“Gettin’ ’long in years, Colonel Ledbetter,” observed a grizzled mountaineer running his eyes along the blackened rafters of the cabin; “a hundred year old ain’t it?” “Mighty nigh,” answered the Colonel shooting tobacco juice at a fallen ember before kicking it back into the fire. “Looks like with a little fixin’ up ’twas good for another hundred. You ain’t let it lately?” “No, Deacon Higgins, I ain’t.” The speaker doubled into his studying attitude with unperceiving eyes upon the hearth; “the last tenant made a barnyard of the road out yer in front, fed his cattle and hogs there reg’lar so’t women folks couldn’t git by to go to meetin’ without silin’ their Sunday clothes and he let the ragweed run clean up to the eaves. It hurt my feelin’s to look at the place, ’twas such a contrast to what ’twas when Preacher Carr had it, so I turned him loose and locked the door and I don’t guess I’ll ever rent it again.” “Preacher Carr certainly did keep it mighty snug,” said Captain Campbell, “and he was powerful proud of it too. He’d point out to every stranger the part the Injins built and the part your father added on to it; and he was proud of all outdoors besides. He ’lowed there wasn’t another tree in the country so handsome to look at as this yer postoak out in front.” “And if he and his old gray mare was on the homeward road any whar near sundown, she’d break into a trot of her own free will and accord, knowin’ she’d got to git him here in time to see the sun slip down behind the Bald.” “And he done made a sermon onct ’bout that ar cliff t’other side the road. His tex’ was somethin’ ’bout ‘The shadow of a Great Rock,’ and mighty nigh all the women in the meetin’-house had to unfold their pocket handkerchiefs ’fore he got through.” “And he done kep’ his tater-patch as clean of weeds as my wife keeps her posy beds.” “And he worked jes’ as hard to weed the sin out of Junaluska as he did to weed the pusly and cockles out of his roas’n’-ear patch.” “Amen!” shouted Deacon Higgins. “And he was always yer when he was needed”—the voice was unsteady and the speaker sat in the shadow. “I tell ye it cuts me powerful that when my wife died last spring there was nary a preacher to take her last test’mony, and she a-askin’ for him all the time. The neighbours done what they could when we laid her away; they sung a hymn and Judge Brevard read a chapter, but there was nary a sermon preached or a lesson of her life said over her, and she a Meth’dis’ in good and reg’lar standin’. I ain’t a-blamin’ our young preacher; the branches was swelled at the fords and the bridges was swept away. He couldn’t git yer nohow. But seem like something’s wrong when we’ve got five meetin’-houses and nary preacher living yer.”