"Well, Miss Hildy, hit 'pears like six." Her brain whirled at the working of his, but his eyes, his smile, and the halo, glorified just then by a bar of sunlight, were too much for St. Hilda, and she gathered him into her arms. "Oh, Willie, Willie," she half-sobbed; "I don't know what to do with you!" And then, to comfort her, the Angel spoke gently: "Miss Hildy, jes' don't do--nothin'." THE POPE OF THE BIG SANDY He entered a log cabin in the Kentucky hills. An old woman with a pair of scissors cut the tie that bound him to his mother and put him in swaddling-clothes of homespun. Now, in silk pajamas, with three doctors and two nurses to make his going easy, he was on his way out of a suite of rooms ten stories above the splendor of Fifth Avenue. It was early morning. A taxi swung into the paved circle in front of the hotel below and a little man in slouch-hat and black frock coat, and with his trousers in his boots, stepped gingerly out. He took off the hat with one hand, dropped his saddle-pockets from the other, and mopped his forehead with a bandanna handkerchief. "My God, brother," he said to the grinning driver, "I tol' ye to hurry, but I didn't 'low you'd _fly_! How much d' I owe ye an' how do I git in hyeh?" A giant in a gold-braided uniform had picked up the saddle-pockets when the little man turned. "Well, now, that's clever of ye," he said, thrusting out his hand, "I reckon you air the proprietor--how's the Pope?" "Sure, I dunno, sor--this way, sor." The astonished giant pointed to the swinging door and turned for light to the taxi man who, doubled with laughter over his wheel, tapped his forehead. At the desk the little man pushed his hat back and put both elbows down. "Whar's the Pope?" "The Pope!" From behind, the giant was making frantic signs, but the clerk's brow cleared. "Oh, yes--front!" The little man gasped and swayed as the elevator shot upward, but a moment later the little judge of Happy Valley and the Pope of the Big Sandy were hand in hand. "How're yo' folks, judge?" "Stirrin'--how're you, Jim?" "Ain't stirrin' at all." "Shucks, you'll be up an' aroun' in no time." "I ain't goin' to git up again." "Don't you git stubborn now, Jim." A nurse brought in some medicine and the Pope took it with a wry face. The judge reached for his saddle-pockets and pulled out a bottle of white liquor with a stopper of corn-shucks. "This'll take the bad taste out o' yo' mouth." "The docs won't let me--but lemme smell it." The judge had whipped out a twist of long green and again the Pope shook his head: "Can't drink--can't chaw!" "Oh, Lord!" The judge bit off a mouthful and a moment later walked to the window and, with his first and second fingers forked over his lips, ejected an amber stream. "Good Lord, judge--don't do that. You'll splatter a million people." He called for a spittoon and the judge grunted disgustedly. "I'd hate to live in a place whar a feller can't spit out o' his own window."