“I'll run ye some,” she said, taking from a shelf a small iron ladle, a few bars of lead, and a pair of bullet molds. “Fur more'n a hunderd years the women uv our fam'ly hev run all the bullets our menfolks shot. They b'lieved hit made 'em lucky. Granfather Fortner killed an Injun chief acrost the Maumee River at the battle of Fallen Timbers with a bullet thet Granmother hed run fur him an' markt with a little cross. Afore the battle begun Franfather tuck the bullet outen his pouch an' put hit inter his mouth, until he could git a chance ter use hit on big game. He brot the chief's scalp hum ter Granmother.” “I believe the bullets you cast for me will do good service,” said Harry, with sincerity in his tones. “I'm sartin of hit,” she returned, confidently. “I hev adopted ye in my heart ez a son, an' I feel towards ye ez ef ye were raylly uv my own kin. I know ye'll be a credit to yerself an' me.” While the lead was melting upon the bed of coals she drew out on the hearth, she sat in her low chair with her hands clasped about her knees, and her great gray eyes fixed upon the depths of a mass of glowing embers in the fireplace, as if she saw there vivid pictures of the past or revelations of the future. “How wonderfully bright an' glowin' hit is in thar,” she said musingly; “hit's purer an' brighter then ennything else on arth. 'Purified ez by fire,' the Book says. My God, Thou has sent Thy fires upon me ez a sweepin' flood. Hev they purified me ez Thou wisht? How hit shines an' glows away in thar! Hit seems so deep sometimes thet I kin skeercely see the end. A million times purer an' brighter is the light thet shines from the Throne uv God. THEY'RE lookin' at thet now, while I still tarry heah. Husband an' son, when will I go to ye? When will I finish the work the Lord hez fur me ter do? When will the day uv my freedom come? May-be to-morrer--may-be to-morrer.” She began singing softly: “An' when a shadder falls acrost the winder Of my room, When I am workin' my app'inted task, I lift my head to watch the door an' ask If he is come; An' the angel answers sweetly In my home: 'Only a few more shadders An' He will come.'” “Aunt Debby, honey,” said Fortner, rousing himself from a nap in his chair, “thet thar lead's burnin'. Better run yer bullets.” She started as if waked from a trance, pressed her slender thin hands to her eyes for an instant, and then taking the molds up in herleft hand she raised the ladle with her right, filled them from it, knocked the molded balls out by a tap on the floor, and repeated the process with such dexterous quickness that she had made fifty bullets before harry realized that she was fairly at work.