“Why!” gasped Urilla, taking in the situation. “But how did you know? I thought—” Miss Howard suddenly interrupted with, “This must be Mrs. Gantley. I intended to find you yesterday, but I thought you lived on the Big Hill pike. Are you feeling better?” The little woman shifted her position slightly, a shadow of a smile flitting across her face. “Yes, since Tally came I’m easier in my mind. The children ain’t bad sick—jest feverish and powerful troublesome; I couldn’t keep ’em from ketchin’ cold no way, out o’ bed.” Gincy and Talitha were having a quiet conference in another part of the room. “I found out this morning that she’s kin on mother’s side—way back,” said the latter in a low voice. “They used to live in Cowbell Hollow, but he ran away and left them a month ago.” Talitha looked unutterable things as she referred to the recreant Mr. Gantley. Accustomed as she was to the delinquencies of the mountain men, the desertion of a helpless family seemed the blackest of crimes. She glanced meaningly in the direction of a large basket in the corner, and whispered, “They were almost starving. Martin helped me or I couldn’t have got it here—Mrs. Donnelly gave me so many things, but—” “See here,” said Gincy, slipping an arm around Talitha’s waist, “I’m going to stay and help; I can go for a walk any Saturday. We’ll scrub the children, gather wood, and cook. Won’t it be fun!” “Are you sure you want to?” asked Talitha, her tired face brightening. “Of course; the rest can trot along just the same.” “Dear me,” grumbled Lalla as they proceeded without Gincy, “I’d like to get hold of that man. Do you know anything about the family, Miss Howard?” “Not much, only he’s fond of moonshine. He sold the home about three weeks ago—told her he was getting ready to come to Bentville, where there was a good school for the children. When she found that he had really gone, she thought he might be here and followed him.” Miss Howard walked on with her head held high; she did not want the girls to read in her face the fulness of disgust which she felt for a man of that type. There were others like him whose sons and daughters were working their way through school, trying to redeem the family name and become worthy citizens. “It’s a shame!” said Mallie. “They ought to catch him and make him work good and hard—beat him if he didn’t—and give all his wages to his folks. I’d teach him to run away from those pretty children, and—” “There isn’t a chair in the house,” interrupted Nancy Jane, “and I didn’t see a dish. That poor woman might just as well chase a Bushy tail; she’ll never see him again—not until the children grow up, then he’ll come back and live on them.” “I should be glad to get rid of him,” said Urilla conclusively. “I’ve seen men like that before.”