“Oh, jedge!” she cried, overcome with a sense of relief, with her happy reliance on his superior knowledge,—was not he the judge?—“that ain’t what folks tell me. They ’low I be like that thar harnt o’ a herder on Thunderhead; ef I can’t kill ye, I jes’ withers yer time an’ spiles yer prospects. Oh!”—she struggled for self-control,—“I hev studied on that sayin’ till it ’peared ’twould kill me.” “Whoever told you that was very cruel, and I dare say very worthless,” said Gwinnan sharply. He was prompted by a vicarious resentment; he was picturing to himself some harsh-faced mountain neighbor as he asked sternly, “Who said it?” She saw the indignation in his countenance and suddenly feared that she was near to wrecking her lover’s interest with the powerful man whom she sought to enlist. “I—I can’t tell,” she faltered. He waived the matter. “All right,” he said, hastily. His face had hardened; he was laughing a little, cynically. Who it was he knew right well. He had known right well, too, and many months ago, that she was infatuated with this young fellow,—how dashing, how spirited the scapegrace looked in his sudden recollection!—and only now he began to definitely resent it. He glanced down at her with reprehensive, reproachful eyes. He was but a man, for all that he sat upon the bench and knew the law. Alethea noted the subtle change in his face. It bewildered and confused her, but the surprise of it was as naught to the amazement that overpowered her to discover that the sky was reddening, the sun was sinking low to the purple Chilhowee, all the intervenient levels were suffused with a golden haze, and down the tawny, winding road she discerned a moving speck, which she divined might be Jerry Price and Bluff coming for her from the mill. Her rigorous conscience took her to task that, beguiled by a word of sympathy, of comprehension, she should have let the forlorn interests of her captive lover wait while she listened. “Oh, jedge,” she exclaimed, clinging to the bridle,—and it seemed he heard for the first time the voice of supplication,—“I know ye ain’t one ez medjures a gredge an’ pays it back. An’ I ’lowed I’d ax ye ter do suthin’ fur him. He air a onruly boy, I know, but he never meant ter do sech—no harm—leastwise he—He war harried by things turnin’ out so ez he couldn’t git jestice. An’ leastwise, jedge”— Poor Alethea was unskilled in argument, and even Harshaw had been fain to let Mink’s moral worth pass without emblazonment. “Oh, jedge,” she cried, “ef ye could do suthin’ fur him, ’twould be sech a favior ter him,—all his life’s gone in that sentence,—an’—an’ ter me.” He slowly shook his head. “Not to you. It surprises me that you, who know so well what is right and good, should care for a man like that. He has only two alternations: he is either mischievous or malicious.” She was once more helplessly feeling aloof from all the world; for here his sympathy ended.