Again, a yet lighter side of the nature of the mountain man would manifest itself—few, indeed, were more human than himself at heart. With a wide smile, upon occasion, he might call a halt in the labors for a time, and, taking from under a board the new violin, which represented his sole acquisition in the outer world from which he now had exiled himself in turn, he would motion to them to clear a space upon the floor, and fall to dancing for his playing. For the time, the natural fervor of the mountain soul would forget itself in the ancient relaxation of their kind, and men and women, or even children, would follow the measure of his bow. He played with a certain native skill, if with unfinished art, but knowing well the power of music as incentive and as stimulus. These matters now strengthened him in the regard of his fellows, so that he became a leader indeed, not of one clan, but of many, of all. His word was law to them now. Had he cared to preach, he could, indeed, have stood before them now, and swayed them with his words. But David Joslin did not preach. It was thus that the city grew, and thus that the feuds passed, no man might say when. There had come from among the people, as always there does come in time of need, a man who had learned and lived, had joyed and sorrowed with them, and who, therefore, was fit to lead them, and to speak with the tongue of law and of prophecy. Alone, Joslin was wide-eyed and sorrowing, as any man must be who carries burdens other than his own. Unconsciously, he was learning the great truth that human sympathy is the only foundation for human leadership. “Fer a man who kin read the way he kin, four syllerbles and all, Davy hain’t stuck up none at all,” said old Absalom Gannt. “No, I reckon he’s all right. He hain’t changed a bit inside.” “He kin play the fiddle yit, too,” assented Chan Bullock. “I dunno as old Levi Gaines kin play ‘Turkey in the Straw’ any better than what Davy does, an’ Levi’s been allowed to be e’en about the best fiddler in these parts fer nigh on to forty year.” “That’s a heap older than Davy is, no matter how he looks,” said Absalom. “I re-colleck when he was borned all right, an’ he hain’t thirty yit. I’ll say he’s a right servigerous man, young as he is.” “Well,” explained Chan Bullock, resting his hands for the time on the top of his mattock handle. “While he may have been a heap like the rest of us one way of speakin’, Davy hain’t never been profligate. If he had been, I don’t reckon he’d of been called.” CHAPTER XVII THESE TWAIN ONE day, without explanation to his fellows, Joslin ceased in his labors, and started down the hill. No one asked him his intention, for he rarely spoke of his own plans. They saw his tall figure passing by the road beyond the forks of the river—the direction of his home. A half-hour before dusk that day, he arrived at the little gap in the fence, which made the gate of his own scant acres, unvisited for two years.