“I ain’t able ter see what gin ye a call ter meddle in it. The frequent vis’tor ain’t wantin’ ter be baptized, an’ ain’t a-ondertakin’ ter go ter heaven along o’ you-uns or enny other survigrous saint. Ef he kin git the folks he wants ter ’sociate with in this worl’, the Lord’ll hev ter poke him up with a mighty sharp stick ter make him keer ennythin’ ’bout the nex’ worl’. That’s the state o’ the frequent vis’tor. Whenst I see ye kemin’ in this place, whar me an’ my little sister, Is’bel, hed got fust ter keep dry, I’d hev made ye stan outside, ef I’d know’d ye hed no mo’ manners than ter ax me who kems a-courtin’ an’ who don’t. I ’lowed, though, from the way ye cavorted down yander ter the baptizin’, ez ye war powerful perlite an’ pious, bein’ sech a Christian, an’ yer mind warn’t set on courtin’. Talkin’ ’bout courtin’ ter folks ye never see afore!” “I’ll be bound I know jes’ who ye air,—yer dad an’ all yer folks,” he declared, in hasty self-justification. “’Tain’t ez ef ye’d met up with a stranger,—somebody from North Ca’liny, or the Lord knows whar. I mus’ hev seen ye agin an’ agin, ’ceptin’ I jes’ don’t take much notice o’ young folks,” he added, in a staid, middle-aged manner. “Is’bel,”—he leaned forward and addressed the child, a tousled headed, barefooted, wiry little lass of ten or twelve, who had been listening silently and staring at him,—“what’s yer dad’s name?” “Eli Strobe,” piped out Isabel. “Thar, now!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “Eli Strobe’s cousin married my half-brother, an’ I hev got ez much right ter talk ’bout courtin’ ez enny frequent vis’tor.” This conclusive logic seemed to daunt the girl. She offered no further reproof, and there was a sort of diffidence in her defeated mien,—the more as he continued: “I be mighty keerless o’ who air in this worl’; my interus’ air in them ez hev gone afore. ’Pears ter me thar ain’t none lef’ like ’em—none like Samson, an’ Daniel, an G’liath.” A vague solemnity dawned upon her face, at the mention of these names. She sat listening in brooding silence, her crystal-clear eyes on his face as he talked. “I wisht I hed lived in them days, herdin’ sheep, or suthin’,” he added. “Ye’d be dead now,” she remonstrated. “Air ye one o’ them ez cling ter this mortial life?” he demanded, in rebuke. “It’s jes’ a span, a breath, a mist fur the wind ter scatter.” “Waal, it be powerful comfort’ble whilst it lasts,” she argued. He glanced at her and shook his head, and then relapsed into silence. The continuous rain was now glimpsed through the mist, and again sounded dully from out the invisibilities of the vapors. Its monody accented the increasing chill of the air. A broad flicker of lightning, diffused through all the fine gray lines, showed the distant looming mountains and cliffs without, and illumined her pensive face.