“I don't know what he was playin' ye for,” she said shortly. “Mar has been dead mor'n a year.” “But,” I persisted, “is there no grown-up woman here?” “No.” “Then who takes care of you and the children?” “I do.” “Yourself and your father--eh?” “Dad ain't here two days running, and then on'y to sleep.” “And you take the entire charge of the house?” “Yes, and the log tallies.” “The log tallies?” “Yes; keep count and measure the logs that go by the slide.” It flashed upon me that I had passed the slide or declivity on the hillside, where logs were slipped down into the valley, and I inferred that Johnson's business was cutting timber for the mill. “But you're rather young for all this work,” I suggested. “I'm goin' on sixteen,” she said gravely. Indeed, for the matter of that, she might have been any age. Her face, on which sunburn took the place of complexion, was already hard and set. But on a nearer view I was struck with the fact that her eyes, which were not large, were almost indistinguishable from the presence of the most singular eyelashes I had ever seen. Intensely black, intensely thick, and even tangled in their profusion, they bristled rather than fringed her eyelids, obliterating everything but the shining black pupils beneath, which were like certain lustrous hairy mountain berries. It was this woodland suggestion that seemed to uncannily connect her with the locality. I went on playfully:-- “That's not VERY old--but tell me--does your father, or DID your father, ever speak of you as his 'old woman?'” She nodded. “Then you thought I was mar?” she said, smiling. It was such a relief to see her worn face relax its expression of pathetic gravity--although this operation quite buried her eyes in their black thickest hedge again--that I continued cheerfully: “It wasn't much of a mistake, considering all you do for the house and family.” “Then you didn't tell Billy 'to go and be dead in the ground with mar,' as he 'lows you did?” she said half suspiciously, yet trembling on the edge of a smile. No, I had not, but I admitted that my asking him to go to his mother might have been open to this dismal construction by a sensitive infant mind. She seemed mollified, and again turned to go. “Good-night, Miss--you know your father didn't tell me your real name,” I said. “Karline!” “Good-night, Miss Karline.” I held out my hand. She looked at it and then at me through her intricate eyelashes. Then she struck it aside briskly, but not unkindly, said “Quit foolin', now,” as she might have said to one of the children, and disappeared through the inner door. Not knowing whether to be amused or indignant, I remained silent a moment. Then I took a turn outside in the increasing darkness, listened to the now hurrying wind over the tree-tops, re-entered the cabin, closed the door, and went to bed.