Picture Play Magazine (Oct-Nov 1915)

PICTURE-PLAY WEEKLY 3 • bin, Newt was startled to see a ange girl carrying a bucket of water '■ iross the yard. : It was not his sister. This girl was t barefooted, but wore shoes and : jckings, and instead of being in a }se sack or Mother Hubbard, her ght waist was trimly belted. While Newt stared at her she looked , too, and saw him. For a moment e seemed startled at the black-visaged parition, but after a moment she ' oily returned his glance and disap; :ared into the house. When the boy entered, the strange •1 had seated herself, not near the Id hearth where now there was no e, but in the sun; and the sun fell 1 d sparkled in her brown hair and akened dull glints like the luster of : ' lished mahogany. She was holding : r lips rather tightly drawn, and her ss were misty. ! 1 'I reckon," Newt's mother was say », ''ye thinks since ye went off to >iool and got ter consartin' with them ' ichers, thet ye're better 'n what we be." 'The girl made no reply, but she bent er the sewing in her lap, and her tiers trembled, n Then Mrs. Rawlins saw that Newt d come in, and for his benefit she nounced, with a jerk of her head: a This air Clems girl, Minervy. I irried a widderer." 'The girl looked at Newt wistfully, d a sparkle of humor gleamed in his rely smiling eyes. 1 'I reckon," he said, "she ain't no more kled about yore marryin' a widderer 1 ipn what you be." Then, before his mother could frame 3 i adequate retort, he went on : 'Ain't no use jawin' the girl, mammy, I wants yer to quit it." -Womenfolk had never interested JWt, and he could not have told why le 13 defended this strange girl with the i zzling eyes and the white skin. : He did not attempt to talk with her, t there was no more "jawin'." ■: At sunset he came upon the Rawlins i milking near the barn. When she 'fed her head and saw him her cheeks I :Jdened. 'It was good of yer, Newt, ter take for me," she said. "I'm much liged." { ' Xewt was embarrassed, j 'Huh !" he growled. "Hit warn't thin'." And he walked back to the j bin. The father of Henry Falkins was "the grand old man of the mountains." His forefathers had come from old Virginia with the ideas of the old, chivalric regime. Old McAllister Falkins was a college man and a lawyer who did not practice. Though the foremost bearer of the name which stood linked with that of Spooner as giving title to a feud that had bathed the country in blood for generations, neither he nor his direct ancestors nor his direct descendants had ever been drawn into the vortex. Old McAllister Falkins had represented his district in Congress by a vote of both sections, and his retirement had been voluntary. It was his hope that his son, too, might become the shepherd of these wild, goatlike sheep — and wield an influence for peace. Now the feud was to come home to the foremost bearer of the name, though neither the Honorable McAllister Falkins nor his son Henry had any hatred for the Spooners ; instead, they had won a measure of respect from that tempestuous clan. To have raised a hand against "old Mac" Falkins would have been to defy both clans. To have raised a hand against his son would not have occurred to any Spooner other than Newt, mad with rage and private hatred. Newt himself had had no hatred for old Mac and his son before that unforgetable day three years ago, when Henry, by his testimony, had put the boy in the penitentiary. That any man should have sworn away his liberty was bad enough, but that a Falkins — even though a respected one — should have done so was beyond forgiveness. Minerva Rawlins had been puzzled by the bitterness in the boy's eyes, and it was long before she learned the story of the shooting and its aftermath. By judicious questioning, to which Newt gave laconic answers, she saw that his whole soul was given up to the thought of revenge. "Newt," she said, lapsing now and then into the dialect of the mountains, "yo're too big a man ter hold a grudge against a Falkins whose only misdeed is thet he told the truth." They were alone at the moment in the cabin. Minerva sat in a rope chair, her eyes fastened on the determined figure of Newt, who stood cleaning his rifle. "What's a gal know erbout hit?" he asked, without looking at her. "Hit's erbout Newt!" Minerva gasped out to "the Deacon." "He aims to shoot Henry Falkins, an' I want yo' to prevent hit!" I