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ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS
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sky. The monotone of voices behind her was a background for her dreams — grotesque dreams of her own rough, hard little hands grown soft and white; of her matted hair brushed into silky trigness like teacher's; of a new gown, and, perhaps — even shoes. She had made a clumsy beginning to
rustle from the Traceys, lounging about the rude oak table, as of half a dozen hands clapped to half a dozen belts. "Th' low, sneakin' houn',
spyin' 'round hyar But air yo'
all plumb sartin?"
The girl in the doorway held her breath, listening. She knew only too well what shrift her wild kin gave to rev'noo men.
"I reckon I'm sartin enough," said Eric Allen, doggedly. "Listen, yo' folks: today he sent a crazy telegram, full o' spy words, and tonight he askin' the way t' Sherads Forks! He Towed to me he war travelin' that away tomorrer mawnin ' ! ' '
ward ladyhood that afternoon. Her shaggy locks were combed free of tangles and fastened in a knot with long thorns; the rent in her skirt, that had shown her bare knee thru, was mended, and a missing button sewed on her waist. Would he like her — she wondered anxiously— better this way?
The voices in the room behind grew louder — a sudden name pricked the bubble of her dreams.
"Bob Mason, he calls hisself!" snarled the telegraph operator, licking his pendulous lips into a grin, "but I 'low another name f'r him would be Rev 'noo Man ! ' '
"Rev'noo Man!" There was a
/'He war?" Nate Tracey brought his great fist crashing to the table in a blow that made the mountain-oak groan. "Well, we-all '11 be plumb ready t' welcome him fittin' — how 'bout hit, boys?"
"No! No!" The wild cry from the doorway brought their heads around. Meg flung out fierce-knotted