“Ef Lize hed ruther starve than come ter live with us, as she’d orter, I ’low we can stan’ it,” continued Bill, without noticing the interruption. “What ’d yo’ git merred fur, ef Lize hain’t goin’ ter help me’n yer maw, naow we’re gittin’ old an’ rickety? D’ yo’ hyar, Pete Larkim?” he almost yelled, in his anger. “Thar hain’t one o’ that Simonds gang ez gits another drap from me. Ef yo’ ’re goin’ huntin, yo’ can go; but ef yo’ ’re to feed that cuss of a Jack Simonds, don’t yo’ never let me ketch yo’ round hyar agin. Yo’ kin take yo’r chice ter s’port yo’r paw an’ maw, ez yo’ orter, or them shiftless Simonds.’” Pete had stood leaning on his gun, and digging with the toe of his cowhide boot a miniature crater in the soft earth. As his “ole man” sat down sullenly on his bench, Pete buttoned up his leather jacket, and, his gun on his shoulder, shambled down across the brook and out into the clearing beyond. “Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve,” he kept saying to himself all day, as he tramped through the rocky woods of Sheep mountain in search of game. It was early evening when Pete came down with his brace of plover from the open summit of the mountain into the shadows which had settled on the narrow valley. [Illustration: Music symbols] Just where he was going he did not know; but whenever he thought of returning to his old home, he would seem to hear some one say, “Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve,” and he would stop, as if to listen. He was nearer the shanties than he thought, for once as he paused he heard the voice of some one singing down the mountain path. A moment later Lize appeared, and Pete greeted her with, “Hello, Lize; I’m moughty glad ter see yo’. It’s been kinder lonesome on the mounting ter day.” [Illustration: Woman standing] To most, Lize would not have been good looking, but Pete thought he had never seen so beautiful a picture as that of Lize standing in the rocky pathway in her soiled and ragged gown of calico. The leafless twigs of the pathside had caught her hair, and tangled it till it floated bewilderingly about her freckled face. A moment before, Pete was thinking of going home; but now, when Lize questioned him, he answered quickly, “Goin’ up to Forrest City. Paw ’lows I can’t go home no more ’thout I quit givin’ yo’ game, Lize. An’ yo’ hain’t goin’ to starve, not ef Pete Larkim knows it. Hyar, Lize, take these plovers; they’ll feed yo’ for a day or two. Game’s moughty scarce on the mounting, but I’ll git yo’ suthin, Lize.” As they walked down the path together, Pete could not help wondering what made him feel so tenderly for Lize. Ever since he could remember, they had made mud pies together, and quarrelled over their dams of dirt and rocks which they had built across the little stream. In fact, their life acquaintance had not been a particularly pleasant one. But since his father’s interference, Pete had discovered an attraction in Lize as simple, yet as strong, as love can create.