"From this gentleman here," Sis replied, indicating Woodward without looking at him. She was pale as death, and her voice was low and gentle. Woodward would have explained, but the apparent unconcern of the women gave him no opportunity. "I declare, Sis," exclaimed her mother, with a fond, apologetic little laugh; "ef you hain't a plum sight, I hain't never seed none." "She's thes es much like her Gran'pap Poteet," said Mrs. Hightower, "ez ef he'd 'a' spit'er right out'n his mouth--that she is." This led to a series of reminiscences more or less entertaining, until after a while, Sis, who had been growing more and more restless, rose and said-- "Good night, folks; I'm tired and sleepy. The clock has struck eleven." "Yes," said Mrs. Poteet, "an' the clock's too fast, bekaze it hain't skacely bin more'u a minnit sence the chickens crowed for ten." This remark contained the essence of hospitality, for it was intended to convey to Mrs. Poteet's guests the information that if they were not ready to retire, she was prepared to discredit her clock in their interests. But there was not much delay on the part of the guests. The women were dying to question Sis, and Woodward was anxious to be alone; and so they said "Good night," the earnestness and quaint simplicity of the old women carrying Woodward back to the days of his childhood, when his grandmother leaned tenderly over his little bed, and whispered: "Good night, dear heart, and pleasant dreams." Shortly afterward the lights were put out, and, presumably, those under Teague Poteet's roof addressed themselves to slumber. But what of the news that Sis had given to the winds? There was no slumber for it until it had fulfilled its mission. Where did it go, and what was its burden? Three sharp blasts upon a horn, thrice repeated; then an interval; then three more thrice repeated. Up, up the mountain the signal climbed; now faltering, now falling, but always climbing; sending echoes before it, and leaving echoes behind it, but climbing, climbing; now fainting and dying away, but climbing, climbing, until it reached Pullium's Summit, the smallest thread of sound. Two men were sitting talking in front of a cabin. The eldest placed one hand upon the shoulder of his companion, and flung the other to his ear. Faint and far, but clear and strenuous, came the signal. The men listened even after it had died away. The leaves of the tall chestnuts whipped each other gently, and the breeze that had borne the signal seemed to stay in the tops of the mountain pines as if awaiting further orders; and it had not long to wait.