“I’m a-bein’ keerful. I’m castin’ up accounts this very day. I been castin’ up accounts fer some time. I’m thinkin’ of what that new doctor said to me. _That_ was preachin’ sich as I nuvver heern tell of afore in these hills. I wish’t he’d come here an’ stay right along.” She made no answer now, but pulled out the rude board table at the side of the fire, and placed upon it a yellowed plate or so, holding a piece of cold cornpone, a handful of parched corn. “Eat,” said she. “Hit’s all we got. I borrowed some meal from the Taggarts. They’ve got no more to lend.” “Don’t ask nothin’ of no one, womern. I’ll not be beholden to ary man. I tell ye, I’m castin’ up accounts.” “What do ye mean—what ye talkin’ about, Dave?” She was half-frightened now. “I hardly know. I kain’t see very much light jest yit.” “Hain’t ye goin’ to eat?” she said. “Hain’t ye goin’ to sleep? Hain’t ye goin’ to lay down on the bed?” “No!” said he. “No! Our children laid thar onct—them two. They died. It was best they died. They’re our last ones.” “What do ye mean, Dave?” she again demanded, wide-eyed. “What do ye mean—ye hain’t a-goin’ to sleep here with me agin—nuvver?” “No, I told ye. I said I was a-castin’ up accounts. Meliss’, I’ve got to go away.” “Ye hain’t a-goin’ to quit me?” “I don’t like that word. I nuvver quit nobody nor nothin’ that I owed a duty to. But I’ve got to go away. Hit hain’t right fer ye an’ me to live together no more. Children—why, my God!” “Dave! Air ye crazy? Hain’t I been a good and faithful womern to ye? Tell me!” He did not answer her. “Tell me, Dave—have ye——” “No! I’ve been as faithful as ye. We made our mistake when we was married—we mustn’t make it no more an’ no wuss.” “The new doctor!” She blazed out now with scorn, contempt, indignation, all in her voice. “Yes!” he replied suddenly. “The new doctor—ary doctor—ary man with sense could have told us what he told me. I know now a heap of things I nuvver knowed—what my pap an’ mammy nuvver knowed.” “Ye’re a-goin’ to quit me like a coward!” “I quit nobody like a coward. I hain’t a coward, Meliss’, an’ you know it. I’m a-goin’ to quit ye because I’m a brave man. I’ve got to be as brave as ary man ever was in the Cumberlands to do what I’ve got to do. Do ye think it’s easy fer me? Don’t ye think I hear my own children cryin’ still—mine as much as yours? An’ this was all I have to give them. Thank God they died! They’d nuvver orter of been borned.” His wife sank into a chair, her hands dropped limp in her lap. His own hands were trembling as, after a long time, he turned toward her; his voice trembled also. “Look around us in these hills,” said he, his lips quivering. “Think of what’s in them coves back fer fifty mile yan way, and yan, and yan, up the Bull Skin, up the Redbird, up Hell-fer-Sartin an’ Newfound an’ the Rattlesnake an’ the Buffalo—houses like ours—whisky—killin’—cousins.” “Cousins?” Her voice was hoarse. “Why not?”