“Go straight through my hoss lot and let yourself down by a saplin’ or two,” answered Uncle Billy, “an’ it ain’t more ’n a good quarter.” Whereupon the old man laughed heartily. “Jes leave the creeturs here,” he went on. “John Jeems an’ Fillmore will ten’ to ’em whilst we go in an’ see what your Aunt Crissy is gwine to give us for supper. You won’t find the grub so mighty various, but there is plenty enough of what they is.” There was just enough of deference in Aunt Crissy’s greeting to be pleasing, and her unfeigned manifestations of hospitality soon caused the guests to forget that they might possibly be regarded as intruders in that peaceful region. Then there were the two boys, John Jeems and Fillmore, both large enough, and old enough, as Captain Moseley quietly observed to himself, to do military service, and both shy and awkward to a degree. And then there was Polly, a young woman grown, whose smiles all ran to blushes and dimples. Though she was grown, she had the ways of a girl—the vivacity of health and good humor, and the innocent shyness of a child of nature. Impulsive and demure by turns, her moods were whimsical and elusive and altogether delightful. Her beauty, which illumined the old cabin, was heightened by a certain quality that may be described as individuality. Her face and hands were browned by the sun, but in her cheeks the roses of youth and health played constantly. There is nothing more charming to the eye of man than the effects produced when modesty parts company with mere formality and conventionality. Polly, who was as shy as a ground squirrel and as graceful, never pestered herself about formalities. Innocence is not infrequently a very delightful form of boldness. It was so in the case of Polly Powers, at any rate. The two rough soldiers, unused to the society of women, were far more awkward and constrained than the young woman, but they enjoyed the big fire and the comfortable supper none the less on that account. When, to employ Mrs. Powers’s vernacular, “the things were put away,” they brought forth their pipes; and they felt so contented that Captain Moseley reproved himself by suggesting that it might be well for them to proceed on their journey up the mountain. But their hosts refused to listen to such a proposal. “Not so,” exclaimed Uncle Billy; “by no means. Why, if you knowed this hill like we all, you’d hoot at the bar’ idee of gwine further after nightfall. Besides,” the old man went on, looking keenly at his daughter, “ten to one you won’t find Spurlock.” Polly had been playing with her hair, which was caught in a single plait and tied with a bit of scarlet ribbon. When Spurlock’s name was mentioned she used the plait as a whip, and struck herself impatiently in the hand with the glossy black thong, and then threw it behind her, where it hung dangling nearly to the floor.