Before he arrived at the Widow Miller's, the rain had stopped and the clouds had broken. Back of them was a discouraged moon, which sometimes showed its face for a fitful moment, only to disappear. The wind was noisily floundering through the treetops. Near the stile, Samson gave his whippoorwill call. It was, perhaps, not quite so clear or true as usual, but that did not matter. There were no other whippoorwills calling at this season to confuse signals. He crossed the stile, and with a word quieted Sally's dog as it rose to challenge him, and then went with him, licking his hand. Sally opened the door, and smiled. She had spent the day nerving herself for this farewell, and at least until the moment of leave- taking she would be safe from tears. The Widow Miller and her son soon left them alone, and the boy and girl sat before the blazing logs. For a time, an awkward silence fell between them. Sally had donned her best dress, and braided her red-brown hair. She sat with her chin in her palms, and the fire kissed her cheeks and temples into color. That picture and the look in her eyes remained with Samson for a long while, and there were times of doubt and perplexity when he closed his eyes and steadied himself by visualizing it all again in his heart. At last, the boy rose, and went over to the corner where he had placed his gun. He took it up, and laid it on the hearth between them. "Sally," he said, "I wants ter tell ye some things thet I hain't never said ter nobody else. In the fust place, I wants ye ter keep this hyar gun fer me." The girl's eyes widened with surprise. "Hain't ye a-goin' ter take hit with ye, Samson?" He shook his head. "I hain't a-goin' ter need hit down below. Nobody don't use 'em down thar. I've got my pistol, an' I reckon thet will be enough." "I'll take good keer of hit," she promised. The boy took out of his pockets a box of cartridges and a small package tied in a greasy rag. "Hit's loaded, Sally, an' hit's cleaned an' hit's greased. Hit's ready fer use." Again, she nodded in silent assent, and the boy began speaking in a slow, careful voice, which gradually mounted into tense emotion. "Sally, thet thar gun was my pap's. When he lay a-dyin', he gave hit ter me, an' he gave me a job ter do with hit. When I was a little feller, I used ter set up 'most all day, polishin' thet gun an' gittin' hit ready. I used ter go out in the woods, an' practise shootin' hit at things, tell I larned how ter handle hit. I reckon thar hain't many fellers round here thet kin beat me now." He paused, and the girl hastened to corroborate. "Thar hain't none, Samson."