"Unfortunately," smiled the great man, "the legislature, in its wisdom, has vested in me no power to instruct any citizen to deprive other citizens, however undesirable, of their lives. Whoever undertakes such an enterprise must do so on his own responsibility--and, despite the worthiness of his motive, he faces a strong chance of the death penalty." There was a brief pause, as the lawyer and his protegé rose to depart, and the governor shook Bear Cat's hand. "You are a picturesque person, Mr. Stacy. I hope to hear more of you." Then as a quizzical twinkle wrinkled the corner of his eyes he added: "I almost think it is a pity that I have no power to authorize your wading in free-handed--but it's not within my official scope." Bear Cat was standing straight and looking with searching gravity into the face of the governor. There seemed an odd variance between the words and the spirit back of the words, and then he saw the tall man with the distinguished face engage his glance with something intangibly subtle--and he saw one dignified eye deliberately close leaving its mate open. The governor of the commonwealth had winked at him--and he understood the perplexing variance between words and spirit. Outside, in a corridor of the state building, Bear Cat laid a hand on Sidney's arm. "When ther time comes," he said shortly, "I'll be ready. I wants thet ye should hev hit give out in Marlin Town, thet ye sought ter persuade me, but that I wouldn't hev nuthin' more ter do with aidin' state co'tes then I would with revenuers." And that was the message that percolated through the hills. When Turner returned home he went first to Blossom's cabin, his heart full of thoughts of her and sympathy for her loneliness. Old days there swarmed into memory, and just to see her, even now that he counted for so little, meant a great deal to him. But in the road, at first sight of the house, he halted in astonishment--for the chimney was smokeless--and when he hurried forward his dismay grew into something like panic as he found the windows blankly shuttered and the door nailed up. Hastening to his own house, he demanded in a strained voice of fright. "Whar air she, maw? Whar's Blossom at?" The old woman rose and took from the mantel-shelf a folded sheet of paper which she handed him without a word of explanation, and with shaking fingers he opened and read it. "Dear Turney," she said, and her round chirography had run wild as weeds with the disturbed mood of that composition, "I can't bear it here any longer. I'm going away--for always. Jerry left a little money and the lawyers have paid it to me. It's not much, but it's enough. These mountains are beautiful--but they are full of misery--and memories that haunt me day and night. You have been more than good to me and I'll always pray for you. I don't know yet where I'll go. With love, Blossom."