She looked sharply at him, seeking to discern in his open, ingenuous countenance any indication that he divined that she had more definite knowledge of the intruders than he had been able to secure, that she was ready to scheme for their safety, that she tolerated and continued the conversation in their behoof, in the hope of further information for their sake. But it was evident that Clem Sanders, in the fullness of his loyalty, neither questioned her motives nor even speculated concerning them; he accepted all that she said and did as he accepted the sunshine,—as the most righteous and beneficent expression of the generosity of nature. Some gratitude stirred in her heart with the recognition of the depth and sincerity of the sentiment with which he regarded her, and it was more gently that she said:— “Ye couldn’t do nuthin’ nohow, Clem. Wunst them boys hev got the idee, nuthin’ kin stop ’em, an’ ef they didn’t watch at yer house they’d watch somewhar.” “Yes-sum,” said Clem. “An’,” she went on thoughtfully, “ef, when they tuk arter them men, ye tried ter stop ’em, they mought slash ye up, or shoot ye ’mongst ’em, an’ I don’t want that ter happen.” His face was irradiated by this evidence of her care for him. “Yes-sum!” he cried jubilantly. Marcella rose abruptly from the log. “I mus’ be goin’ in,” she remarked. She put on her tunnel-like sun-bonnet, and with the eclipse of her face within its depths the day seemed to him to have darkened suddenly. She stood irresolute for a moment, looking vaguely about her; her attitude denoted despondency; she drew a long breath that had a suggestion of a sigh, and then she picked up her basket of eggs. “Kin I tote yer basket fur ye, Marcelly?” “Ye could, bein’ toler’ble survigrous,—ef I’d let ye,” she responded ungraciously, still keeping hold of the handle of the basket. She moved slowly along, her tread noiseless upon the thick carpet of pine needles; only now and then her skirts stirred the fallen leaves, that gave a sibilant rustle. Clem walked humbly beside her, looking down at the baffling sun-bonnet that hid her face, and keeping silence in deference to her mood. All the world was still; the sunshine made no progress from limb to limb of the dark bare trees where it lay so yellow. And time was surely drowsing somewhere. The sky was cloudless, changeless. Winds!—they were now a mere tradition; the day had suggestions that seemed eternal in its rich, enduring light, its serene impassivity. The shadows, too, were motionless, save for those of the young mountaineers as they passed under the boughs.