They had stopped singing now. A faint, rosy glow was spreading above the mountains back of them, and glimpses of a great rolling valley came from the front. The road ran steeply down, causing the occupants of the wagon to sway in their chairs. Dan Gooch plied the brake, vociferating to his oxen: “Hi thar, Bright! Steady, Star! See, yon’s Redbird!” Sam Coyle straightened an inert figure. He had been half dozing, conscious of little except his broken rest. His journey to Bentville was prompted by a curiosity which had been growing ever since Abner had won the medal. There was a little pricking below the jealousy in his heart when he thought what a “sorry” father he had been. Dan Gooch was growing more enthusiastic every day over “larnin’.” Sam wondered if it were too late—here he glanced at his wife’s worn but radiant face. She was looking in the direction of Redbird, but he knew that her heart was going out to Martin and Talitha in Bentville, and that she had nothing to regret. Billy and Sudie grew more excited each moment. “I’m that hongry I could eat a bear; I hope they’ll have one fer breakfast!” exclaimed the former. “More like it’ll be a chicken,” laughed Kid as he guided Nick nearer the wagon. “I saw Zeb Twilliger in the hen yard a minute ago.” A lank, high cheek-boned mountaineer came slouching toward the gate as they drove up. “Light and hitch,” he commanded hospitably. “I reckon yo’re bound fer Bentville. Piny’s been pesterin’ the life out o’ us ter come; she sent word agin this week, an’ I ’low ef she’s honin’ fer us, we’d shore ought ter go.” “That’s what I told pappy,” interrupted Kid eagerly. “He and mammy bide in the Hollow till they’re fair mossy. Pete and Ike’ll come back plumb shamed of we-uns.” And then the boy flushed at what the words implied. Sam Coyle failed to make his usual sarcastic retort to the thrust at Goose Creek. Indeed he was quite amiable to Kid on their way up to the door of the rather untidy looking cabin. There was plenty of bacon and cornbread, with coffee and fresh buttermilk for breakfast. The chickens were for their dinner and had been cooked the day before. “I never count on eatin’ chicken till I get a holt of the drumstick,” whispered Billy to Kid, rolling his eyes. Mrs. Twilliger was large and loud-voiced. The older children had all married and left home except Piny. “We’d planned ter keep her fer a spell yit, but I don’t reckon nothin’ ever’ll suit her ’round here now she’s taken ter schoolin’; she air a queer gal.” “I wouldn’t let hit fret me,” said Mrs. Gooch with unexpected spirit, “the mountings air needin’ a few idees; I’m glad Gincy’s gittin’ ’em. I’m plumb wore out with the old ones. She and Tally’d much better be larnin’ out o’ books than marryin’ some no ’count chap thet goes r’arin’ ’round, shootin’ up things ginerally.”