“The way of a transgressor is shorely hard,” exclaimed the old man pityingly. “I didn’t go fer ter fire the place, Si, I shore didn’t. I jest thought ter burn the books and sech. Oh, I don’t know what made me do hit, ’less I was plumb crazy!” Jake bowed his head in his hands and groaned in agony. The schoolmaster set the coffee pot upon the coals, where it simmered gently. “Sho now, Jake,” he said kindly, “you’re all beat out. Draw up and hev a bite; hit ain’t much but hit’ll put some heart in you. I don’t cornsider thet jest burnin’ thet old shack war sech a turrible sin; hit war the sperit you done hit in. You did ’low to burn all thet pore gal spent most of her savin’s on, and thet was the meanest part of the hull bizness. I allers said thet temper of yours would bring you ter grief. Hit’s like a skeery hoss critter; when hit gits loose you never can cal’late on all the didos hit’s goin’ ter cut up. Do you think thet if you hed another chanct you hev got grit ’nough ter turn ’round in your tracks?” Jake reached a hand over the table and grasped the hard, shrivelled one. “Oh, I shore would if I could only hev hit,” he answered humbly. “I shore would, but hit’s too late.” “Hit ain’t,” contradicted the old man cheerfully. “So long as you see the error of your ways, I’ll see thet you git out of this bizness hopin’ hit’s a lesson you won’t forgit.” Until Jake Simcox was able both mentally and physically to make the journey, he remained in the schoolmaster’s cabin, hiding away in the little loft at the least sign of danger. Late the third night after a hearty supper, Si Quinn filled his knapsack with provisions and slung it across the young shoulders. “Hike over the Ohiar line as quick as you kin,” he admonished, “and then find a job near a school whar you kin git some larnin’. I’m goin’ ter give you this,” putting a bill in the young fellow’s hand. “Hit’ll help you out till you git work, if you’re savin’. I’d make hit more, but most of the rest is goin’ fer books and maps fer Tally’s new schoolhouse they’re buildin’ fer her.” Jake looked up shamefacedly; the money seemed to burn his hand, but to what straits might he be brought if he refused it. “I’ll pay hit all back—every cent,” he faltered, “and I shan’t ever fergit what you’ve done fer me.” Then he was swallowed up by the darkness. VII THE JAM SOCIAL THE tiny, blue calcimined room with one window looking southward seemed almost palatial in comparison with Gincy’s humble home quarters. Instead of the overhanging mountains were the foothills and the college gardens. She tried to picture the scene back home without her at this early hour. Her mother milking Brindled Bet, Billy feeding the pigs, and her father—she couldn’t be thankful enough he wasn’t like Sam Coyle—getting ready to gather the “crap” in the south cove.