In the depths of the chasm spanned by the bridge there stood in the shadow of one of the great cliffs a forlorn little log hut, so precariously perched on the ledgy slope that it might have seemed the nest of some strange bird rather than a human habitation. The huge natural column of the crag rose sheer and straight two hundred feet above it, but the descent from the door, though sharp and steep, was along a narrow path leading in zigzag windings amid great bowlders and knolls of scraggy earth, pushing their way out from among the stones that sought to bury them, and fragments of the cliff fallen long ago and covered with soft moss. The path appeared barely passable for man, but upon it could have been seen the imprint of a hoof, and beside the hut was a little shanty, from the rude window of which protruded a horse’s head, with so interested an expression of countenance that he looked as if he were assisting at the conversation going on out-of-doors this mild March afternoon. “Ye could find deer, an’ bar, an’ sech, easy enough ef ye would go arter ’em,” replied the young hunter’s mother, as she sat in the doorway knitting a yarn sock. “That thar still-house up yander ter the Ridge hev skeered off the deer an’ bar fur ye worse’n the railroad hev. Ye kin git that fur an’ no furder. Ye hev done got triflin’ an’ no ’count, an’ nuthin’ else in this worl’ ails ye,--nur the deer an’ bar, nuther,” she concluded, with true maternal candor. “It war tole ter me,” said an elderly man, who was seated in a rush-bottomed chair outside the door, and who, although a visitor, bore a lance in this domestic controversy with much freedom and spirit, “ez how ye hed done got religion up hyar ter the Baptis’ meetin’-house the last revival ez we hed. An’ I s’posed it war the truth.” “I war convicted,” replied the young fellow, ambiguously, still leaning lazily on his rifle. He was a striking figure, remarkable for a massive proportion and muscular development, and yet not lacking the lithe, elastic curves characteristic of first youth. A dilapidated old hat crowned a shock of yellow hair, a sunburned face, far-seeing gray eyes, and an expression of impenetrable calm. His butternut suit was in consonance with the prominent ribs of his horse, the poverty-stricken aspect of the place, and the sterile soil of a forlorn turnip patch which embellished the slope to the water’s edge. “Convicted!” exclaimed his mother, scornfully. “An’ sech goin’s-on sence! Mark never _hed_ no religion to start with.” “What did ye see when ye war convicted?” demanded the inquisitive guest, who spoke upon the subject of religion with the authority and asperity of an expert. “I never seen nuthin’ much.” Mark Yates admitted the fact reluctantly. “Then ye never _hed_ no religion,” retorted Joel Ruggles. “I _knows_, ’kase I hev hed a power o’ visions. I hev viewed heaven an’ hung over hell.” He solemnly paused to accent the effect of this stupendous revelation.