"We’ll not say any more this mornin’, though I do think a-settin’ up Al Hendries’s wife ag’in me is an onjestice. Me an’ some o’ the boys air comin’ down ter ole man Whitaker’s this evenin,’ an’ bein’ agreeable I might step down to see you ag’in." "Jest as ye please," she quietly replied; then with a tinge of color added, "Ef you’ll go back ter the clearin’ I’ll do jest what I promised, Gabe." But without saying whether he would or would not, Gabe shouldered his gun and went away. S’phiry Ann had been very calm and decided throughout the interview, but the moment her lover had disappeared she sank trembling on the bench, her face hidden in her hands. "Ef it hadn’t ’a’ be’n for thinkin’ o’ Al Hendries’s wife I never could ’a’ stood up ag’in him," she sighed faintly. A squirrel springing nimbly from a laurel to a slender chesnut-tree paused on a swaying branch to look at her, and a bird fluttered softly in the sweet-gum above her. The sun slipped under a cloud, and when she rose to go about her work, the spring day had grown gray and dull. It sent a shiver through her, as she stared dejectedly at the overshadowed valley. She had little time, though, for idle indulgence—she must be at her washing; and presently when the clouds had drifted away, and the sunshine steeped the earth in its warmth again, her spirits rose, a song burst from her lips—an ancient hymn, old almost as the everlasting mountains around her. The day waxed to full noon, then waned, and S’phiry Ann spread the clothes on the garden-fence and the grass to dry. There were other duties awaiting her. The geese must be driven up, the cows milked, and water brought from the spring for evening use. Then she would put on her clean cotton gown, and smooth the tangles out of her hair, before Gabe came in. It was all accomplished as she had planned, and at dusk she sat on the rear step of the entry taking a few minutes of well-earned rest. The light streamed out from the kitchen, falling across the clean, bare yard and sending shifting gleams up among the young leaves of the trees. On the kitchen step sat Eph, an orphan boy of twelve or thirteen the Standneges had adopted, whittling a hickory stick for a whistle, and at his side crouched a lean, ugly hound. S’phiry could see her father tilted back in a chair against the loom, talking to Jim Wise, a valley farmer who had come up to salt his cattle on the mountains, while her mother and sister passed back and forth, preparing supper. The voices of the men were raised, and presently she heard Wise say: "The raiders air out ter-night, so I hearn comin’ up the mountain. They air expectin’ ter ketch up with things this time, bein’ as somebody has been a-tellin’,—it ’pears so, anyway." S’phiry Ann pressed her hands together with a little gasp. "The boys air got they years open," said Mr. Standnege with a slow smile, his half-shut eyes twinkling.