"If it is that big brother of yours, whom I saw last night, I can't believe he has done anything so very wicked. You say it is not the whiskey?" "Maybe it was the whiskey first--then--I don't know exactly how came it--I reckon he doesn't himself. I--he's not my brothah--not rightly, but he has been the same as such. They telegraphed me to come home quick. Bishop Towahs told me a little--all he knew,--but he didn't know what all was it, only some wrong to call the officahs and set them aftah Frale--poor Frale. He--he told me himself--last evening." She paused again, and the pallor slowly left her face and the red surged into her cheeks and mounted to the waves of her heavy hair. "It is Frale, then, who is in trouble! And you wish me to help him get away?" She looked down and was silent. "But I am a stranger, and know nothing about the country." He pushed his chair away from the table and leaned back, regarding her intently. "Oh, I am afraid for him." She put her hand to her throat and turned away her face from his searching eyes, in shame. "I prefer not to know what he has done. Just explain to me your plan, and how I can help. You know better than I." "I can't understand how comes it I can tell you; you are a strangah to all of us--and yet it seems like it is right. If I could get some clothes nobody has evah seen Frale weah--if--I could make him look different from a mountain boy, maybe he could get to some town down the mountain, and find work; but now they would meet up with him before he was halfway there." Thryng rose and began pacing the room. "Is there any hurry?" he demanded, stopping suddenly before her. "Yes." "Then why have you waited all this time to tell me?" She lifted her eyes to his in silence, and he knew well that she had not spoken because she could not, and that had he not ventured with his direct questions, she would have left him, carrying her burden with her, as hopelessly silent as when she came. He sat beside her again and gently urged her to tell him without further delay all she had in her mind. "You feel quite sure that if he could get down the mountain side without being seen, he would be safe; where do you mean to send him? You don't think he would try to return?" "Why--no, I reckon not--if--I--" Her face flamed, and she drew on her bonnet, hiding the crimson flush in its deep shadow. She knew that without the promise he had asked, the boy would as surely return as that the sun would continue to rise and set. "He must stay," she spoke desperately and hurriedly. "If he can just make out to stay long enough to learn a little--how to live, and will keep away from bad men--if I--he only knows enough to make mean corn liquor now--but he nevah was bad. He has always been different--and he is awful smart. I can't think how came he to change so." Taking the empty basket with her, she walked toward the door, and David followed her. "Thank you for that good dinner," he said.