“I’d hev ’lowed,” he observed, “ez arter Satan hisself kem hyar an’ sot hisself up thar in public in the forge, squattin’ on the anvil, ez them fellers, Eli Strobe an’ Teck Jepson, mought hev knowed ez bad luck would hev got inter thar fightin’. Eli jes’ a-boundin’ out in the road under the mare’s huffs, an’ Teck ridin’ the off’cer o’ the law down!—they knowed the devil hev been viewed in Brumsaidge wunst, ennyways, ef they didn’t know ’bout his workin’s sence.” The old man lifted his chin from the hands clasped upon his stick. The nostrils of his long, thin, bony nose dilated like those of a frightened horse; his eyes widened and brightened, showing a lighter tint than their usual gray. “What workin’s, son?” he demanded. Jube looked at him in the closing dusk, and mysteriously shook his head. Mrs. Donnard had not observed the allusion nor the look. “Racin’ an’ bettin’ air sinful,” she declared, “an’ that thar tearin’-down, good-lookin’ Teck Jepson hev got mighty little religion ef he don’t know it.” The old man had a sudden monition of the discipline seemly in his own family. “Warn’t ye one o’ them a-racin’, son?” he asked, although he had had the evidence of his own eyes to the fact. There was a momentary pause. “Jes’ sorter runnin’ the horse-critter along the road,” said the parson’s son, as if defining a material difference. The old man in a manner accepted the distinction. “Waal, sonny, ye mus’n’t do sech. ’Tain’t right, an’ it air agin the law.” “Yes, sir,” said the dutiful Jube. “Though ye wouldn’t hev run nobody down,” said the mother. “Naw’m.” Jube found it very easy to coincide. Mrs. Donnard, convinced that there was no more news from the Settlement to be gleaned, rose presently, and went indoors to “dish up” supper. The two men, left alone upon the porch, grew more confidential. “Jube,” said the parson eagerly, lowering his voice, “what d’ ye mean ’bout the devil’s workin’s in Brumsaidge sence?” Jube looked, cogitating and silent, down the slope, where the great dark trees rose, dense, and heavy, and glooming. The sky was far lighter than the earth, and here only was color distinguishable,—the pallid blue tint that barely permitted to be seen the fluctuating glitter of a timorous star. Above Chilhowee, far away, the sickle of the moon was reaping the shadowy mists, gray and crimson, touched with an afterglow of the sun; a vague swath of light was left behind her keen and glistening blade. The voice of a nighthawk sounded raucous and sudden, and once more the heavy silence brooded. “Waal, dad, I dunno ef I hev enny call ter say nuthin’ ’bout it; I promised I wouldn’t tell.” “Laws-a-massy, Jube, who tole ye?” demanded the parson, agitated. Jube stirred uneasily. His unlucky allusion to the matter had escaped him unwittingly. He was beginning to understand that he should be urged to explain, and his tact and invention were deplorably inadequate to the emergency.