“No; nor did we them until now, Granny. But that day’s gone by.” “Don’t ye be too damn sure,” reiterated the fiery old dame. “They’ll git ye yit, ef ye don’t watch out.” “If they do,” said Joslin, “I’m ready to go. I tell you, times have changed in these hills.” “Huh!” began his wife again. “Ye’re takin’ a heap on yoreself, seems to me, Davy Joslin. I reckon ye think ye done all this—in two year!” “No, I don’t think so, Meliss’. I think the Lord did it.” “And yet ye hain’t set up fer preachin’ yit! How’d ye come through school, anyhow? I’ll bet ye’re pore as Job’s turkey right now.” “I’m worse than that, Meliss’. I’ve got nothing.” “That’s it! That’s right!” went on his wife heatedly. “Hit’s what I expected. Ye’d let us starve. Well, I’ll fix ye anyhow.” “What do you mean, Meliss’?” asked David Joslin curiously. Under his words now, gentle as they were, was the fierceness of the mountaineer, jealous of any liberties taken with him. “Well,” she said, “ye quit me. Ye done left me fer full two year.” “No, I didn’t, Meliss’. I didn’t quit you for two years. I told you when I left it was for all my life.” “Yes, an’ that throwed her on my hands,” growled Granny Joslin. “Still, I wouldn’t complain if it hadn’t been them Gannts stole eight or ten hawgs off en us last year.” “Hit was a fine way to do,” went on his wife, with growing confidence in her own powers now. “I nuvver seed a man in these mountings run away from his wife that way, lessen he was obleeged to lay out er git free from the law fer a while.” “I didn’t leave the country,” replied David Joslin. “I left you. That don’t mean that I’ve left any of my responsibilities. I told you I didn’t dare look at the things I ought to do—it was only a question of the thing I ought to do the most. I had to get my education first. Now I’ve come back. I want to see now what I’d best to do about you.” “Fine time to begin plannin’ now!” rejoined his wife sullenly. “It’s true,” said he, “I can’t do much. I’ve got mighty little to do with. Still, I want to pay my debts.” She rose and stood before him, close to his chair, her hands clenched into fists, her eyes flashing. “Dang ye!” said she, with all the fury of the woman scorned in her face. “Ye quit me yellow, that’s what ye did. Ye run away an’ left me—ye was a coward—ye was a-skeered to stay in here—an’ now ye want to come sneakin’ around, tryin’ to make peace with them Gannts that we fit with all our lives, the hull of our fam’ly agin the hull of theirn! Ye come a-crawlin’ in here atter dark, an’ talkin’ to me about plans! Ye say the Lord has been a-holpin’ ye. I don’t reckon the Lord had much to do with it. I reckon ye could tell a-plenty different story right now if ye wanted to.” “Yes,” said David Joslin, his forehead wet now, “I could.” “Ye act to me like a houn’,” said she. “If ye’d been ary part of a man ye wouldn’t of runned away an’ lef me.” “David, I reckon ye got to call that kind of talk,” said the old woman quietly.