“Ef yer mean what yer sed las’ Sunday,” she read, spelling out the words slowly, “ther ain’t no time ter lose. Gran’pap Bozeman wuz berried yistidy, an’ no sooner wuz he in the groun’ than Hiram he sez the place is hisn now, an’ ef I’m goin ter stay on here I got ter marry him next Chuseday when ’Squire Stark comes here. Which I’ll die fust, fer I ain’t goin’ ter marry no cuzzen. In pertickler I ain’t goin’ ter marry Hiram Bozeman which I do despise fer the meanest man on this mountain. Ef yer ment what yer sed, then yer kin come ter the big spring Monday nite an’ I’ll be waitin’ fer yer in the shadder er the ole chestnut. Ef yer ain’t thar by nine o’clock thar won’t be nothin’ fer me ter do but ter run away, which I will, so help me God afore I’ll marry him as sez I must.” “You will no hoo this is frum fer the name is writ on the outside.” Gabe sat during the reading as if stupefied, but when Liz had finished and held out to him the scrawled sheet, he rose. He looked at the sun; it was five o’clock and a good three hours to Bozeman’s when the mare was fresh; he would have to take it easy, for there was the return trip with the double burden. “Lord!” he ejaculated under his breath, and threw a leg over the animal’s lean flank. “I ain’t got no hat,” said the boy. “I dropped it fordin’ the crick an’ this pesky critter wouldn’t let me git it—orneriest mule I ever see!” “I got ter git my saddle an’ bridle. Come on an’ I’ll find yer a hat,” answered Gabe, as he put off in the direction of his stable, followed by the other. And in a few minutes the two returning passed Liz and Bet still sitting in a state of bewilderment by the side of the overturned hay load. As they gazed after the disappearing figures Liz turned to Bet, a growing horror in her wide eyes. “That’s one o’ Gran’pap’s ole hats he’s got on!” she said in an awe-struck voice. To reassure themselves they hastened home. Crossing the porch where the dog lay asleep, their hurrying feet lagged a little, a sort of superstitious fear upon them. A sound fell upon their ears—a low, piteous sobbing, that made them clutch each other’s frocks and peer breathlessly in at the half-closed door. On the sill was a freshly-filled pail of water, and in the middle of the floor knelt their grandmother, her head bowed in the string of wool hats which hung dependant from one nail—in his haste Gabe had not taken time to fasten again the end which he had removed from the opposite joist. And so it was, when she returned from the spring whither she had gone when he entered the house, the sight met her gaze—the sacred line of relics trailed in the dust, as it were, affection’s altar rudely torn of its sacred image, and that by the ruthless hand of her own son—and his son!