly, but he has been the same as such. They telegraphed me to come home quick. Bishop Towahs told me a little – all he knew, – but he didn't know what all was it, only some wrong to call the officahs and set them aftah Frale – poor Frale. He – he told me himself – last evening." She paused again, and the pallor slowly left her face and the red surged into her cheeks and mounted to the waves of her heavy hair.

      "It is Frale, then, who is in trouble! And you wish me to help him get away?" She looked down and was silent. "But I am a stranger, and know nothing about the country."

      He pushed his chair away from the table and leaned back, regarding her intently.

      "Oh, I am afraid for him." She put her hand to her throat and turned away her face from his searching eyes, in shame.

      "I prefer not to know what he has done. Just explain to me your plan, and how I can help. You know better than I."

      "I can't understand how comes it I can tell you; you are a strangah to all of us – and yet it seems like it is right. If I could get some clothes nobody has evah seen Frale weah – if – I could make him look different from a mountain boy, maybe he could get to some town down the mountain, and find work; but now they would meet up with him before he was halfway there."

      Thryng rose and began pacing the room. "Is there any hurry?" he demanded, stopping suddenly before her.

      "Yes."

      "Then why have you waited all this time to tell me?"

      She lifted her eyes to his in silence, and he knew well that she had not spoken because she could not, and that had he not ventured with his direct questions, she would have left him, carrying her burden with her, as hopelessly silent as when she came.

      He sat beside her again and gently urged her to tell him without further delay all she had in her mind. "You feel quite sure that if he could get down the mountain side without being seen, he would be safe; where do you mean to send him? You don't think he would try to return?"

      "Why – no, I reckon not – if – I – " Her face flamed, and she drew on her bonnet, hiding the crimson flush in its deep shadow. She knew that without the promise he had asked, the boy would as surely return as that the sun would continue to rise and set.

      "He must stay," she spoke desperately and hurriedly. "If he can just make out to stay long enough to learn a little – how to live, and will keep away from bad men – if I – he only knows enough to make mean corn liquor now – but he nevah was bad. He has always been different – and he is awful smart. I can't think how came he to change so."

      Taking the empty basket with her, she walked toward the door, and David followed her. "Thank you for that good dinner," he said.

      "Aunt Sally fetched the pa'triges. Her old man got them for mothah, and she said you sure ought to have half. Sally said the sheriff had gone back up the mountain, and I'm afraid he'll come to our place again this evening. Likely they're breaking up Frale's 'still' now."

      "Well, that will be a good deed, won't it?"

      The huge bonnet had hid her face from him, but now she lifted her eyes frankly to his, with a flash of radiance through her tears. "I reckon," was all she said.

      "Are they likely to СКАЧАТЬ