“There was an oneasy movement in the pack. Tom’s heart fell. He stepped on wery cautious. Now agin come the sound, louder an’ louder. “The road took a sudden turn ’round a thick clump o’ woods an’ crossed a stream on a rickety timber bridge. There Buttonporgie stopped. An’ ez he leaned agin the rail an’ looked down into the water there below him, gleamin’ along in the moonlight, everything kind o’ passed away from his mind. He only knowd that he was wery hot, an’ the pool looked so cool an’ inwitin’. He only knowd that he was wery tired, an’ the pool looked so soft an’ nice, ez ef it was jest intended for limbs achin’ like ez his. He’d miles yit to go afore he reached the hills. Si was sleepin’. Si wouldn’t mind. Si wouldn’t know. They’d be movin’ agin afore Si woke up. So he climbed over the rail an’ stepped off. The wotter closed over his head an’ he went down an’ down, the great weight on his back draggin’ him. But that wasn’t what he wanted. He was jest goin’ to lay there in the cool stream an’ look up at the stars an’ rest. His feet struck the bottom an’ he tore his arms free o’ the straps that held the awful weight to him. In a second he was on the surface an’ swimmin’, fer he was wide awake. “He used to say that ez he stood there on the bank lookin’ at that quiet pool it seemed ez tho’ it was all a dream; that he’d never met the murderer an’ carried him thirty mile on his back, or felt the prod of his pistol every time his steps lagged. But ef it was a dream, he thot, then what was that he seen that rose to the surface an’ went bobbin’ away on the current? It was Si Berrybush’s ole cloth cap.” CHAPTER XI. _Cupid and a Mule._ The wind went shrieking through the bare attic above and singing among the boxes and barrels in the cellar below. The big show window in front groaned in a deep bass; the little window in the rear accompanied it in a high treble. The lamp, with its vague, flickering flame, cast a gloomy glare over the store, and lighted up the faces of the little group of men, seated on box, counter, keg and chair, huddled about the great center of heat. The Chronic Loafer raised himself from his favorite pile of calicoes and turned up his coat collar. “Shet that stove door an’ put on the draught,” he cried. “What’s the uset o’ freezin’!” “Cold Chrisermas to morrer,” said the Storekeeper, as he banged the door shut and turned on the draught in obedience to the demand. “Turn up the lamp,” growled the Miller. “It’s ez dark an’ gloomy ez a barn here.” “They ain’t no uset o’ wastin’ ile,” the Storekeeper muttered as he complied with the second request. The great egg stove roared right merrily as the flames darted up out of its heart, until its large body grew red-hot and sent forth genial rays of heat and light--the veritable sun of the narrow village universe. “Listen to the wind! Ain’t it howlin’?” said the Loafer. “Col’est Chrisermas Eve in years,” the Tinsmith responded.