IN a flash of memory Rome saw the girl as vividly as when he last saw her years ago. They had met at the mill, he with his father, she with hers. There was a quarrel, and the two men were held apart. But the old sore as usual was opened, and a week later Rome's father was killed from the brush. He remembered his mother's rage and grief, her calls for vengeance, the uprising, the fights, plots, and ambushes. He remembered the look the girl had given him that long ago, and her look that day was little changed. When fighting began, she had been sent for safety to the sister of her dead mother in another county. When peace came, old Jasper married again and the girl refused to come home. Lately the step-mother, too, had passed away, and then she came back to live. All this the old miller told in answer to Rome's questions as the two walked away in the twilight. This was why he had not recognized her, and why her face yet seemed familiar even when he crossed the river that morning. “Uncle Gabe, how do you reckon the gal knowed who I was?” “She axed me.” “She axed you! Whar?” “Over thar in the mill.” The miller was watching the young mountaineer closely. The manner of the girl was significant when she asked who Rome was, and the miller knew but one reason possible for his foolhardiness that morning. “Do you mean to say she have been over hyeh afore?” “Why, yes, come to think about it, three or four times while Isom was sick, and whut she come fer I can't make out. The mill over thar wasn't broke long, 'n' why she didn't go thar or bring more co'n at a time, to save her the trouble o' so many trips, I can't see to save me.” Young Stetson was listening eagerly. Again the miller cast his bait. “Mebbe she's spyin'.” Rome faced him, alert with suspicion; but old Gabe was laughing silently. “Don't you be a fool, Rome. The gal comes and goes in that boat, 'n' she couldn't see a soul without my knowin' it. She seed ye ridin' by one day, 'n' she looked mighty cur'us when I tole her who ye was.” Old Gabe stopped his teasing, Rome's face was so troubled, and himself grew serious. “Rome,” he said, earnestly, “I wish to the good Lord ye wasn't in sech doin's. Ef that had been young Jas 'stid o' Marthy, I reckon ye would 'a' killed him right thar.” “I wasn't going to let him kill me,” was the sullen answer. The two had stopped at a rickety gate swinging open on the road. The young mountaineer was pushing a stone about with the toe of his boot. He had never before listened to remonstrance with such patience, and old Gabe grew bold. “You've been drinkin' ag'in, Rome,” he said, sharply, “'n' I know it. Hit's been moonshine that's whooped you Stetsons, not the Lewallens, long as I kin rickollect, 'n' it ull be moonshine ag'in ef ye don't let it alone.” Rome made no denial, no defence. “Uncle Gabe,” he said slowly, still busied with the stone, “hev that gal been over hyeh sence y'u tol' her who I was?”