This statement was received in silence, which was presently broken by the garrulous voice of the old woman. "Woe! woe! unto them that ventures onto the dangerous mountains. The last man knowed to have set foot on Whiteside was Hiram Kitchen, an' let me tell ye the harnts had a hand in burnin' Hiram Kitchen's cabin on Christmas day an' totin' him off along with his prisoners. Hit was a plain judgment ag'in' disbelief. Hay, Larkin, son? You're l'arned in Scripture." The elder only gazed at the feathery embers. "Wherever the old man o' the mountain is a-layin'," continued granny, "he ain't restin' easy, an' ther' might be a reason for hit, too. He had plenty o' silver--plenty o' silver." Her voice sank to a husky whisper. "An' hit's a monstrous lonely place up yonder--somebody might 'a' murdered him. Hay, Larkin, son? Somebody might 'a' done that." The old woman's words had a powerful effect on the simple crowd assembled in the shadowy room. They were prone to superstitious beliefs; and if the two strangers, who had seen more of the world and had fought in real battles, were less impressed than the others, they kept a discreet silence, in which the elder rose to his feet and uttered the evening prayer, not forgetting to ask that they might be guarded from unseen enemies and from invisible dangers. In the morning, after the two Confederates had driven away with their mule-and-ox team in search of a more congenial neighborhood, the elder seated himself on the woodpile to smoke his morning pipe and watch the milking. "Mother," said he, after a while, when his wife came forward between the well-filled pails, "I don't believe in harnts burnin' houses, but thar must 'a' been some spirit information pre-ju-dicial to Hiram Kitchen that I never could git through my head. The last thing I did afore I rode off to preach Granny Taylor's funeral sermon was to go up on the hill yonder an' satisfy myself that everything was quiet around Hiram's. I never let on to the postmaster that there was any Yankee prisoners around, an' if he knew of hit, he kept hit to hisself. Hit certainly looks, mother, as if the spirits had a hand in hit, an' a bad business hit was." "That's hit, Larkin, son," said Aunt Lucy, who leaned on her staff by the fence among the great purple cabbage-heads. "When there's mischief goin' on ye can depend on hit the harnts has a hand in hit. An' hit's a fair mountain, too," she continued, shading her eyes with her hand and gazing up at the wooded mass of Whiteside, behind which the sun was rising. "Hit's fair to view, an' innocent-appearin', but there's few has set foot on the top o' hit."