“‘T ain’t his’n. ‘T is my dad’s old buckshot ca’tridges an’ powder an’ ball. They belong ter me. The other childern is my half-brothers, bein’ my mother war married twice. Ye kin _steal_ this gear from me, ef that will make ye feel easier.” “But what will yer gran’dad say ter me?” “He won’t know who ye be; he will jes ‘low ye air one o’ the boys who air always foolin’ away thar time visitin’ me an’ makin’ tallow-dips skeerce.” The sudden gleam of mirth on her face was like an illuminating burst of sunshine, and somehow it cast an irradiation into the heart of the fugitive, for, after she was gone out of sight, he pondered upon it. But the early dusk fell from a lowering sky, and the night came on beclouded and dark. Some turbulent spirit was loosed in the air, and the wind was wild. Great, surging masses of purple vapor came in a mad rout from the dank west and gathered above the massive and looming mountains. The woods bent and tossed and clashed their boughs in the riot, of gusts, the sere leaves were flying in clouds, and presently rain began to fall. The steady downpour increased in volume to torrents; then the broad, pervasive flashes of lightning showed, in lieu of myriad lines, an unbroken veil of steely gray swinging from the zenith, the white foam rebounding as the masses of water struck the earth. The camp equipage, tents and wagons succumbed beneath the fury of the tempest, and, indeed, the hunters had much ado to saddle their horses and grope their way along the bridle-path that led to old Kettison’s house.