“Gincy,” said Lalla, abruptly changing the subject, “that Mr. Gantley has come back. Talitha told me this evening and I forgot to tell you. The college folks found him up in that shack on the mountain, and they told him he’d got to go to work or they’d lock him up, and then they gave him a job in the garden. You needn’t worry about the family any more.” Lalla ran to her room at the sound of the bell, leaving Gincy in a brown study. If she told it might get Lalla and Abner into all kinds of trouble. Perhaps they would even have the debate all over again with a new subject, or Abner might have to give up the medal in disgrace. There were so many terrible possibilities, Gincy slept little that night. Early the next morning she arose fully decided on a course of action. Miss Howard should settle it; she could hardly wait to find her. The little teacher listened patiently. “I’ll tell you this evening. Come to my room at half-past seven; meanwhile don’t worry.” Somewhat comforted, Gincy went about her work. Promptly at seven she presented herself at Miss Howard’s door. “I just couldn’t wait another minute,” she said by way of apology. “You don’t need to,” was the assurance. “It’s all right. Professor Ames says the decision might not have been unanimous, but Abner would have received the medal anyhow on his main argument. It isn’t necessary that anything be said about it except to Lalla. We want her to cultivate higher ideas of honour than those she has been used to at home.” Gincy left the room jubilant; a great burden had rolled off her mind. She could go to bed with a clear conscience and make up the sleep she had lost the night before. XVII KID SHACKLEY GETS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD THE Shackley cabin stood high and dry above the bed of Goose Creek; for, while there was nothing to fear from the narrow, trickling stream of summer, the moody, tempestuous torrent of spring threatened everything within reach, and Enoch Shackley was a cautious man. It was ten o’clock, but the flickering of flambeaux, the sound of hurrying feet over the bare floor of the long living-room, the uneasy tugging of old Bob at his chain, and a saddled mule in front of the door, indicated some unusual nocturnal adventure. Presently, far in the distance could be heard the creak of a jolt wagon and the sound of voices singing “Sourwood Mountain.” The cabin door suddenly flew open and Kid Shackley appeared. He was a chunky, muscular boy, a worthy successor of his father, when the blacksmith should grow too old to follow his trade. “They’re comin’, mammy! Good-bye, I’ll tell you and pappy all ’bout hit when I git back. Looks like a feller kin hear ter Kingdom Come in the night time.” His place in the doorway was filled by a tall, gaunt figure in a meagre dress of blue calico, who peered out anxiously after him. “Ain’t ye hongry, son? Whar d’ye reckon ye’ll git yore breakfast?”