The little girl had removed the dishes from the table, while the woman was opening the trunk. She now came and held the horsehide lid, while her mother searched for the articles. Finally the woman found the shirts. She found also, at the bottom of the trunk, a folded piece of linen, as though that one making the shirts had used only a portion of her material. “Well, upon my word,” she said, “if here ain't a big piece that your grandma didn't make up.” She brought the shirts over to the table where the candle stood. She regarded them with surprise and admiration. “Bless my life, they're nice,” she said, “not a yaller spot on them.” A moment she stood in rapt appreciation of the beautiful, snowy linen. Then she caught up one of the shirts and spread the neckband with her fingers. “Well! Upon my soul!” she said. “Upon my soul!” She held the shirt up and measured it from shoulder to shoulder, and from the neckband to the wrist. “Why, they'll fit him! They'll fit him just as good as if they'd been made for him. If that don't beat all! Your pap was over six feet, and long armed. Now, how in the name of common sense did your grandma ever make such a mistake? It ain't like your grandma--she always sewed by pinnin' and measurin'.” The little girl was not listening. She had gone out onto the mill porch. She now spoke, but not in reply to these exclamations. “There are lights up at the schoolhouse, Mother.” The woman, still under her surprise, replied without looking up. “I reckon the Teacher's cleanin' the schoolhouse.” “But the lights look like they went up an' down through the tree tops.” “I suppose he's carryin' water down from the spring on the mountain,” replied the woman, still bending over the shirts that lay spread out on the table. CHAPTER IV |AT SUNRISE the following morning, a man riding a lean bay horse came down the mountain road toward the mill. His left hand was deformed, as though from infancy. The fingers doubled in against the wrist. He held the bridle rein, tied in a knot, over the crook of his arm. He was a big man and he sat in the saddle as though more accustomed to that seat than to any other. The horse traveled in a running walk. He turned into the little valley and approached the mill. The miller was feeding her chickens in the road before the door, throwing out handfuls of yellow corn. The man called to her before the horse stopped. “Have you got enough of that corn for a horse-feed, Sally?” The woman turned, scattering the chickens. “Bless my life,” she said, “it's the doctor. Where you been?” “Up there,” he replied, jerking his deformed arm toward the summit of the mountain where lay the bit of farm, marked by the gigantic trees. “Is ole Nicholas sick?” said the woman. “He ain't sick now,” replied the doctor. “You cured h'm, did you?”