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202 all of the lot. Now please come and show me the hand-baggage."

He plowed through the waiting crowd, I following, to the counter, and he gave orders again, in his emphatic military way—

"Chalk these. Chalk all of them."

Then he took off his cap and made that beautiful bow again, and went his way. By this time these attentions had attracted the wonder of that acre of passengers, and the whisper had gone around that the royal family were present getting their baggage chalked; and as we passed down in review on our way to the door, I was conscious of a pervading atmosphere of envy which gave me deep satisfaction.

But soon there was an accident. My overcoat pockets were stuffed with German cigars and linen packages of American smoking tobacco, and a porter was following us around with this overcoat on his arm, and gradually getting it upside down. Just as I, in the rear of my family, moved by the sentinels at the door, about three hatfuls of the tobacco tumbled out on the floor. One of the soldiers pounced upon it, gathered it up in his arms, pointed back whence I had come, and marched me ahead of him past that long wall of passengers again—he chattering and exulting like a devil, they smiling in peaceful joy, and I trying to look as if my pride was not hurt, and as if I did not mind being brought to shame before these pleased people who had so lately envied me. But at heart I was cruelly humbled.

When I had been marched two-thirds of the long distance and the misery of it was at the worst, the stately station-master stepped out from somewhere, and the soldier left me and darted after him and overtook him; and I could see by the soldier's excited gestures that he was betraying to him the whole shabby business. The station-master was plainly very


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 * and F-13s. Pictures were taken of fireball development, nuclear cloud formation, the target area, and radar scopes inside the aircraft. Projects 11 through 14 consisted of technical photography from U.S. Navy aircraft. A variety of cameras were installed in PBMs, TBMs, F6Fs, and F6F drones to photograph wave motion, target array, target damage, and detonation effects on ships in real time. Project 15 used 20 cameras placed on target ships and nearby islands for shot ABLE and 24 cameras on target ships and nearby islands for shot BAKER to observe ship reaction to the detonation. Project 16 consisted of mounting high-speed cameras in a C-54 to measure the ABLE fireball growth. Project 17 consisted of mounting 50 icaroscopes on nine observer ships to observe bomb flash intensities (Reference C.9.190, p. 207). Project 18 mounted two drum spectrographs in a camera tower on Eneu to record the light's spectrum as a measure of time. Projects 15 through 18 were conducted by the Technical Photography Group of the Instrumentation Division. Project 19 used a high-speed camera on Bikini to photograph ABLE fireball development. This project was accomplished by the BuOrd Group of the Instrumentation Division.

 * Staffing: Personnel in the Technical Photography Group consisted of officers and enlisted men from the U.S. Navy and civilians. Of the civilians assigned, at least one was from Los Alamos Laboratory. The Navy Photographic Unit was aboard USS Saidor (CVE-117). In addition to the Technical Photo Group, the Army Air Task Group, TG 1.5, had one task unit devoted completely to photography. Army Air Photo Unit, TU 1.5.2, with several photographic aircraft, provided substantial support to this program.

 * For ABLE there was little chance for exposure on any of the projects except for Projects 6, 13, and 15, where cameras had to be recovered from B-17 and F6F drones and target ships. The drones were contaminated; however, none of the target ships with cameras were contaminated on shot ABLE. For BAKER, recovery of several projects created an exposure potential. Projects 2 through 7 required recovery of film from contaminated islands around the lagoon after BAKER. Projects 8 and 13 required recovery of film from contaminated B-17 and F6F drones. Project 15 required recovery of film from contaminated target ships after BAKER. Projects 18 and 19 required recovery of film from Eneu and Bikini, the beaches of which were contaminated after BAKER.

82

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Page:The Mystery of the Blue Train.pdf/22

6 could not possibly be a fool," said Olga. "And talking of money

She looked significantly at Krassnine.

"Eh?"

"My share, Boris Ivanovitch."

With some reluctance, Krassnine handed over two of the notes. She nodded her thanks, with a complete lack of emotion, and tucked them away in her stocking.

"That is good," she remarked, with satisfaction.

He looked at her curiously

"You have no regrets, Olga Vassilovna?"

"Regrets? For what?"

"For what has been in your keeping. There are women—most women, I believe, who go mad over such things."

She nodded reflectively.

"Yes, you speak truth there. Most women have that madness. I—have not. I wonder now" She broke off.

"Well?" asked the other curiously.

"The American will be safe with them—yes, I am sure of that. But afterwards"

"Eh? What are you thinking of?"

"He will give them, of course, to some woman," said Olga thoughtfully. "I wonder what will happen then. . . ."

She shook herself impatiently and went over to the window. Suddenly she uttered an exclamation and called to her companion.

"See, he is going down the street now—the man I mean."


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Rh They both gazed down together. A slim, elegant figure was progressing along at a leisurely pace. He wore an opera hat and a cloak. As he passed a street lamp, the light illumined a thatch of thick white hair.


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 son, was received by the duke "with great magnanimity, as by a man who accepted his excuse, without believing his professions." Nobody, in fact, believed, and even Warburton let out the secret by a comic oversight. Pope had prophesied in his poem that another age would see the destruction of "Timon's Villa," when laughing Ceres would reassume the land. Had he lived three years longer, said Warburton in a note, Pope would have seen his prophecy fulfilled, namely, by the destruction of Canons. The note was corrected, but the admission that Canons belonged to Timon had been made.

To such accusations Pope had a general answer. He described the type, not the individual. The fault was with the public, who chose to fit the cap. His friend remonstrates in the Epilogue against his personal satire. "Come on, then, Satire, general, unconfined," exclaims the poet,

It must in fact be admitted that from the purely artistic point of view, Pope is right. Prosaic commentators are always asking, Who is meant by a poet, as though a poem were a legal document. It may be interesting, for various purposes, to know who was in the writer's mind, or what fact suggested the general picture. But we have no right to look outside the poem itself, or to infer anything not within the four corners of the state-

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 ment. It matters not for such purposes whether there was, or was not, any real person corresponding to Sir Balaam, to whom his wife said, when he was enriched by Cornish wreckers, "live like yourself,"

in place of the previous one on Sabbath days. Nor does it even matter whether Atticus meant Addison, or Sappho Lady Mary. The satire is equally good, whether its objects are mere names or realities.

But the moral question is quite distinct. In that case we must ask whether Pope used words calculated or intended to fix an imputation upon particular people. Whether he did it in prose or verse, the offence was the same. In many cases he gives real names, and in many others gives unmistakable indications, which must have fixed his satire to particular people. If he had written Addison for Atticus (as he did at first), or Lady Mary for Sappho, or Halifax for Bufo, the insinuation could not have been clearer. His attempt to evade his responsibility was a mere equivocation—a device which he seems to have preferred to direct lying. The character of Bufo might be equally suitable to others; but no reasonable man could doubt that every one would fix it upon Halifax. In some cases—possibly in that of Chandos—he may have thought that his language was too general to apply, and occasionally it seems that he sometimes tried to evade consequences by adding some inconsistent characteristic to his portraits.

I say this, because I am here forced to notice the worst of all the imputations upon Pope's character. The epistle on the characters of women now includes the famous lines on Atossa, which did not appear till after Pope's

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Page:Bierce - Collected Works - Volume 09.djvu/76

72 red Indians, such of them as have been good enough to assist in apotheosis of the man whom their ancestors had the deep misfortune to discover may justly boast themselves the most magnanimous of mammals.

And when all is conceded there remains the affronting falsehood that Columbus discovered America. Surely in all these drunken orgies of beatification — in all this carnival of lies there should be found some small place for Lief Ericsson and his wholesome North- men, who discovered, colonized and abandoned this continent five hundred years be- fore, and of whom we are forbidden to think as corsairs and slave-catchers. The eulogist is always a calumniator. The crown that he sets upon the unworthy head he first tears from the head that is worthy. So the honest fame of Lief Ericsson is cast as rubbish to the void, and the Genoese pirate is pedestaled in his place.

But falsehood and ingratitude are sins against Nature, and Nature is not to be trifled with. Already we feel, or ought to feel, the smart of her lash. Our follies are finding us out. Our Columbian Exhibition has for its chief exhibit our national stupidity, and displays our shame. Our Congress "improves


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384 and occupy the delectable realm to which the sun daily points the way and sometimes discloses? That is the way he feels about it and his forefathers felt about it, as is shown in the myths and legends of many tribes. And because they so felt we have from them the wanderlust that lures us ever a-west.

To this hypothesis it may be objected that the cloudscapes of the sunrise ought, logically, to offset the others, giving the race a divided urge. But the primitive ancestor was not an early riser; he was a notorious sluggard, as is the savage of to-day, and seldom saw the sunrise — so seldom that its fascination did not get into the blood of him and from his into ours. Even when he did sec the cloudlands of the dawn he was not in a frame of mind to observe them, being engrossed in rounding up the early cave-bear or preparing an astonishment for his sleeping enemy. But the chromatic glories of the country reflected in the sunset sky took his attention when it was most alert. Moreover, those of the dawn are distinctly inferior, as we are assured by credible witnesses who have observed them, through the happy chance of having been up all night companioning the katydids and whip-poor-wills.


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Page:The Valley of Fear.pdf/7

 {|

By SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

“The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes,” “The White Company,” Etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

PUBLISHERS. . NEW YORK

 * }
 * }

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The Bee Hunter (serial)/Part 1

UCY WATSON did not leave home without regrets. For a long time she gazed at the desert scenery through tear-blurred eyes. But this sadness seemed rather for the past, the home that had been, before the death of her mother and the elopement of her younger sister with a cowboy. This escapade of Clara's had been the last straw. Lucy had clung to the home in the hope that she might have her sister from following in the footsteps of others of the family. Always she had felt keenly the stigma of being the daughter of a saloon keeper. In her school days she had suffered under this opprobrium, and had conceived an ideal to help her rise above the circumstances of her position. Clara's defection had left her free. And now she was speeding away from the town where she had been born, with an ache in her heart, and yet a slowly dawning consciousness of relief, of hope, of thrill. By the time she reached Oglethorpe, where she was to take a branch-line train, she was able to address all her faculties to a realization of her adventures.

Lucy had graduated from high school and normal school with honors. Of the several opportunities open to her, she had chosen one of welfare work among backwoods people. It was not exactly missionary work, as her employers belonged to a department of the state government. Her duty was to go among the poor families of the wilderness and help them to make better homes. The significance of these words had prompted Lucy to make her choice. Better homes! It had been her ideal to help make her own home better, and so long as her mother lived she had succeeded.

The salary offered was small, but that did not cause her concern. The fact that she had the welfare department of the state behind her, and could use to a reasonable extent funds for the betterment of these primitive people, was something of far greater importance. When she had accepted this position two remarks had been made to her, both of which had been thought-provoking. Mr. Sands, the head of the department, had said, “We would not trust every young woman with this work. It is a sort of state experiment. But we believe in the right hands it will be a great benefit to these uncultivated people of the backwoods. Tact, cleverness and kindliness of heart will be factors in your success.”

Lucy had derived gratification from this indirect compliment. The other remark had aroused only amusement. Mrs. Larabee, also connected with the welfare work, had remarked:

“You are a good-looking young woman, Miss Watson. You will cause something of a stir among the young men at Cedar Ridge. I was there last summer. Such strapping young giants I never saw! I liked them, wild and uncouth as they were. I wouldn't be surprised if one of them married you.”

Oglethorpe was a little way station in the desert. The branch-line train, consisting of two cars and the engine, stood waiting on a side track. Mexicans in huge sombreros and Indians with colored blankets stolidly watched Lucy carry her heavy bags from one train to the other. A young brakeman espied her and helped her aboard, not forgetting some bold and admiring glances. The coach was only partly filled with passengers, and those whom Lucy noticed bore the stamp of the range.

Soon the train started over an uneven and uphill roadbed. Lucy began to find pleasure in gazing out of the window. The flat, bare desert had given place to hills, fresh with spring greens. The air had lost the tang of the cattle range. Occasionally Lucy espied a black table-land rising in the distance, and this she guessed was timbered mountain country, whither she was bound.

At noon the train arrived at its terminal stop, San Dimas, a hamlet of flat-roofed houses. Lucy was interested only in the stagecoach that left here for her destination, Cedar Ridge.

The young brakeman again came to her assistance and carried her baggage. “Goin' up in the woods, hey?” he queried curiously.

“Yes, I think they did say woods—backwoods,” laughed Lucy. “I go to Cedar Ridge, and farther still.”

“All alone—a pretty girl!” he exclaimed gallantly. “For two cents I'd throw up my job an' go with you.”

“Thank you. Do you think I need a—a protector?” replied Lucy.

“Among those bee hunters an' white-mule drinkers—I reckon you do, miss.”

“I imagine they will not be any more dangerous than cowboys on the range—or brakemen on trains,” replied Lucy with a smile. “Anyway I can take care of myself.”

“I'll bet you can,” he said admiringly. “Good luck.”

Lucy found herself the sole passenger in the stagecoach, and soon bowling along a good road. The driver, a weather-beaten old man, appeared to have a grudge against his horses. Lucy wanted to climb out in front and sit beside him, so that she could see better, and have opportunity to ask questions about the country and the people. The driver's language, however, was hardly conducive to nearer acquaintance; therefore Lucy restrained her inquisitive desires, and interested herself in the changing nature of the foliage and the occasional vista that opened up between the hills.

It seemed impossible not to wonder about what was going to happen to her; and the clinking of the harness on the horses, the rhythmic beat of their hoofs, and the roll of wheels all augmented her sense of the departure from an old and unsatisfying life toward a new one fraught with endless hopes, dreams, possibilities. Whatever was in store for her, the worthy motive of this work she had accepted would uphold her and keep her true to the ideal she had set for herself.

The only instructions given Lucy were that she was to go among the families living in the backwoods between Cedar Ridge and what was called the Rim Rock; and to use her abilities to the best advantage in teaching them to have better homes. She had not been limited to any method, or restricted in any sense, or hampered by any church or society. She was to use her own judgment and report her progress. Something about this work appealed tremendously to Lucy. The responsibility weighed upon her, yet stimulated her instinct for conflict. She had been given a hint of what might be expected in the way of difficulties. Her success or failure would have much to do with future development of this state welfare work.

UCY appreciated just how much these isolated and poor families might gain or lose through her. Indeed, though beset by humility and doubt, she felt that a glorious opportunity had been presented to her; and she called upon all the courage and intelligence she could summon. There was little or nothing she could plan until she got among these people. But during that long ride through the lonely hills, up and ever upward into higher country, she labored at what she conceived to be the initial step toward success—to put into this work all her sympathy and heart.

Presently she plucked up spirit enough to address the stage driver. “How far is it to Cedar Ridge?”

“Wal, some folks calkilate it's round twenty-five miles; then there's tothers say it's more,” he drawled. “But I don't agree with nary of them.”

“You would know, of course,” said Lucy appreciatingly. “How far do you call it?”

“Reckon aboot twenty miles as a crow flies an' shinnyin' round forty on this uphill road.”

Lucy felt rather bewildered at this reply and did not risk incurring more confusion. She was sure of one thing, however, and it was that the road assuredly wound uphill.

BOUT the middle of the afternoon the stage reached the summit of what appeared rolling upland country, grassy in patches and brushy in others, and stretching away toward a bold, black mountain level with a band of red rock shining in the sun. Lucy gazed westward across a wide depression, gray and green, to a range of ragged peaks, notched and sharp, with shaggy slopes. They stirred something buoyant and thrilling in Lucy. Gradually she lost sight of both ranges, as the road began to wind down somewhat, obstructing her view. Next to interest her were clearings in the brush, fields and fences and cabins, with a few cattle and horses. Hard as she peered, however, Lucy did not see any people.

The stage driver made fast time over this rolling country, and his horses trotted swingingly along as if home and feed were not far off. For Lucy the day had been tiring; she had exhausted herself with unusual sensation. She closed her eyes to rest them and fell into a doze.

The stage driver awoke her. “Say, miss, there's Cedar Ridge, an' thet green hill above is what gives the town its name,” he said. “It's a good ways off yit, but I reckon we'll pull in aboot dark.”

Lucy's eyes opened upon a wonderful valley, just now colored by sunset haze. A cluster of cottages and houses nestled under a magnificent sloping ridge, billowy and soft with green foliage. The valley was pastoral and beautiful. This could not be the backwoods country into which she was going. Lucy gazed long with the most pleasing of impressions. Then her gaze shifted to the ridge from which the town derived its name. Far as she could see to east and west it extended, a wild black barrier to what hid beyond. It appeared to slope higher toward the east, where on the horizon it assumed the proportions of a mountain.

To Lucy's regret, the winding and descending nature of the road again obscured distant views. Then the sun set; twilight appeared short; and soon darkness settled down. Lucy had never before felt mountain air, but she recognized it now. How cold and pure! Would the ride never end? She peered through the darkness, hoping to see lights of the village. At last they appeared, dim pin points through the blackness. She heard the barking of dogs. The stage wheeled round a corner of trees, to enter a wide street, and at last to slow down before looming flat-topped houses, from which the yellow lights shone.

“Miss, anybody goin' to meet you?” queried the driver.

“No,” replied Lucy.

“Wal, whar shall I set you down—post office, store or hotel?”

UCY was about to answer his question, when he enlightened her by drawling that she did not need to make any choice because all three places mentioned were in the same house.

When the stage came to a halt Lucy saw a high porch upon which lounged the dark forms of men silhouetted against the yellow light of lamps. Despite the lights she could scarcely see to gather up her belongings.

To her relief the stage driver reached in for her grips “Hyar we air—Cedar Ridge—last stop—all out,” he drawled.

Lucy stepped down hurriedly so that she could stay close to him. The darkness and the strangeness of th« place, with those silent men so close, made her heart beat a little quicker. She followed her escort up wide, rickety steps, between two lines of men, some of whom leaned closer to peer at her, and into a large room dimly lighted by a hanging lamp.

“Bill, hyars a party fer you,” announced the driver, setting down the baggage. “An', miss, I'll thank you fer ten dollars—stage fare.”

Lucy stepped under the lamp so that she could see to find the money in her purse, then turning to pay the driver she espied a tall man standing with him.

“Madam, do you want supper an' bed?” he asked.

“Yes. I am Lucy Watson, of Felix, and I shall want room and board, perhaps for a day or two, until I find out where I'm to go,” replied Lucy.

He lighted a lamp and held it up so that he could see her face. “Glad to help you anyway I can,” he said. “I'm acquainted in these parts. Come this way.”

He led her into a hallway and up a stairway into a small room, where he placed the lamp upon a washstand. “I'll fetch your baggage up. Supper will be ready in a few minutes.”

When he went out Lucy looked first to see if there was a key in the lock on the door. There was not, but she found a bolt, and laughed ruefully at the instant relief it afforded.

“I'm a brave welfare worker,” she whispered to herself scornfully.

Then she gazed about the room. Beside the washstand before noted, it contained a chair and a bed. The latter looked clean and inviting to Lucy. There would be need of the heavy roll of blankets at the foot. The cold air appeared to go right through Lucy. And the water in the pitcher was like ice. Before she had quite made herself ready to go downstairs, she heard a bell ring, and then a great trampling of boots, and a scraping of chairs on a bare floor.

HOSE men coming in to supper!” she exclaimed. “Bee hunters and white-mule drinkers, that brakeman said. Well, if I have to meet them I—I can stand it now, I guess.” The hall and stairway were so dark that Lucy had to feel her way down to the door. She was guided by the loud voices and laughter in the dining room. Lucy could not help hesitating at the door. Neither her courage nor pride could prevent the rise of unfamiliar emotions. She was a girl, alone, at the threshold of new life. Catching her breath, she opened the door.

The dining room was now brightly lighted and full of men sitting at the tables. As Lucy entered, the hubbub of voices quieted, and a sea of faces seemed to confront her. There was a small table vacant. Lucy seated herself in one of the two chairs. Her feeling of strangeness was not alleviated by the attention directed toward her. Fortunately the proprietor approached at once, asking what she would have to eat. When she had given her order, Lucy casually looked up and around the room. To her surprise and relief none of the young men now appeared to be interested in her. They had lean, hard faces and wore dark, rough clothes. Lucy rather liked their appearance, and she found herself listening to the snatches of conversation.

“Jeff's rarin' to plow right off,” said one.

“Reckon it'll be plumb boggy,” was the reply.

And then others of them spoke. “My haws piled me up this mawnin',” and 'Who air you goin' to take to the dance?” and “Lefty March paid what he owed me, an' I near dropped daid,” and “Did you-all hear about Edd Denmeade makin' up to Sadie again after she dished him once?” and “Edd's shore crazy fer a wife. Wants a home, I reckon.”

The talk of these young men was homely and crude. It held a dominant note of humor. Probably they were as fun-loving as the riders of the low country. Lucy had expected to be approached by some of them, or at least to hear witticisms at her expense. But nothing of the kind happened. She was the only woman in the room, and she might not have been there at all, for any attention she received. Something of respect was forced from Lucy; yet, womanlike, she suffered a slight pique. Soon her supper came and, being hungry, she attended to that.

After supper there was nothing for her to do but go to her room. It was cold and she quickly went to bed. For a while she lay there shivering between the cold sheets, but presently she grew warm and comfortable. The darkness appeared pitch black. Distant voices penetrated from the lower part of the house; and through the open window came the sound of slow footsteps accompanied by clink of spurs. Then from somewhere far off sounded the bay of a hound, and it was followed by the wild bark of a coyote. Both bay and bark struck lonesomely upon her spirit.

UCY realized that actually to experience loneliness, to be really cut off from family and friends, was vastly different from the thought of it. She had deliberately severed all ties. She was alone in the world, with her way to make. A terrible blank sense of uncertainty assailed her. Independence was wholly desirable, but in its first stage it seemed hard. Lucy was not above tears, and she indulged in a luxury long unfamiliar to her. Then she cried herself to sleep.

When she awoke, the sun was shining in upon her. The air was crisp and cold and bore a fragrance wild and sweet, new to Lucy. With the bright daylight all her courage returned, even to the point of exhilaration. She put on a woolen dress and heavier shoes. The cold air and water had greatly accelerated her toilet. When had her cheeks glowed as rosily as now?

And for that matter, when had her hair been as rebellious? But she had no time now to brush it properly, even if her hands had not been numb. She hurried down to the dining room.

A wood fire blazed and cracked in the stove, to Lucy's great satisfaction. The dining room was empty.

Presently the kitchen door opened, and a stout woman entered with pleasant greeting. “Miss Watson, my husband said we might find somethin' we could do for you,” she said kindly.

“Yes, indeed, you may be able to give me information I need,” replied Lucy.

“I'll fetch your breakfast an' then you can tell me what you want to know.”

The proprietor's wife introduced herself as Mrs. Lynn, and appeared to be a motherly person, kindly and full of curiosity. Lucy frankly explained the nature of the work she was about to undertake.

“I think it's a fine idea,” responded Mrs. Lynn emphatically. “If only the Denmeades an' the rest of them will have it.”

“Will they be too proud or—or anything to give me a chance?” asked Lucy anxiously.

“We're all plain folks up here, an' the backwoods families keep to themselves,” she replied. “I don't know as I'd call them proud. They're ignorant enough, goodness knows. But they're just backwoods. Like ground hogs, they stay in their holes.”

On the moment the woman's husband came in from the street. He appeared to be a gaunt man, pallid, and evidently suffered from a lung complaint, for he had a hoarse cough.

ILL, come here,” called his wife. “Miss Watson has what I think a wonderful mission—if it will only work. She's been hired by the state government to go among our people up here in the backwoods an' teach them things. She has explained to me a lot of things she will do. But in few words, it means better homes for those poor people. What do you think about it?”

“Wal, first off I'd say she is a plucky an' fine little girl to take such a job,” replied Mr. Lynn. “Then I'd say it's good of the state. But when it comes to what the Denmeades an' the Claypools will think about it, I'm up a stump.”

“Bill, it's such a splendid idea,” said his wife earnestly. “She can do much for the mothers an' children up there. We must help her to get a start.”

“I reckon. Now let's see,” returned her husband ponderingly. “If our backwoods neighbors are only approached right, they're fine an' hospitable. The women would welcome anyone who could help them. But the men ain't so easy. Miss Watson, though, bein' young an' nice-lookin', may be able to make a go of it. If she can keep Edd Denmeade or one of them bee hunters from marryin' her!” Here Lynn laughed good-humoredly and smiled knowingly at Lucy.

RS. LYNN took the question more seriously. “I was goin' to tell her that myself,” she said. “But we mustn't give her the wrong impression about our neighbors. These backwoodsmen are not Bluebeards, though they are strong on gettin' wives. They are a clean, hardy, pioneer people. Edd Denmeade, for instance now—he's a young man the like of which you won't see often. He's a queer fellow, a bee hunter, wonderful good to look at, wild like them woods he lives in, but a cleaner, finer boy I never knew. He loves his sisters. He gives his mother every dollar he earns, which, heaven knows, isn't many. Now, Miss Lucy, Edd like as not will grab you right up an' pack you off an' marry you. That would settle your welfare work.”

“But, Mrs. Lynn,” protested Lucy, laughing, “it takes two to make a bargain. I did not come up here to marry anyone. With all due respect to Mister Edd's manner of courting, I feel perfectly capable of taking care of myself. We can dismiss that.”

“Don't you be too sure!” ejaculated Mrs. Lynn bluntly. “It's better to be safe than sorry. I ain't above tellin' you though—if Edd Denmeade really fell in love with you, that'd be different. Edd has been tryin' to marry ever' single girl in the country. An' I don't believe he's been in love with any one of them. He's just woman hungry, as sometimes these backwoodsmen get. That speaks well for him bein' too clean an' fine to be like many others. An' as to that, Edd is only one of a lot of good boys.”

“Thanks for telling me,” replied Lucy. “Of course I want to know all I can find out about these people. But just now what I need to know is how to get among them.”

“Mary, I've been thinkin',” spoke up Mr. Lynn, “an' I've an idea. Suppose I call in the Rim Cabin school-teacher. He's in the post office now—just rode in. I reckon he's the one to help Miss Watson.”

“Fetch him in pronto,” replied Mrs. Lynn with alacrity, and as her husband went out she continued: “It's Mr. Jenks, the man school-teacher. First man teacher ever here.”

Mr. Lynn returned with a slight, stoop-shouldered man, whose thin, serious face showed both suffering and benevolence. He was introduced to Lucy, who again, somewhat more elaborately, explained the reason for her presence in Cedar Ridge.

He made her a very gallant bow, and seated himself at the table to bend keen kind blue eyes upon her. “You are a courageous young woman,” he said, “and if you are sincere, these people will take you into their homes. Your problem will be a different one from mine. I'll not dwell on it, lest I discourage you. What's more to the point, I can say as their teacher I've learned a good deal about their lives. At first this seemed a tragedy to me, but I am learning that a good many of our necessities are not really necessary after all. These children and young people are really happy. They have few wants, because they don't know what more civilized people have in their lives. It is not through sophistication that you will benefit them. To brighten their surroundings, change the primitive squalor, teach the children useful things, therein lies your opportunity.”

“Can you advise me how to start, whom to approach first?” asked Lucy.

OME with me,” replied Mr. Jenks earnestly. “I'm driving back today. I live at Johnson's, five miles down from the Rim Cabin, which, by the way, is the name of my school. I'll take you up to see Lee Denmeade. He lives some miles farther on, up in the woods under the Rim Rock. He's probably the most influential man among these backwoodsmen. I rather incline to the opinion that he will like your proposition.”

“It's very good of you. Thank you,” replied Lucy gratefully. “I am ready now to go with you.”

“I'll call for you in an hour,” said Mr. Jenks, rising.

After he had gone out, Lucy turned to Mrs. Lynn to ask, “I wonder—when he hinted about my problem and said he didn't want to discourage me—did he mean this—this marrying propensity you spoke of?”

“I reckon you hit it plumb,” replied Mrs. Lynn gravely, yet with a smile. “It's the only problem you have. You will be a blessin' to them overworked mothers an' a godsend to the children.”

“Then I can stand anything,” rejoined Lucy happily, and she ran upstairs to repack the grip she had opened.

While her hands were busy her mind was preoccupied, now humorously and then thoughtfully and again dreamily.

“I wish,” she soliloquized, “everybody wouldn't make me think of marriage. It'll be a long time until I want to, if ever.”

T WAS considerably longer than an hour before Lucy found herself seated in an old buckboard beside Mr. Jenks, rattling along a dusty road behind the heels of two big, shaggy horses. But the brisk trot soon ended ut the base of the steep ridge, up which the road zigzagged through a low-branched, thick-foliaged forest remarkable for its fragrance.

So interesting was the talk of the school-teacher that Lucy scarcely noted the tedious miles up the long ascent of the ridge, and was only reminded of distance when he informed her that they were almost on top and would soon have a magnificent view. Despite his statement, however, Lucy was wholly unprepared for what suddenly burst upon her gaze from the summit.

“Oh, how glorious!” she cried.

It seemed she gazed down on an endless green slope of massed tree tops, across a rolling basin black with forest, to a colossal wall of red rock, level and black-fringed on top, but wildly broken along its face into gigantic cliffs, escarpments, points and ledges, far as eye could see to east or west. How different from any other country Lucy had ever viewed! A strong, sweet breath of pine assailed her nostrils. Almost she tasted it. In all the miles of green and black there was not a break. If homes of people existed there, they were lost in the immensity of the forest. An eagle soared far beneath her, with the sun shining on his widespread wings.

“We're on top of Cedar Ridge,” the school-teacher was saying. “That mountain wall is called the Red Rim Rock. It's about thirty miles in a straight line. We're looking down upon the homes of the backwoodsmen you've come to live among.”

HE road down into this forest land contrasted markedly with the ascent on the other side of the ridge. It was no longer steep and dusty; the soil was a sandy loam; the trees that shaded it were larger and more spreading.

About two o'clock Mr. Jenks drove into a clearing, a crude, ragged, unpastoral kind of farm. A wide green field dotted with cows and horses was the only redeeming feature. Log corrals and pole fences led the eye to a large log cabin surrounded by shacks old and moldy-roofed, manifestly the first buildings erected.

“This is the Johnson place, where I live,” said Mr. Jenks with a smile. “That framework of boards, covered by a tent, is my humble domicile.”

The school-teacher drove through an open gate in the log fence, and past a huge, flat barn, dark and odorous of horses, to draw rein at the back of the cabin. “Sam Johnson is home at least. I don't know the boy with him,” said Mr. Jenks, as he threw the reins and got down.

Lucy saw two young men sitting on the rude porch. They might have been two of the boys she had seen in the dining room at Cedar Ridge.

“Sam, she's a looker,” drawled one of them in a perfectly audible voice.

The other stood up, disclosing a tall, lithe form clad in blue jeans. He had a shock of tousled chestnut hair and a freckled face that on the moment bore a broad grin.

“Dog-gone me!” he ejaculated. “Teacher has fetched back a wife.”

UCY met the teacher's eyes. They were twinkling. She could not restrain a laugh, yet she felt a blush rise to her face.

“Sam flatters me, Miss Watson,” said Mr. Jenks in a low voice. “But that illustrates.”

“They must have this wife business on the brain,” retorted Lucy, half nettled.

The teacher called to the young man, Sam, who approached leisurely, a young giant somewhere over twenty years of age, clear-eyed and smooth-faced.

“Howdy, teacher,” he drawled; but his light hazel eyes were fixed on Lucy.

“This is Sam Johnson,” spoke up Mr. Jenks, turning to Lucy. “Sam, meet Miss Lucy Watson, of Felix. She has come to sojourn awhile with us.”

“Right glad to meet you,” said Sam, somewhat shyly.

“Thank you, Mr. Johnson,” replied Lucy.

“Sam, will you saddle two horses for us? I'm taking Miss Watson up to Denmeade's,” interposed Mr. Jenks.

“Shore will, teacher,” rejoined Sam, and moved away with sidelong glances at Lucy.

“Have you any riding clothes?” inquired Mr. Jenks, as if suddenly reminded of something important.

“Yes. I was careful not to forget outdoor things,” replied Lucy.

“Good! I'll carry your grips to my tent, where you can change. Of course we'll have to leave your baggage here until we interview Denmeade. If all goes well, it can be packed up tonight.”

It did not take her many minutes to get into her riding clothes. Fortunately they had seen a service which now appeared likely to serve her in good stead. At normal school Lucy had ridden horseback once a week, and felt that she was not altogether a tenderfoot. Finding her gauntlets, she had the forethought to pack her traveling suit, so that in case she remained at Denmeade's, her baggage could be sent for. Then, with a last and not unsatisfied glance at herself in the mirror, she sallied forth from the tent, keen for this next stage of her adventure.

A glossy, spirited little bay pony stood there saddled and bridled, champing his bit. Another horse, dusty and shaggy, large in build and very bony, was haltered to the hitching rail near by. Mr. Jenks was lacing something on the saddle of the smaller horse. Sam Johnson lounged beside him and the other fellow had approached. He did not appear so tall or so lean as young Johnson. Indicating his companion by a sweep of his long arm, Johnson said, “Miss Lucy, this here is my cousin, Gerd Claypool.”

UCY had to give her hand to the brown-faced young man, for he had extended a great paw. She liked his face. It was rich and warm, with healthy blood and expressive of both eagerness and bashfulness. Lucy was not going to forget his remark, “Sam, she's a looker,” and she gazed as demurely as possible into his blue eyes. It took only one glance to convince her that he was of the type Mrs. Lynn had praised so heartily. Lucy also saw that he was quite overcome.

As they rode away Lucy turned in the saddle. “I nearly forgot to thank you, Mr. Johnson. It is good of you to let me ride him.”

She found the pony rather hard to hold in. Before she had followed Mr. Jenks many paces she heard Sam blurt out to his cousin, “Gerd, by golly! It's shore worth a lot to have Edd Denmeade see that girl ridin' my best hoss.”

“Haw! Haw!” roared Gerd, and then made reply Lucy could not distinguish.

Presently she caught up with her guide, and together they rode out through the corral.

Soon Lucy was riding behind the teacher along a narrow trail that almost at once began to lead downhill. The forest grew denser, and the shade became dark and cool. Rocks and ledges cropped out, and all about her appeared to tend toward a wilder and more rugged nature.

At last the trail led out of the fragrant glen and zigzagged up a slope, to the dry forest of pines, and on and upward, farther and higher until Lucy felt she had ascended to the top of a mountain. She lost the mellow roar of the brook. The woodland changed its aspect, grew hot with dusty trail and thick with manzanita, above which. the yellow-barked pines reached with great gnarled arms.

PEN places were now frequent. Once Lucy saw a red wall of rock so high above her that she gasped in astonishment. That was the Red Rim Rock, seemingly so close, though yet far away. Lucy became conscious of aches and pains. She shifted from side to side in the saddle, and favored this foot, then the other. Often she had to urge the pony on to catch up with her guide.

Finally the trail led into a narrow lane cut in the woods. The pines had been left where they had fallen, and lay brown and seared in the tangle of green.

The lane descended into a ravine, where clear water ran over stones that rang hollow under the hoofs of the horses. Lucy saw cows and calves, a very old sheep, woolly and dirty, and a wicked looking steer with wide, sharp horns. Lucy was glad to get safely past him.

They rode up again into a wider lane, at the end of which showed a long cabin, somewhat obscured by peach trees. A column of blue smoke curled up against the background of red wall. A fence of split boards surrounded the cabin. A strip of woods on the right separated the lane from the bare field. Lucy could see light through the pine foliage. The brook meandered down a shallow ravine on this side; and on the other a deep gully yawned, so choked with dead trees and green foliage and red rocks that Lucy could not see the bottom. She heard, however, the fall of water.

DOG barked. Then rose a chorus of barks and bays, not in the least a friendly welcome. It increased to an uproar. Lucy began to be conscious of qualms, when a loud, sharp voice rang out. The uproar ceased.

“Hyar, you ornery dawgs, shet up!” the voice continued.

Then Lucy saw a tall man emerge from the peach trees and come to the gate. His garb was dark, his face also at that distance, and they gave a sinister effect.

“That's Denmeade,” whispered Mr. Jenks. “We're lucky. Now, young lady, use your wits.”

They rode on the few remaining rods, and reaching the rude hitching rail in front of the fence they halted the horses. Mr. Jenks dismounted, and greeted the big man at the gate.

“Howdy, teacher,” he replied in a deep, pleasant drawl.

“Fine, thank you, Denmeade,” returned Mr. Jenks, as he extended his hand over the fence. “I've brought a visitor to see you. This is Miss Lucy Watson, of Felix.”

Lucy essayed her most winning smile as she acknowledged the introduction.

“Glad to meet you, miss,” responded Denmeade. “Get down an' come in.”

Dismounting, Lucy approached the gate, to look up into a visage as rugged as the rock wall above. Denmeade was not old or gray, though his features showed the ravages of years. Lucy had no time to mark details. The man's eyes, gray and piercing as those of an eagle, caught and held her gaze.

“If you please, I'd like to talk to you alone before I go in,” she said appealingly.

ENMEADE removed the huge, battered black sombrero, and ran a brawny hand through his thick dark hair. The gray eyes twinkled, and a smile changed the craggy nature of his face. “Wal, seein' as Edd ain't hyar, I reckon I can risk it,” he drawled.

Mr. Jenks suggested that they sit in the shade; and presently Lucy found herself seated on a stump, facing this curious backwoodsman. He seemed a more approachable person than she had pictured, yet there was something about him, strong, raw, fierce, like the wilds in which he lived. Lucy had worried about this coming interview; had schooled herself to a deliberate diplomacy. But she forgot worry and plan. The man's simplicity made her sincere.

“Mr. Denmeade, I want a job,” she announced bluntly.

It was good to see his astonishment and utter incredulity. Such a situation had never before happened in his life. He stared. His seamed visage worked into a wonderful grin. “Wal, I reckon yore foolin',” he said, and he turned to Jenks. “Teacher, shore you've hatched some kind of a joke.”

“No, Denmeade. Miss Watson is in earnest,” replied the school-teacher.

“Indeed I am,” added Lucy, trying to restrain her impulsiveness.

But Denmeade still could not take her seriously.

“Wal, can you chop wood, carry water, pick beans, an' hop around lively—say, fer a fellar like my Edd?”

“Yes, I could, but that is not the kind of a job I want,” returned Lucy.

“Wal, there ain't no other kind of work up hyar—fer a woman,” he said seriously. “Yes, there is. It's to make better homes for the children.”

“Better homes! What you mean?” ejaculated Denmeade.

Briefly Lucy explained some of the ways the homes in the wilderness could be made happier for women and children.

Denmeade was profoundly impressed. “Wal, now, young woman, I reckon it's good of you to think of them nice an' pretty ways fer our kids an' their mothers. But we're poor. We couldn't pay you, let alone fer them things they need so bad.”

Lucy's heart throbbed with joy. She knew intuitively that she had struck the right chord in this old backwoodsman. Whereupon she produced her papers.

T'S a new thing, Mr. Denmeade,” she said earnestly. “State welfare work. My salary and the expenses I incur are paid by the state. It's all here for you to read—and my references.”

Denmeade took her papers in his horny hands, and began to read with the laborious and intense application of one to whom reading was unfamiliar and difficult. He took long to go over the brief typed words, and longer over the personal letter from the superintendent of the state department that had engaged Lucy.

Finally he absorbed the import. “Welfare! State government! Dog-gone me!” he ejaculated, almost bewildered. “Say, Jenks, what ails them fellars down thar?”

“Perhaps they have just waked up to the needs of this north county,” replied the teacher.

“Shore them papers don't read like they had an ax to grind. Reckon it ain't no politics or some trick to make us pay taxes?”

“Denmeade, they read honest to me, and my advice is to accept their help.”

“Humph! It shore took them a long time to build us a schoolhouse an' send us a teacher. Whar did they ever get this hyar welfare idee?”

“Mr. Denmeade,” spoke up Lucy, “I had something to do with this idea. It really developed out of my offer to go into welfare work in a civilized district.”

“Wal, comin' from a girl like you it ain't hard to accept,” he declared, “You stay hyar with us as long as you want. I reckon, though, the other four families close by in this high country need you more'n us. Seth Miller's, Hank Claypool's, Ora Johnson's, an' Tom Sprall.”

“Miss Watson, the Ora Johnson he means is a brother of the Sam Johnson you met,” interposed Mr. Jenks.

Lucy was too happy to express her gratitude, and for a moment lost her dignity.

ER incoherent thanks brought again the broad grin to Denmeade's face. “Jenks, come to think about it, thar's angles to this hyar job Miss Lucy is aimin' at,” he remarked thoughtfully. “She can't do a lot for one family, an' slight another. If she stays hyar with us, she'll have to stay with the others.”

“Of course. That's what I expect to do,” said Lucy.

“Wal, miss, I ain't given to brag, but I reckon you'll find it different after stayin' with us,” rejoined Denmeade, shaking his shaggy head. “Ora Johnson has an old cabin with one room. Countin' his wife thar's eight in the family. All live in that one room—with one door an' no winder!”

Lucy had no ready reply for such an unexpected circumstance as this, and she gazed at Mr. Jenks in mute dismay.

“I have a tent I'll lend her,” he said. “It can be erected on a frame with board floor. Very comfortable.”

“Wal, I reckon that would do fer Johnson's. But how about Tom Sprall's? Thar's more in his outfit, an' only two cabins. But shore no room for her. An' the tent idee won't do—sartin not whar Bud Sprall goes rarin' around full of white mule. It wouldn't be safe.”

“Denmeade, I had that very fear in mind,” said Mr. Jenks earnestly. “Miss Watson will have to avoid Sprall's.”

“Shore, it'd ought to be done. But I'm reckonin' that'll make trouble. Tom is a mean cuss, an' his outfit of wimmen are jealous as coyote poison. They'll all have to know Miss Lucy is hyar helpin' everybody equal. They'll all want equal favors from the state. I ain't sayin' a word agin Tom, but he's a rustler. An' thar's turrible bad blood between Bud Sprall an' my boy Edd.”

“You see, Miss Watson, it's not going to be as rosy as we hoped,” said Mr. Jenks regretfully.

“I'm not afraid,” replied Lucy resolutely. “It never looked easy. I accept it, come what may. The Spralls shall not be slighted.”

“Wal, you've settled it, an' thar ain't nothin' wrong with your nerve,” replied Denmeade. “Come in now, an' meet my folks. Teacher, you'll eat supper with us?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Denmeade. I must hurry back and send Sam up with her baggage,” returned Jenks, rising. “Good-by, Miss Watson. I wish you luck. Come down to school with the children. I'll see you surely at the dance Friday night.”

“I'm very grateful to you, Mr. Jenks,” replied Lucy. “You've helped me. I will want to see you soon. But I can't say that it will be at the dance.”

“Shore she'll be thar, teacher,” said Denmeade. “She can't stay hyar alone, an' if she wanted to, Edd wouldn't let her.”

UCY followed her escort into the yard and between the blossoming peach trees to the cabin. She saw now that it was a new structure built of flat-hewn logs, long and low, with a peaked roof of split shingles covering two separate square cabins and the wide space between them. This roof also extended far out to cover a porch the whole length of the building. Each cabin had a glass window, and the door, which Lucy could not see, must have faced the middle porch. The rude, solid structure made a rather good impression.

At Denmeade's call a flock of children came trooping out of the door of the left cabin. They were big-eyed, dirty and ragged, and sturdy of build. A sallow, thin-faced little woman, in coarse dress and heavy shoes, followed them.

“Ma, this hyar is Miss Lucy Watson from Felix,” announced Denmeade.

Mrs. Denmeade greeted Lucy cordially and simply, without show of curiosity or astonishment. Then Denmeade told her in his blunt speech what Lucy had come for. This information brought decided surprise and welcome to the woman's face. Lucy was quick to see what perhaps Denmeade had never known in his life. She added a few earnest words in her own behalf, calculated to strengthen Mrs. Denmeade's impression, and to say that when convenient they would talk over the work Lucy was to undertake.

“Reckon you're a new kind of teacher?” queried Mrs. Denmeade. “Sort of home teacher?”

“Why, yes, you could call me that.”

“Shore that'll please the kids,” said Denmeade. “They sort of look up to a teacher. You see we've only had school-teachers a few years. Edd went four years, Allie three, Dick an' Joe three, Mertie two, Mary an' Dan one. Liz an' Lize, the twins hyar, five years old—they haven't started yet.”

HEREUPON the children were presented to Lucy. When Lucy had greeted them all, she was led to meet Denmeade's older daughters—Allie, a young woman huge of build, with merry face; and Mertie, a girl of sixteen, quite beautiful in a wild-rose kind of way. She was the only one of the family who showed anything of color or neatness in her attire. Manifestly she wore her Sunday dress, a coarse print affair. Her sharp, dark eyes seemed more concerned with Lucy's riding habit, the way she had arranged her hair and tied her scarf, than with Lucy's presence there.

Lucy was taken into the left-hand cabin, to meet the mother and sister of the Claypool children who' were visiting the Denmeades. They, too, were hard-featured, unprepossessing, and bore the unmistakable marks of hard labor in a hard country.

All these impressions of Lucy's were hasty ones that she knew might pass entirely or change. She had to confess that they put her at her ease. There was not a suspicion of inhospitality or, for that matter, except on the part of the children, the betrayal of anything unusual about this newcomer. She listened to the conversation, which turned out to be homely gossip, differing only in content from gossip anywhere. And while doing so, she had a chance to gaze casually round the room.

The walls were bare, of rough-hewn logs with the chinks between well plastered with clay. There was a window on each side. A huge rough-stone fireplace occupied nearly all the west end of the cabin. In a left-hand corner, next to the fireplace, was a closet of boards reaching from floor to ceiling. This ceiling appeared to be of the same kind of shingling Lucy had observed on the roof. The floor was rough clapboard, like that of the porch outside. The two corners opposite the fireplace contained built-in beds, bulky with a quilted covering. There were no other articles of furniture, not even a table or lamp.

“Now, girls, there's supper to get,” said Mrs. Denmeade when the Claypools had gone. “An', Miss Watson, you're goin' to be more one of the family than company. Make yourself to home.”

ARY attached herself to Lucy, and led her around the corner of the cabin to see the puppies, while the twins toddled behind. Lucy wanted to know the names of the puppies and all about them. When Mary had exhausted this subject she led Lucy to see her especial playground, which was across the ravine in a sheltered spot redolent of pine needles. She showed Lucy a nook under a large manzanita, where she played with pine cones and bits of Indian pottery, which she said she had found right there.

Lucy had to see the spring, and the stone steps across the brook, and the big iron kettle and tub which were used in washing. She looked in vain for an outhouse of any description. There was none, not even a chicken coop. Mary said the chickens roosted in trees, like the wild turkeys, to keep from being eaten by beasts. Lucy inquired about these beasts, and further if there were snakes and bugs.

“Rattlers, t'rantulars an' scorpions in summer. That's all that's bad,” said Mary.

“Goodness! That's enough,” exclaimed Lucy.

“They won't hurt nobody,” added the child simply.

They came at length to a green bench that had been cleared of brush and small trees, yet owing to the giant spreading pines above did not long get direct rays of the sun. Rude boxes, some of them painted, were scattered around on little platforms of stones.

“Edd's beehives,” said Mary, with grave importance. “We must be awful good. Edd doesn't mind, if we behave.”

“I'll be very careful, Mary. I don't want to get stung. Are they real wild bees?”

“Shore. But Edd tames them. Oh, Edd loves bees somethin' turrible,” answered the child solemnly. “Bees never sting him, even when he's choppin' a new bee tree.”

“Why does Edd do that?” inquired Lucy.

“Didn't you ever—ever hear of Edd Denmeade's honey?” returned Mary in great surprise. “Pa says it's the best in the world. Oh-um-m! He'll shore give you some. Edd likes girls next to his bees. He's a bee hunter. Pa says Edd's the best bee liner he ever seen.”

“Bee liner! What's that, Mary?”

HY, he watches for bees, an' when they come he lines them. Bees fly straight off, you know. He lines them to their hive in a tree. Then he chops it down. Always he saves the honey, an' sometimes he saves the bees.”

The child added to the interest accumulating round the name of Edd Denmeade.

“Where is Edd now?” asked Lucy.

“He went to Winbrook with the pack burros,” replied Mary. “That's up over the Rim an' far off, to the railroad. Edd's promised to take me there some day. Shore he ought to be back soon. I want him awful bad. Candy! Edd always fetches us candy. He'll come by Mertie's birthday. That's next Wednesday. He's fetchin' Mertie's new dress—her first boughten one. She's sixteen. An' Edd's givin' it to her. Oh, he'll come shore, 'cause he loves Mertie.”

“Of course he loves you too?” queried Lucy winningly.

“Ma says so. But Mertie's his favorite. She's so pretty. I wish I was,” replied Mary, with childish pathos.

“You will be, Mary, when you are sixteen, if you are good, and learn how to take care of yourself, and have beautiful thoughts,” said Lucy.

“Ma told Mrs. Claypool you was a home teacher. Are you goin' to teach me all that?”

“Yes, and more. Won't you like to learn how to make nice dresses?”

“Oh!” cried Mary beamingly, and she burst into a babble of questions.

They remained in the gully until the sun sank and then climbed out. Mary ran to confide her bursting news to the little twin sisters. And Lucy was left to herself for the time being.

When she returned to the cabin, entering the yard by the side gate, some of the hounds followed her, sniffing at her, not yet over their hostility. The Denmeades were collecting round the table on the porch. The mother espied Lucy and greeted her with a smile.

“Reckon we was about ready to put the hounds on your trail,” she called, and when Lucy reached the table she added, “You set in this place. Here's Dick an' Joe. You've only one more to see, an' that's Edd. Boys, meet Miss Lucy Watson, of Felix.”

UCY smiled at the young men, waiting to sit down opposite her. Which was Dick and which Joe she could not tell yet. The younger was exceedingly tall and thin. The older, though tall and angular too, appeared short by comparison. Both had smooth faces, lean and brown, with intent clear eyes.

The table was too small for so many. They crowded close together. Lucy's seat was at one end of a bench, giving her the free use of her right hand. Mary sat on her left, happily conscious of the close proximity. The heads of the little girls and Dan just topped the level of the table. In fact their mouths were about on a level with their tin plates. At first glance Lucy saw that the table was laden with food, with more still coming. Pans of smoking biscuits, pans of potatoes, pans of beans, pans of meat and gravy, and steaming tin cups of black coffee! Lucy noted the absence of milk, butter, sugar, green or canned vegetables. She was hungry, and she filled her plate; and despite the coarseness of the food, she ate heartily. Before she had finished, dusk had settled down around the cabin, and when the meal ended it was quite dark.

“I hear Sam's hoss,” said Dick as he rose, clinking his spurs. “Reckon I'll help him unpack.”

Lucy sat down on the edge of the porch, peering out into the woods.

The gate creaked, and the musical clink of spurs advanced toward the porch. At last Lucy made out two dark forms. They approached, and one mounted the steps while the other stopped before Lucy. She conceived an idea that this fellow could see in the dark.

“Wal, Miss Lucy, here's your bags without a scratch,” said Sam Johnson's drawling voice. “Shore I bet you was worried. How'd you find my hoss Buster?”

“Just fine, thank you,” replied Lucy. “Full of spirit and go. Yet he obeyed promptly. I never had a slip.”

“Wal, then, you're invited to ride him again,” said Sam with subtle inflection.

“Oh, thank you,” replied Lucy, “I—I'll be pleased, if my work allows me any spare time.”

“Howdy, Sam,” interposed Allie from the kitchen door. “Who're you goin' to take to the dance?”

“Wal, I ain't shore jest yet,” he returned. “Reckon I know who I'd like to take.”

“Sadie told me you asked her.”

“Did she? Sent her word. But she didn't send none back,” protested Sam lamely.

“Sam, take a hunch from me. Don't try to shenanigan out of it now,” retorted Allie, and retreated into the kitchen.

UCY was both relieved and amused at Allie's grasp of the situation. No doubt Sam had been approaching another invitation.

Denmeade's heavy footfall sounded on the porch, accompanied by the soft pad of a dog trotting. “That you, Sam? How's yore folks?”

“Tiptop,” replied Sam shortly.

“Get down an' come in,” drawled Denmeade as the other shuffled restlessly.

“Reckon I'll be goin',” said Sam. “I've a pack hoss waitin'. Evenin', Miss Lucy. Shore I hope to see you at the dance.”

“I hardly think you will,” replied Lucy. “Thank you for fetching my baggage.”

Mrs. Denmeade came out of the kitchen, carrying a lighted lamp, and she called Lucy to accompany her into the other cabin. She set the lamp on the high, jutting shelf of the fireplace. “You sleep in here with the children,” she said simply.

“Yes; that will be nice,” rejoined Lucy, peering around.

Dan was asleep on the floor in a corner, his bed a woolly sheepskin, his covering a rag quilt. Mary and the twins were fast asleep in one of the beds. Lucy stepped close to peer down at them. Liz and Lize lay at the foot, curly fair heads close together. Their faces had been washed and now shone sweet and wan in the lamplight. Their chubby hands were locked. Mary lay at the head of the bed, and her thin face bore a smile as if she were having pleasant dreams.

Once in bed Lucy stretched out in aching relief. That long ride, especially on the horse, had cramped and chafed her. The bed was as cold and hard as ice. There were no sheets. The blanket under her did not do much to soften the feel of what she concluded was a mattress filled with corn husks. It rustled like corn husks, though it might have been coarse straw. The coverings were heavy rag quilts. Nevertheless Lucy had never before been so grateful for a bed. If this bed was good enough for those innocent and happy and unfortunate children, it was good enough for her. She grew warm and sleepy.

UCY awakened in a half-conscious dream that she was in a place unfamiliar to her. Before she opened her eyes she smelled wood smoke. Then she saw that daylight had come, and she was looking at her open window through which blue smoke and sunlight were pouring in. Bewildered, she gazed around this strange room—bare wood and clay walls, big stone fireplace, rude ceiling of poles and shingles. Where was she?

With a start she raised on her elbow. Then the effort that the movement cost her, the sense of sore muscles and the rustling of the corn-husk mattress brought flashing to memory her long ride of yesterday and the backwoods home of the Denmeades.

She was surprised—and somewhat mortified—to see that the children were up and gone. On the moment Lucy heard the patter of their feet outside on the porch and the ringing strokes of an ax on hard wood. Whereupon she essayed to hop out of bed. She managed it all right, but not without awkwardness and pain.

Lucy dressed in less time than ever before in her life. Then with soap, towel, comb and brush she sallied out on the porch and round to the side of the cabin. The children were in the kitchen.

An old man sat on a bench. He was thin and gray, with cadaverous cheeks, a pointed chin bristling with stubby beard. “Good mawnin',” he said.

“I'm Lucy Watson,” replied Lucy brightly. “I didn't meet you last night.”

“Nope. But I seen you. I'm Lee's oldest brother. Thar's four of us brothers hyar in the woods. Uncle Bill, the kids call me.”

They were having breakfast in the kitchen. Mary was the only one of the children to answer Lucy's greeting. Dan did not appear bashful, but his mouth was so full he could not speak. Mrs. Denmeade and Mertie were sitting at the table, while Allie stood beside the big stove. They did not seem stolid or matter of fact; they lacked expression of whatever they did feel. Lucy sat down to ham, eggs, biscuits, coffee.

OME of Edd's honey,” indicated Mrs. Denmeade with pride, as she placed a pan before Lucy.

She was hungry, and enjoyed her breakfast. As for the honey, she had never before tasted anything so delicious, so wild and sweet of flavor.

After breakfast Lucy was greatly interested in the brief preparations for school. Dan had to be forced away from the table. He was bareheaded and barefooted. Lucy went out to the gate with him and Mary. Dick was coming up the lane, leading two little gray, lop-eared burros and a pony, all saddled. Dan climbed on one burro and Mary the other. Mertie came out, carrying small tin buckets, one of which she handed to each of the children. Mary seemed reluctant to leave Lucy, but Dan rode off down the lane mightily unconcerned.

Mertie mounted the pony, and then had her brother hand up books and bucket.

Dick picked up a bucket and a rifle, and made ready to start.

“Do you walk to school?” queried Lucy, smiling.

“Yes'm. I like walkin',” he replied.

Lucy watched them go down the lane after Dan, and was unexpectedly stirred at sight of the little procession. When she turned back up the path Mrs. Denmeade met her.

“They're gone. It was fun to see the little burros,” said Lucy. “How far do they have to ride, and why does Dick carry the gun?”

“It's five miles—woods all the way. An' Dick doesn't pack that gun for fun. There's bears an' cats. But when Dick's with the children I don't worry.”

As they walked up the path to the cabin, Lucy told Mrs. Denmeade how it had been the decision of the welfare board to endeavor to teach the people living in remote districts to make things that would further easier and better living.

Denmeade, coming from the fields apparently, met them and could not help but hear something of what Lucy said. It brought the broad grin to his weather-beaten face.

“Wife,” he said as he surveyed Lucy from head to foot, “this hyar city girl has got sense. An' she looks like she might grow into a strappin' fine young woman. 'To work with their hands,' she says. She's hit it plumb. That's all we ever done in our lives. That's why we never learned new tricks. All the same, if Miss Lucy teaches us somethin', we can do the same for her.”

CERTAINLY expect you to,” said Lucy gladly. “I'd like to learn to take care of a horse, chop wood, and line bees.”

Denmeade let out a hearty laugh. “Wal, now, listen to her!” he ejaculated. “Take care, young woman, an' don't let my boy Edd hear you say you want to line bees. 'Cause if you do, he'll shore take you. An' say, mebbe hangin' to that long-legged boy when he's on a bee line—mebbe it ain't work!”

'All the same I shall ask him to take Mertie and me sometime,” declared Lucy.

“You couldn't hire Mertie to tramp up an' down these woods all day for anythin', let alone bees,” replied Mrs. Denmeade with scorn. “Mertie sews clothes for herself or me all day, an' shore she dances all night. But she's not like the rest of the Denmeades. I reckon Dick would be the best one to go with you an' Edd.”

Lucy did not need to spend much more time looking around the cabins, inside or outside. The possessions of the Denmeades were so few that a glance had sufficed to enumerate them. Manifestly also their wants were few. But the comfort and health of a home did not depend upon how little was necessary. The children of pioneers should have some of the conveniences of civilization. Lucy did not underestimate the problem on her hands.

She found that Mrs. Denmeade had removed from the closet whatever had been there, leaving it for Lucy's use. This enabled Lucy to unpack most of her belongings. When that was done she took pencil and pad and went outdoors to find a place to sit down and think and plan. She crossed the strip of woods to the edge of the field, and then walked along under the pines toward the slope. Through the green and black of the forest she could see the looming red wall. At the end of the field she halted. Deep dark woodland merged upon the edge of the clearing. She sat down under a huge pine, from which position she could see out across the open.

H, I'LL never be able to concentrate on anything here,” murmured Lucy, thrilled with the wildness and splendor of the forest. She reveled a few moments in this sweet, wild solitude, and then made a valiant effort to put her mind on her work—the task of choosing the articles she must buy and those she must make.

It turned out to be a fascinating task, made easy by the course of manual training she had taken at normal school. Prominent among the articles selected to buy were tools and a sewing machine. Tools meant the constructing of chairs, tables, closets, shelves, and many other household articles; a sewing machine meant the making of sheets, pillows, towels, curtains, table covers and wearing apparel.

Between such dreams and calculations, Lucy mapped out the letters and orders she would write that afternoon. Then she would have to wait so long until the things arrived. Still, she reflected, a number of necessities could be obtained at the store in Cedar Ridge. She would persuade Denmeade to go or send someone at once.

When she returned to the cabin the golden sunshine was gone. A gray mantle appeared to be creeping over the forest world. The wind was roaring behind and above the cabin. Presently Mrs. Denmeade, coming out for a pail of water, espied Lucy sitting on the porch.

“Storm comin',” she said. “It'll blow for a while, then rain.”

“Oh—I'm—so—out of—breath,” panted Lucy. “It was—wonderful, but—scared me. The children—will they stay at school?”

OT much. They'll come home, rain or shine. Edd is goin' to catch it good. Dave Claypool just rode by, an' stopped to tell me he met Edd up the mountain. Edd can drive a pack train of burros. But they're loaded heavy, an' Edd will spare the burros before himself. I reckon he'll hit the Rim just about dark. An' if the storm breaks before then, he'll have somethin' tough. Rain down here will be snow up there. But he'll come in tonight shore.”

Her matter-of-factness over what seemed exceedingly serious and her confidence in the return of her son through gale and darkness awakened in Lucy a first appreciation of the elemental strength of these backwoods people. Lucy respected strength to endure above all virtues. How infinitely she herself had been found wanting! She hurried to her room, conscious that again this Edd Denmeade had been forced upon her attention.

Lucy got out her writing materials and set herself to the important task of writing the letters she had planned. She accomplished the task of a dozen letters, and an enlarging and copying of her notes. Then putting on a heavy coat, she went outside to walk off the chill in her blood. She found Mrs. Denmeade and Allie carrying the day's wash up from the brook down in the gully. Lucy promptly lent her assistance, and when she had made four trips carrying a heavy burden, she was both out of breath and hot from the effort.

The gray mantle overhead had darkened. Only occasional rifts showed a glimpse of blue sky. The air was perceptibly damper. And the roar of wind now had no break.

Lucy rested a little, trying the while to win Liz and Lize to talk to her. They did not sidle away from her any longer, but had not yet reached the communicative stage. She was conscious of worry, of dread, and not until she saw Mary and Dan, with Mertie behind them, coming up the lane, did she realize the significance of her feelings. They were safe.

After supper the gray twilight deepened, and a misty rain blew in Lucy's face as she stood on the porch. Above the sound of the wind she heard a patter of rain on the roof.

“Reckon she'll bust directly,” said Denmeade as he passed Lucy, his arms full of wood. “I'm buildin' a fire fer you. It's shore goin' to storm.”

At dark the fury of the storm burst. Torrents of rain fell, drowning all other sounds. Lucy was first forced back against the wall; then the rain, driving under the porch roof in sheets, sent her indoors.

A bright log fire blazed and crackled in the open fireplace of the room she occupied. The children were sitting on the floor, talking, and such was the roar on the roof and the bellow down the chimney that Lucy could not hear a word they said. The storm raged and lashed. The red fire hissed with the water that dripped down the chimney. Lucy walked from window to window, from the fireplace to the door; she sat down to gaze with the children at the opalescent embers settling on the hearth.

LL the family,including Uncle Bill, assembled in her room. Denmeade, his brother and Dick and Joe were grouped near the fireplace. Denmeade knelt on one knee in what Lucy later discovered was his characteristic resting position, his dark face in the light, his big, black hat pushed back on his head. The others were sitting on the floor, backs to the wall, listening to what he was saying. The mother and Allie were seated silent on the children's bed. Mertie, crouched on one of the chairs, stared somberly into the fire. Mary was bent over, so she could catch the light on a book. The children played as before.

Joe interrupted his father's talk. “I hear bells. Reckon some of the burros got in. Edd won't be far.”

“Wal, he'll be with the pack outfit. Rustle out thar,” replied his father.

While Denmeade replenished the fire, the others stamped out, their spurs clanking. Mrs. Denmeade and Allie went into the kitchen.

Mertie's apathy vanished, and she rushed out into the darkness of the porch. Her voice pealed out, calling to Edd. Likewise the children responded to the homecoming of their brother.

Presently the clamor of childish voices, pitched high above the deeper ones of men, and the thump of heavy boots and jingle of spurs moved across the porch to the door of the cabin. Lucy stepped aside into the shadow. Then the light of the fire streamed out of the door.

“In thar, all of you,” boomed Denmeade. “Let Edd get to the fire.”

A tall, dark form emerged from the gloom into the light, and entered the door with the children and girls. For a moment there was a hubbub. The older members of the household came in, somewhat quieting the confusion.

“Mertie, here's your present,” said the newcomer.

IS voice seemed to be rather drawling and deep. Disengaging himself from clinging hands he laid a large parcel, wrapped in a wet slicker, upon a vacant chair.

Mertie let out a squeal and, pouncing upon the package, dropped to her knees and began to tear it open. “Oh, Edd! If you got it wet!” she panted.

“No fear. It's wrapped in paper, an' oilskin, under the slicker,” he said. Then he drew another package from the inside of his huge, fur-collared coat. “Liz! Lize! Danny!”

“Candy!” screamed the children in unison. And straightway pandemonium broke loose.

When the young man threw his wet sombrero on the floor near the hearth and removed his rain-soaked coat, Lucy had a better chance to see what he looked like. Certainly his face was not handsome, but she could not say how much of its dark, haggard rawness was due to exposure. He did not change expression as he gazed down upon those whom he had made happy. But Lucy's keen sight and power to read divined the fact that he worshiped Mertie and loved the children. He untied a wet scarf from his neck and threw that beside his sombrero.

LL the older members of the family were silently gazing down upon the fortunate ones. Mary seemed to be reveling in Mertie's excitement, yet as she gazed up at Edd, her large eyes questioned him.

“Mary, reckon I have somethin' for you in my pack,” he said. “Wait till I warm my hands. I'm near froze.”

With that he strode to the fire and knelt before it, one knee on the floor, in a posture Lucy had descried as characteristic of his father. Edd extended big, strong, capable-looking hands to the blaze. They were actually stiff and blue. Seen nearer, his face, with the firelight shining directly upon it, was an open one, lean, smooth, with prominent nose and large, firm-lipped mouth and square chin. His eyes were larger than any of the other Denmeades', light in color, intent in gaze. Still Lucy could not be certain that she liked his face. It looked bruised, pinched, blackened. His hands, too, were grimy. Water dripped from him and ran in little streams over the hearth to sizzle on the hot ashes. He seemed to bring with him the breath of the open, cold and damp, the smell of the pines and burros, odorous, rank.

Gasps of delight emanated from those surrounding Mertie, as she held up a white, beribboned dress; and many were the mingled exclamations that followed.

It was the mother who first recovered from the spell. Peering into the shadow, she at last espied Lucy. “There you are,” she said. “I was wonderin' if you was seein' the circus. This is my oldest boy. Edd, meet Miss Lucy Watson, from Felix. She's our home teacher, come to live with us for a spell.”

Lucy spoke from the shadow. Edd peered out of the firelight, as if locating her with difficulty. She did not see the slightest indication that he was surprised or interested. What had she expected from this much talked-of wild-bee hunter.

“Can't see you, but how do just the same,” he drawled.

HEN Denmeade advanced to lean his tall form against the mantel. “Dave rode down early—said he'd seen you, an' figgered you'd hit the Rim trail before the storm busted.”

“Wind held us back all afternoon,” replied the son, “an' some of the packs slipped. Reckon I'd made it shore but for that. The storm hit us just back from the Rim. I'll be dog-goned if I didn't think we'd never get to where the trail starts down. Hard wind an' snow right in our faces. Shore was lucky to hit the trail down before it got plumb dark. I led my hoss an' held on to Jennie's tail. Honest, I couldn't see an inch in front of my nose. I couldn't hear the bells. For a while I wasn't shore of anythin'. But when we got down out of the snow I reckoned we might get home. All the burros but Baldy made it. I didn't miss him till we got here. He might have slipped over the cliff on that narrow place. It shore was wet. Reckon, though, he'll come in. He was packin' my camp outfit.”

“Edd, come an' eat, if you're hungry,” called his mother from the kitchen.

“I'm a-rarin' to feed,” he replied and, gathering up his smoking coat, scarf and sombrero, he rose.

“Boy, did Blake buy yore honey?” queried his father, accompanying him toward the door.

“I reckon. Every bucket, an' I whooped it up to a dollar a gallon.”

“Whew! Dog-gone me! Why, Edd, you'll make a bizness of your bee huntin',” ejaculated Denmeade.

“Shore I will. I always meant to,” asserted the son. “Pa, if I can find an' raise as much as five hundred gallons this summer, I'll sell every pint of it.”

“No!” Denmeade's exclamation was one of mingled doubt, amaze and wondering appreciation of a fortune. They crossed the porch into the kitchen, from which Lucy heard them but indistinctly. Then Mrs. Denmeade appeared at the farther door.

“Lucy, take the candy away from the children an' put it where they can't reach it,” she called. “Else they'll gorge themselves an' be sick.”

Lucy approached this dubious task with infinite tact, kindliness and persuasion. Liz and Lize were presently prevailed upon, but Dan was a different proposition. He would not listen to reason.

When he found Lucy was firm he attempted to compromise, and failing of that he gave in ungraciously. Flouncing down on his sheepskin rug, he pulled the rag coverlet over him. Lucy could see his eyes glaring in the firelight.

“Danny, don't you undress when you go to bed?” asked Lucy gently.

“Naw!” he growled. “Not any more. The kids do, but not me.”

“Why not you?” demanded Lucy. “It's not healthy to sleep in your clothes. Tell me, Danny. I'm your home teacher, you know.”

OBODY ever said nuthin' to me,” retorted the lad. “Pa an' Joe an' Dick sleep in their clothes. An' Edd—why, I've sleeped with him up in the loft when he never took off nuthin'. Went to bed right in his boots an' spurs.”

“Oh, indeed,” murmured Lucy constrainedly, somewhat taken aback. “Well, Danny, all the same it's not a healthy thing to do, and I shall teach you not to.”

“Teacher, you'd make me sleep naked?” he protested. “Aw, it'd be cold in winter, an' I never have enough covers nohow.”

“Danny, I shall make you night clothes to sleep in. Nice, soft, warm, woolly stuff.”

“No long white thing like Mertie sleeps in,” he asserted belligerently.

“Any way you want. Shirt and pants, if you like,” said Lucy.

“Then I can wear them all day too,” he rejoined with interest, and lay down.

Lucy turned her attention to the twins, very pleased to find them growing less shy with her.

“Tan we have some too?” asked Lize timidly.

“Indeed you shall—long white night-gowns, like the little princess in the fairy story.”

Lucy made no effort to hurry to bed. Drawing the chair closer to the dying fire she toasted her hands and feet and legs that had felt like ice all evening. Gradually, as the fire died down to a pale red glow, the room darkened. It seemed full of deep, warm shadows, comforting Lucy, easing the strain under which she had unconsciously labored.

HE event that had hung over the Denmeade home ever since she reached it had en consummated. The bee hunter had returned. Lucy had no idea what she had expected, but whatever it had been, it had not been realized. An agreeable disappointment dawned upon her. Edd Denmeade had not struck her as bold, or as a bully, or a backwoods lout, foolish over girls. His indifference to her presence or appearance had struck her singularly. Her relief held a hint of pique.

“I think I had a poor opinion of him, because everybody talked of him,” she mused. “He fooled me.”

Edd Denmeade had impressed her profoundly, how or why or at just what moment she could not tell. Had she been repelled or attracted? She fancied it was the former. She could be repelled by his raw, uncouth, barbarian presence, yet be fascinated by the man of him. That hurried return through the storm, down over the fearful trail, in a Stygian blackness—a feat none the less heroic it had been performed to please a shallow little peacock of a sister—that called to something deep in Lucy. She thought of her sister Clara—selfish, unloving, thoughtless of others. Lucy felt that she and Edd Denmeade had something in common. A sister going the wrong way!

She recalled his look as Mertie had frantically torn at the package—serene, strong, somehow understanding. It flashed over Lucy, intuitively as much as from deduction, that Edd Denmeade knew his sister's weakness and loved her perhaps all the more because of it. That thrilled her, warmed her heart, as did her memory of his smile at the twins, Liz and Lize. But all the rest was incomprehensible.

N MERTIE DENMEADE'S birthday several of her girl schoolmates rode up from the school with her. They were to stay overnight and go back to school next morning. Lucy could not help wondering where they were going to sleep.

Among these girls was Sadie Purdue, whom Lucy observed with attention. Sadie possessed but little charm, so far as Lucy could see. Her face and figure were commonplace, not to be compared with Mertie's, and her complexion was pitted and coarse-fibered, well suited to her bold eyes and smug expression. Her shoulders were plump, her hands large, her feet clumsy. Lucy could not but wonder what Edd Denmeade saw in this girl. She reflected then that it was absurd for her to have assumptions or opinions, until she knew more of these people. Every one of these Jacks had his Jill. It seemed inconceivable for Lucy to pass critical judgment on this Sadie Purdue, and not include her companions. Lucy found them colorless, civil, hardy girls, somewhat like Allie Denmeade. She was gravely astonished to find that she had an inexplicable antagonism toward Sadie. For that reason she went out of her way to engage Sadie in conversation.

The girl, as well as her companions, was exceedingly curious about Lucy's work. She asked numerous questions, the gist of which appeared to be a greedy interest in what they all were going to gain through Lucy's presence.

“We live way down near Cedar Ridge,” she informed Lucy. “I stay with my cousin, Amy Claypool, while I'm goin' to school. This's my last term, thank goodness.”

“What will you do then?” inquired Lucy. “Teach school?”

E TEACH? Laws no! I couldn't teach. Reckon a girl in this country has nothin' to do but marry, when she leaves school. I've had offers, but I'm in no hurry.”

“Do girls up here marry so young?” asked Lucy.

“From fifteen up. I'm sixteen, same as Mertie.”

Lucy encouraged the girl to talk, which seemed to be very easy to do. Sadie was impressed by Lucy's interest, and besides that manifestly had motives of her own for establishing a repute. Lucy gathered that neither Sadie nor Mertie wanted to marry one of these bee-hunting, corn-raising, wood-chopping jacks. They aspired to homes in Winbrook, or at least Cedar Ridge. But they were not averse to being courted and taken to dances.

“Trouble is, when a fellow keeps company with you, he ain't long satisfied with just courtin',” confided Sadie, giggling. “He wants to marry—wants a woman. Here's Edd, Mertie's brother. He took me to one dance an' spent a Sunday callin' on me. Asked me to marry him—when he'd never even kissed me or put his arm round me! The big boob! I told him he hadn't learned much from his honeybee huntin'.”

Late in the afternoon Mrs. Denmeade and Allie began to spread the porch table with a birthday dinner for Mertie and her visitors. Several young men had ridden in, foremost of whom Lucy recognized Sam Johnson. These young people arranged themselves around the porch, and began, almost immediately, what seemed to Lucy a remarkable exhibition of banter and absurdity.

The children dragged Lucy out on the porch, where Sam Johnson performed the office of introduction that Mertie neglected or omitted by choice. Gerd Claypool was a blue-eyed young giant with tawny hair, and Hal Miller was a lean, rangy cowboy type, solemn of face, droll of speech. These new visitors manifested enough interest in Lucy to convince her that it was not pleasing to Mertie and Sadie, so Lucy made excuses and left them to their peculiar fun. She played with the children, helped Mrs. Denmeade, and then sat in her room, the door and window of which were open. Part of the time Lucy was aware of the banter going on, but she did not become acutely interested until the Denmeade boys came on the scene.

“Wal, if here ain't the ole bee hunter, home early an' all shaved nice an' clean,” drawled Sam Johnson.

“Mertie's birthday, Sam,” replied Edd. “How are you all?”

“Jest a-rarin' to go,” said Gerd Claypool.

“Edd, I reckon we'd like a lick at that honey pot of yours,” added Hal Miller.

“I gave ma the last half-gallon for Mertie's party,” replied Edd. “You might get some, if you don't hold back on your halter too long.”

“What's become of all your honey?” queried Sam with interest. “I remember you had a lot.”

“Sold. An' I'm offered a dollar a gallon for all I can fetch to Winbrook.”

AM whistled. “Say, you ain't such a dog-gone fool as we thought, chasin' bees all the time.”

“I'll make it a business,” said Edd.

“Edd, it wouldn't be a bad idea for you to save some of your honey,” interposed Sadie Purdue slyly.

“What you mean?” asked Edd bluntly.

“Girls like honey,” she answered in a tormenting tone no one could mistake.

“Reckon I savvy,” returned Edd with good humor. “But honey words an' honey ways with girls don't come natural to me, like with Sam.”

His reply raised a howl of laughter at Sam's expense.

“Wal, I ain't noticin' that I ever go to any dances alone,” rejoined Sam sarcastically.

Lucy could see from the shadow of her room through the door most of the group of young people on the porch.

For a while the sole topic of conversation was the dance on Friday night. It expressed the wholesome and happy regard these youths and maidens held in the only recreation and social function that fell to their lot. Personalities and banterings were forgotten for the moment; other wonderful dances were remembered; conjectures as to attendance, music and ice cream. Presently, however, when they had exhausted the more wholesome reaction to this dance subject, they reverted to the inevitable banter. “Edd, have you asked any girl yet?” Sadie inquired sweetly.

“Nope. Not yet. I've been away, you know,” young Denmeade replied slowly.

“'Course you're goin'?”

“Never missed a dance yet, Sadie.”

“It's gettin' late in the day, Edd,” she went on seriously. “You oughtn't go alone to dances, as you do sometimes. It's not fair to break in on boys who have partners. They just have to set out those dances. Edd, you ought to be findin' you a regular girl. Who are you goin' to ask to the dance?”

HEY nagged him, then, with this query, and with advice and suggestions, and with information that no matter what girl he asked he would find she had already accepted an invitation. It must have been their way of having fun. But to Lucy it seemed brutal. Almost she felt sorry for Edd Denmeade. It struck her that his friends and relatives must have some good reason for so unmercifully flaying him. For, despite the general bantering, they had made him the center and the butt of their peculiar way of enjoying themselves. The girl Sadie seemed the instigator of this emphasis thrown upon Edd, and Sam ably seconded her.

Amy Claypool, however, manifested a kindlier spirit, though apparently she did not realize the tirade was little short of a jealous brutality. “Edd, I'd ask the new schoolmarm,” she said, lowering her voice. “She's awful pretty an' nice—not a bit stuck-up.”

Lucy heard this suggestion, and at once became a prey to amusement and dismay. Why could not the young people and their elders, too, leave her out of all reckoning? Her pulse quickened with an excitation that displeased her.

ADIE PURDUE burst into a peal of laughter. “Amy, you're crazy,” she exclaimed. “That city girl wouldn't go dancin' with a wild-bee hunter.”

This positive assertion did not produce any mirth. No doubt Sadie had no intention now of being funny. A red spot showed in her cheek. The sudden scrape of boots and clank of spurs attested to the fact that Edd Denmeade had leaped to his feet.

“Sadie Purdue, I reckon it's no disgrace to hunt bees,” he said sharply.

“Who said it was?” she retorted. “But I've been among town folk. You take my hunch an' don't ask her.”

Edd stalked off the porch, coming into range of Lucy's sight when he got down into the yard. His stride seemed to be that of a man who was hurrying to get away from something unpleasant.

“Sadie, you shore don't know it all,” said Amy mildly. “If this home schoolmarm wasn't a nice an' kind sort, she'd not be up heah. Fun is fun, but you had no call to insult Edd.”

“Insult nothin',” snapped Sadie. “I was only tryin' to save his feelin's.”

“You never liked Edd, an' you don't want anyone else to,” returned Amy. “I know two girls who might have liked Edd but for you.”

Lucy's heart warmed to this mild-voiced Amy Claypool. She did not make the least show of spirit. Sadie turned petulantly to Sam, and there was a moment of rather strained silence. “Come an' get it, you birthday party,” called Allie from the door.

That call relieved the situation and merriment at once reclaimed the young people. Lucy was glad to see them dive for seats at the table. She was conscious of a strength and depth of interest quite out of proportion to what should have been natural to her. Still she had elected to undertake a serious work among these mountaineers. How could she help but be interested in anything that pertained to them? But the wild-bee hunter! Quick as a flash then Lucy had an impulse she determined to satisfy.

OULD Edd Denmeade give these guests of his sister's the last bit of the honey upon which he set such store? Lucy felt that he ought not to do so and would not, yet she contrarily hoped that he might. There appeared to her only one way to ascertain, and that was to walk by the table and see. Despite her determination she hesitated. Then fortunately the problem was solved for her.

Allie, sailing out of the kitchen door, set a pan rather noisily upon the table. “There's the last of Edd's honey. Fight over it!”

The next few moments' observation afforded Lucy the satisfaction of seeing the birthday guests actually engaged according to Allie's suggestion. From that scene Lucy formed her impression of the deliciousness of wild-bee honey.

She did not lay eyes upon Edd Denmeade until late the following morning, when, after the visitors and school children had ridden away, he presented himself before her where she played with the twins on the porch.

“Mornin'. Reckon I'd like a few words with you,” he said.

“Why, gladly,” replied Lucy as she sat up to gaze at him.

Edd was standing down in the yard, holding his sombrero in his hands and turning it edgewise round and round. On the moment he did not look at her. Seen now at close range, with all the stains of that terrible ride home removed from garb and face, he appeared vastly different.

He was laboring with thought. “Ma and pa have been tellin' me about you, but I reckon I'm not satisfied.”

“Yes? Is there anything I can tell you?” said Lucy, relieved. She had actually been afraid he would ask her to go to the dance.

“Shore. I want to know about this here work you're goin' to do.”

Then he looked up to meet her eyes. Lucy had never met just such a glance. His eyes were so clear and gray that they seemed expressionless. Yet Lucy conceived a vivid impression of the honesty and simplicity of the soul from which they looked. Whereupon Lucy took the pains to explain quite at length the nature of the work she had undertaken among his people. He listened intently, standing motionless, watching her with a steady gaze that was disconcerting.

“Now, you aim to stay with us awhile, an' then go to Claypool's, an' Johnson's an' Miller's an' Sprall's?”

“Yes, that is my plan, but no definite time is set. I have all the time there is, as I heard your Uncle Bill say.”

“Wal, it's a bad idea. It won't do.”

“How? Why?” queried Lucy anxiously.

“First off, you're too young an' pretty,” he said, wholly unconscious of the language of compliment.

“Oh!” returned Lucy, almost confused. “But, surely, Mr. Denmeade”

“Nobody ever called me mister.”

NDEED! I—well, surely my youth—and my good looks, as you are kind to call them—need not stand in my way?”

“Shore they will. If you were an' [sic] old woman, or even middle-aged, it might do. But you're a girl.”

“Yes, I am,” rejoined Lucy, puzzled and amused. “I can't deny that.”

Manifestly he regarded his bare statement as sufficient evidence on the point, whatever it was; for he went on to say that the several families would quarrel over her, and it would all end in a row.

“Reckon no matter what pa said, I'd never let you go to Sprall's,” he concluded.

“You! May I ask what business it would be of yours?”

“Wal, somebody has to take these here things on his shoulders, an' I reckon most of them fall on me,” he replied.

“I don't understand you,” said Lucy forcibly.

“Wal, somethin' wrong is always happenin' up here among us people. An' I reckon I'm the only one who sees it.”

“Wrong! How could it be wrong for me to go to Sprall's?” protested Lucy. “From what I hear they need me a great deal more than any family up here.”

“Miss, I reckon you'd better not believe all you hear,” he returned. “If you was to ride over to Sprall's, you'd say they'd ought to be washed an' dressed, an' their cabin burned. But that's all you'd see unless you stayed a day or so.”

“Oh! Suppose I'd stay?” queried Lucy.

“You'd see that was long enough.”

“But, don't you understand, I'm here to help poor families, no matter how dirty or ignorant or—or even wicked?” cried Lucy.

HORE I understand. An' I reckon it's your goodness of heart, an' of those people who sent you. But it won't do, maybe not for us, an' shore an' certain never for such as the Spralls.”

“You must tell me why, if you expect me to pay the least attention to what you say,” retorted Lucy stubbornly.

“Shore I can't talk about the Sprall woman to a girl like you. If ma won't tell you, it's no job for me. But I reckon there's no need. You're not goin' to Sprall's.”

Lucy was at a loss for words. His bare assertion did not seem to stir her anger so much as a conviction that for some reason or other she would not go to Sprall's.

“I've heard, since I've been here, that there was bad blood between you an' Bud Sprall. It must have been your mother who said it,” replied Lucy slowly.

“Nope. The bad blood is on Bud's side. Reckon if there'd been any on mine, I'd have killed him long ago.

“To come back to this here work of yours, I'm sorry I can't see it favorable like pa and ma. But I just can't.”

“I'm sorry too,” replied Lucy soberly. “It'll be discouraging to have even one person against me. But why—why?”

“I reckon I can't figure that out so quick,” he replied. “It's the way I feel. If you was goin' to live among us always, I might feel different. But you won't last up here very long. An' suppose you do teach Liz an' Lize an' Danny a lot of things. They've got to grow up an' live here. They might be happier knowin' less. It's what they don't know that don't make any difference.”

“You're terribly wrong, Edd Denmeade,” replied Lucy with spirit.

“Ahuh! Wal, that's for you to prove,” he returned imperturbably. “I'll be goin' now. An' I reckon I'll fetch your outfit in about midday tomorrow.”

title: The Bee Hunter (serial)/Part 1


text: Talk:A Renegade Mother

title: Talk:A Renegade Mother