We left our old friend Clark, wending his way down the range of low hills that looked over the expansive bottom lands on the opposite side of the Savannah. Near the river was a house where lived a plain, rough frontier man, who kept the ferry. The house was a double cabin of hewn logs, and a space between the rooms about ten feet in width. The owner was sitting in this passage as Mr. Clark came to the stile, or steps by which the door-yard fence was passed. The sun was descending towards the western hills, and its face would soon be hidden by the range of forest-land along the river. “Good evening, friend. Can I stay with you to-night?” “I reckon you can, if you will get along with such fare as we have. Come in, stranger. Kitty, run and get the gentleman a chair; that’s a good gal.” A blue-eyed little girl, apparently about ten years of age, brought from one of the rooms a plain, country-made chair, and Mr. Clark was soon seated. In the meantime the host eyed the stranger, as though he had seen him somewhere, but could not recollect. “Sort’r pleasant weather, these days, stranger?” “Yes: and we ought to be thankful to a merciful Providence for good weather, and all other good things in this life.” “Traveling far, stranger?” “Some distance. I’m bound for _Kaintuck_.” “Law me--’way to that country? And do you calkelate to walk all the way there?” “Yes; I prefer walking to riding.” “Now, stranger, I begin to s’pect you are the preacher I he’rn tell of, who was at the big meetin’ on ‘Coon Creek, a year or two sin’. What mought your name be?” “John Clark.” “That’s the very thing. Here, old ’oman; Patsey, come here;” he called to his “better half,” who was in the kitchen in the rear of the house, attending to her domestic concerns. “What’s wantin’, old man? I’ll be in soon.” Presently a decent looking female, apparently about forty, with a sun-bonnet on her head, and dressed in a short gown and petticoat of the same stuff as her husband’s garments--cotton and wool mixed--came in. No sooner did she cast her eyes on the preacher than she knew him, and broke out-- “Dear me, if this ain’t Brother Clark, sure as I’m alive!” and she sprang forward and shook hands with him, with as much rude, but hearty simplicity, as if he had been her own brother; and bid him equally welcome. This recognition of one who appeared as a stranger needs a little explanation.