Miss Clark’s home was close to the church house. It was a log house, built Virginia style, with a wide, covered porch through the centre separating the two sides. This dog-trot was a cool place in warm weather, a place to churn, and wash, a place to visit, and sew, or even take a nap. Mallie sank down upon the old-fashioned couch and looked off toward the cabins across the road. They were scattered up the branch, and on beyond, one perched high in a patch of ploughed ground on the opposite mountain. “Isn’t this a lovely place!” she exclaimed, glancing back at the trellised nasturtiums and morning-glories against the kitchen windows. “I think Miss Clark is great! Look at those ducks in the branch, and such a lot of chickens. How can she find time for everything?” “Of course she’s great!” Raphael Sloan sank down on the floor cross-legged. “She can do everything—play the organ, preach a sermon, knock a bench together better than the boys, and ride any horse around here. She rode the most ornery mule in these parts one night. Ever hear about it?” There was a chorus of negatives, and Raphael’s dark eyes lighted over the prospect of thrilling the company. “It was about five years ago when the Bennett and MacGowan feud was stirring things up ’round here and everybody seemed bound to take sides. Miss Clark tried to keep out of it, for there were children from both families in school. One morning Hugh MacGowan came over to borrow a big needle to sew up his mule’s shoulder—some one had cut a long gash in it the night before. You just ought to have seen her eyes flash—I went to school to her then—and she everlastingly told us what she thought of a man or boy who would hurt an animal because he hated the owner. Of course the Bennett children went home and told it, and—” “I thought they all liked her,” interrupted Gincy. “They did, but the old folks didn’t relish being criticised even though no names were used. Miss Clark found a note pinned to her door the next morning telling her to mind her own business or she’d get into trouble. “Things were quiet for a while, then one time about midnight, she heard some drunken men going by shouting and singing—then four or five shots. It was bright moonlight and Miss Clark could see that one was wounded and swaying on his mule; the rest galloped off. Izzie Gray was staying with her then, and begged her not to stir outside, but do you suppose she’d do anything of the kind? Not much. She sailed out and found Lem Bennett bleeding to death—his arm all shot up.” Raphael stopped suddenly with dramatic effect. His audience was plainly excited and expectant. “Go on, Raf!” commanded Joe impatiently. “What next?” “Well, Miss Clark rode that mule clear into Bentville and got a doctor, or the Bennett youngsters wouldn’t have a father to-day, I can tell you.” “Did it stop the fighting?” asked Gincy, jumping up suddenly. She fished the key from under the long raincoat and fitted it into the lock.