"Birt Dicey!" she cried in an appalled tone. "Did ye hide it from yer MOTHER--an' tell NATE GRIGGS?" Birt hung his head. The folly of it! "What ailed ye, ter hide it from me?" she asked deprecatingly, holding out her worn, hard-working hands. "Hev I ever done ye harm?" "Nuthin' but good." "Don't everybody know a boy's mother air bound ter take his part agin all the worl'?" "Everybody but me," said the penitent Birt. "What ailed ye, ter hide it from me? What did ye 'low I'd do?" "I 'lowed ye wouldn't want me ter go pardners with Nate," he said drearily. "I reckon I wouldn't!" she admitted. "Ye always said he war a snake in the grass." "He hev proved that air a true word." "I wisht I hedn't tole him!" cried Birt vainly. "I wisht I hedn't." He watched her with moody eyes as she rose at last with a sigh and went mechanically about her preparations for breakfast. There was a division between them. He felt the gulf widening. "I jes' wanted it fur you-uns, ennyhow," he said, defending his motives. "I 'lowed ez I mought make enough out'n it ter buy a horse." "I hain't got time ter sorrow 'bout'n no gold mine," she said loftily. "I used ter believe ye set a heap o' store by yer mother, an' war willin' ter trust her--ye an' me hevin' been through mighty hard times together. But ye don't--I reckon ye never did. I hev los' mo' than enny gold mine." And this sorrow for a vanished faith resolved itself into tears with which she salted her humble bread. CHAPTER VIII. If she had had any relish for triumph, she might have found it in Birt's astonishment to learn that she understood all the details of entering land, which had been such a mystery to him. "'Twar the commonest thing in the worl', whenst I war young, ter hear 'bout'n folks enterin' land," she said. "But nowadays thar ain't no talk 'bout'n it sca'cely, 'kase the best an' most o' the land in the State hev all been tuk up an' entered--'ceptin' mebbe a trac', hyar an' thar, full o' rock, an' so steep 't ain't wuth payin' the taxes on." Simple as she was, she could have given him valuable counsel when it was sorely needed. He hung about the house later than was his wont, bringing in the store of wood for her work during the day, and "packing" the water from the spring, with the impulse in his attention to these little duties to make what amends he might. When at last he started for the tanyard, he knew by the sun that he was long over-due. He walked briskly along the path through the sassafras and sumach bushes, on which the rain-drops still clung. He was presently brushing them off in showers, for he had begun to run. It occurred to him that this was no time to seem even a trifle remiss in his work at the tanyard. Since he had lost all his hopes down the ravine, the continuance of Jube Perkins's favor and the dreary routine with the mule and the bark-mill were his best prospects. It would never do to offend the tanner now.