Part 2

And so the summer wore away, and the heralds of approaching autumn sounded a warning note in the breezes and fluttered their signals from the mountain slopes.

It was only a week before the time for their departure that Sam Coyle gave a reluctant consent to Martin’s and Talitha’s return to school. Two others besides Abner and Gincy were to accompany them—Peter and Isaac Shackley, sons of the blacksmith at the Settlement. Peter was to take his horse, a handsome bay of which he was very proud, the fifty miles to Bentville, and then sell it to defray his expenses at the school. It had taken him a long time to determine on the sacrifice, and his was the only sober face in the merry little company which set forth that September morning.

The night before, the other members of the party came to the Coyle cabin in order to make an early start. That six young people were to leave for Bentville the next morning made a stir at Goose Creek. They were favourites in the mountains, and during the evening a dozen families called with some parting gift or admonition. They were not all wisely chosen, but the kindest intentions prompted each offering. From the younger ones there were various gifts of fruit and flowers. Ann Bills had so far relented as to present her niece with two pairs of wool stockings which Talitha could not refuse however much she would have liked to do so. Mrs. Twilliger brought several strings of freshly dried pumpkin which she much feared Gincy might “git ter hankerin’ arter.” The Slawson boy, who was “light-minded,” brought his pet coon and wept bitterly when Abner gently but firmly refused it. Little Tad Suttle was equally persistent in forcing on them his dog Wulf, who was warranted to keep the bears and painters at a proper distance when the company crossed the mountains.

The Bills family were inclined to consider the occasion a mournful one. If the young people had been going to the ends of the earth instead of but fifty miles away, they could not have been more pessimistic. That Martin and Talitha had returned unharmed seemed to have no weight with them.

“Sho, now,” objected the blacksmith jovially, “I ain’t goin’ ter cornsider my young-uns as lost ter the mountings. I ’low they’re jest goin’ ter git some larnin’ and come back ter help me.”

“Book larnin’ ain’t goin’ ter give ’em muscle,” objected the elder Bills.

“Law, no, they’ve got ’nough of thet now. I ain’t raisin’ a passel of prizefighters. If Kid stays home ter help me one blacksmith’s ’nough in a family, I reckon. I’ve heerd the Bentville school is great on idees, and thet’s jest what these mountings air needin’ bad.”

“You talk like we war plumb idjits, Enoch Shackley,” cried Ann Bills, her black eyes snapping angrily. “I’ve heerd tell o’ folks you’d never ’low had any head stuff’in’ till their skulls got a crack and you could git a sight of their brains, but I never heerd as this part of the kentry war noted fer sech. Me and my fambly hain’t never had ter go borrowin’ fer idees.”

“Lands, no,” said Mrs. Twilliger. “Hold up your head with the best of ’em, Gincy; Goose Creek folks hain’t never took a back seat fer nobody.”

At last the callers melted away and the weary people they left behind hurried to bed to get what sleep they might before time for their early departure.

As the little party started down the slope the next morning, a wonderful light quavered above the mountain-tops for the most part covered with a thick, gorgeous leafage of crimson, green, and gold flaming out among the duller browns. Now and then a rough, scraggy peak like Bear Knob showed grimly against the sky. Below them the mists lay huddled asleep awaiting the coming of the sun. The cool smell of the night was still in the air. Down where the creek path trailed out of sight came a jubilant chorus of bird voices.

A strange feeling made Gincy’s heart beat faster, and a lump rose in her throat. But what might have happened did not, for Talitha, with foresight, reached up and laid a rough, brown hand tenderly over the one on the pommel of the saddle. Gincy looked down into the blue eyes smiling encouragement and was herself again.

A straggling little procession, they followed the slim stream which curved around the base of the hills. At noon the party stopped to eat their lunch on its banks, and then they left it for a steep climb up the mountain.

An hour before sunset they had made good progress, coming out suddenly upon a cleared cove halfway down the mountain. At the farther side, against a background of pines, stood a large, well-built cabin. Vines tinted with autumn colouring clambered over the broad porch. The space in front was cleanly swept. Back of the low palings in the rear was a large, thrifty garden, and fragrant odours of ripening fruit came from the small, but heavily-laden, orchard.

“You can tell that a Bentville student lives here, all right,” said Martin. “This is where Tally and I stayed over night on our way to school last year.”

Their approach had been discovered, for two hounds ran around the house barking a joyful greeting. Then a tall, muscular young fellow hurried out of the door, followed by other members of the family.

There was no look of dismay on Joe Bradshaw’s face at the size of the party. With true mountain hospitality they were given a hearty welcome.

Inside the house Gincy looked around curiously. The two rooms were better furnished and neater than even Squire Dodd’s, which represented to her the height of elegance. In the living-room the supper was cooking over a stove; the fireplace was not even lighted. A white linen cloth of Mrs. Bradshaw’s own weaving covered the table, and there seemed to be plenty of dishes without the makeshifts common in her home and those of other mountain families she knew. True, it was only coarse, blue earthenware, but in her unaccustomed eyes nothing could be finer.

In the next room were two beds covered with blue and white “kivers,” also the product of the loom which stood in the corner of the living-room. Pinned on the walls were a half-dozen prints and bright-coloured pictures. Cheesecloth curtains were looped back from the windows, and on the mission table, of Joe’s making, was a store lamp with a flowered shade, and more books than Gincy had seen in all her life before.

That night she could hardly sleep for thinking of the wonders awaiting her on the morrow in the promised land of which she had dreamed through all the toil of the long summer days.

III TALITHA SOLVES A PUZZLING PROBLEM

JOE BRADSHAW was a member of the little party which set forth early the next morning with renewed expectations. Not a cloud hovered in the deep blue of the sky as they followed the devious trails across the mountains and along the foothills, valleyward. At the end of ten miles they reached the railroad. It was the first all but three of the party had ever seen. The horse the two girls were riding shied in terror at sight of the monster puffing forth clouds of smoke and steam. The passengers in the coaches looked curiously out at the bright, young faces shadowed by white sunbonnets. Gincy clung to Talitha and drew a long breath of relief as bell and whistle sounded and the train swept on, its rumble and roar re-echoing among the hills.

After that, the rest of the way seemed short indeed, so near were the travellers to their journey’s end. Every few miles now were homes which bore evidences of a thrift and energy which had not yet penetrated far into the mountains. One by one the stars came out, and a full moon climbed over the ridge and made a silvery, elusive pathway across the foothills. Another turn in the trail, and presently the foot-sore pilgrims came to a smooth pike. A half-hour later they looked upon shadowy roofs among tall trees where lights twinkled faintly in the radiance of the moon.

Martin and Joe hurried ahead along the street sure of a welcome, and they were not disappointed.

“Here are our two standbys again, and they didn’t come alone, either,” greeted the secretary with a hearty shake of the hand as the boys entered the office.

The girls were taken in charge by the dean, who whisked them off to the dining-room for a late supper. After that, with much contriving, they were stowed comfortably away for the night.

“You’d better go straight to sleep,” admonished Talitha. “Half-past five will come before you know it and then the rising bell rings. I expect we’ll feel pretty stiff for a day or two.”

Gincy only murmured a drowsy reply. She was already dreaming a beautiful dream, quite unaware of what Mrs. Donnelly, the dean, was saying to Miss Howard, her assistant.

“I don’t see how we can keep the girl who came with Talitha Coyle. We are overflowing already. Two beds in every room upstairs—”

“Can’t we manage some way?” urged Miss Howard for the tenth time that day. “She’s a bright little thing. If she were only a boy now, and yet the boys are coming in at a great rate this year; it’s wonderful!”

“Let me think.” The dean’s smooth forehead wrinkled in perplexity. “Well,” with a sudden inspiration, “if that girl from Kerby Knob doesn’t put in an appearance—she wrote me that her mother was sick and she was afraid she couldn’t—I’ll keep Gincy, but if Urilla does come back we shall be obliged to give her precedence because she will be a junior this year.”

So the matter rested, and blissfully ignorant of the fact that her good fortune was another girl’s misfortune, Gincy arose in the morning supremely happy. She was not to remain long a stranger, for Talitha was a person who made friends—hosts of them—she had such a way of forgetting Talitha Coyle, and in a few hours they were Gincy’s also. She laughed and chatted among the girls as she helped wipe the great stacks of dishes after the early breakfast. There were no lessons yet, but when the morning’s work was done and the services at the chapel over, Kizzie Tipton proposed a walk.

“You know the dean said you needn’t hurry to get registered,” added her new friend. “I’ll meet you on the front porch in five minutes,” and Kizzie ran to her room.

Gincy opened the hall door also in haste. She had thought of something she wished to say to Talitha—who was just going down the steps with her books—and nearly ran against a tall, pale-faced girl carrying a heavy handbag. “Oh!” Gincy ejaculated with a swift glance at the wan face. “Jest let me ketch a holt. I ’most tuk you down, I reckon.”

The weary eyes brightened. “You’re a new girl,” asserted the late arrival confidently as Gincy deposited the baggage in a corner of the hall.

“Yes,” she nodded, “I reckon I be, but I don’t seem ter sense hit much. Hit’s the nicest place I ever see fer findin’ friends,” and Gincy disappeared with a parting smile.

The newcomer sat down in thoughtful silence, forgetting that she had not made known her arrival to the dean. But that lady chanced to espy her from the top of the stairs and slowly descended, inwardly determined that her face should not reveal her embarrassment.

“Well, Urilla, you succeeded in getting here after all,” she said with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” answered the girl, rising respectfully. “Mother’s able to sit up most of the time, and she wouldn’t hear to my staying home now Sally’s big enough to help. If I can only manage to stay another year.” Urilla gave a long sigh.

The girl was sent to her room to get a little rest before dinner, and Gincy, returning from her walk in a high state of exuberance, was called to the office.

Two hours later, Talitha came unexpectedly upon Mrs. Donnelly. “I have been looking for you,” said that lady soberly.—It was a very difficult thing she had to do.—“I am very sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, but we shall be obliged to send Gincy home—”

“Send her home!” echoed Talitha in amazement, turning pale and trembling.

“Yes, Urilla Minter has come back, and there isn’t room for both of them; we’re crowded beyond the limit now. I’ve done my best, but not a place can be found for her. I’ll keep her name on the books so she will have an opportunity to come back next year.” Mrs. Donnelly’s heart was sore at parting with one of her flock who was so eager for an education. There were tears in her eyes as she turned away.

Talitha wandered out to a seat on the campus to think over the dreadful tidings. Gincy going home after working so hard all the summer to come! This would be her last chance, for Dan Gooch would never get over her being sent back, and he would hate the Coyles because Gincy would not have thought of attending the school had it not been for Talitha. All the beautiful, rosy clouds which had glorified the morning sky faded, leaving it dull and grey.

Gincy must not go home; that Talitha instantly decided, but—The girl sat for a long time struggling with herself, her hands clasped over the precious little pile of books in her lap. She was in a far corner, unnoticed by the merry bands of students passing back and forth. She could hear their laughter and happy chatter. Oh, it was hard, so hard!

At last, Talitha rose quickly as though she were afraid her courage might vanish, and hastened to the hall and straight to Mrs. Donnelly’s room. “I’ve come to tell you,” she began breathlessly, with a little tremor in her voice, “that I’ve—I’ve decided to go home. Gincy can stay, then. She mustn’t go, Mrs. Donnelly, she’s been workin’ and lottin’ on it all summer and her folks wouldn’t ever let her come back again. I’ll go and you’ll give her my place, won’t you?”

The dean never forgot the pleading face lifted to hers. It was white and the lips were trembling, but the light of a heroic, self-sacrificing spirit shone in the dark eyes. “Oh, my child,” protested the woman, “I can’t bear to think of your going home. If I could only plan some way, but I’ve tried and tried.”

“I know it,” nodded Talitha, “but I never once thought there wouldn’t be room for everybody who wanted to come. Anyway, I’m glad Gincy’s going to have a chance. You ought to hear her sing, Mrs. Donnelly. And if you’ll sort o’ mother her a little I’ll be real thankful. Gincy’s never been away from home before, and her folks were going to feel so easy because I was with her. Don’t feel bad, it couldn’t be helped, I reckon, and maybe I’ll come back next year.”

Talitha’s heart was heavy indeed as she climbed the stairs to her room. She found Gincy in a corner weeping piteously over the few belongings gathered in a little heap. Talitha knelt beside her and put an arm tenderly around the thin, bowed shoulders.

“Put your things right back, Gincy,” she said, “you’re going to stay after all. I’ve just seen Mrs. Donnelly.”

Gincy looked up in astonishment that at first was too great for words. “You don’t mean hit?” she gasped at last, clutching her friend’s arm.

“Sure I do,” Talitha nodded with a smile. Her own burden lightened wonderfully at the sight of Gincy’s radiant face and suddenly dried tears. She left the girl putting her belongings back in drawers and closet with a joyful haste. Gincy had not even inquired how this transformation had been wrought; it was enough for her to know that she was not to be sent home.

Talitha’s next duty was to find Martin and make known her resolution. After a long search he was discovered in the library with a pile of reference books before him. He looked up with shining eyes. She knew how he rejoiced in the opportunity for another year’s work. It would take away half his pleasure to learn that she would not be there to share it, still she was confident that he would see the wisdom of her resolve. At a sign from her he followed wonderingly out back of the building to a seat under one of the large trees of the campus where they would be unnoticed.

“How’s Gincy coming on? She isn’t getting homesick a’ready, is she?” he inquired.

“Gincy! Not much; she’s pleased as can be with everything here. That’s what I came to see you about.” Talitha paused and looked down at her folded hands, while Martin sat staring at her in bewilderment. “Mrs. Donnelly came to see me this morning,” she went on presently. “She told me that Gincy must go home, that there is no place for her. So many girls have come this fall the rooms are crowded.”

“Go home!” repeated Martin indignantly. “Oh, we can’t let her; she mustn’t.”

“Of course not. She’s been crying till she’s ’most beat out, but I’ve been thinking it over and Gincy’s going to stay. I’ve just seen Mrs. Donnelly again—”

“Well, I’m mighty glad!” Martin gave a long breath of relief. “How did you manage it, Tally?”

“I’m going home instead,” she answered calmly.

“You!” Her brother sprang up excitedly. “Tally, I won’t hear to it!”

“Yes, you will. Sit down, Mart, you’d do the same thing if you were in my place, you know you would. I’m not going to be selfish. Gincy’s never had any chance and I’ve had a whole year here. Maybe I can come back again some time, but if I knew I couldn’t I should go just the same.”

“But you can’t go home alone,” Martin objected.

“Yes, I can. I’ll take the train to the Gap and I’m not afraid to walk the rest of the way.”

“Well, Tally, I suppose you’re right,” her brother said at last, “but it’ll take the sunshine out of the whole year for me, to know that you’re missing all this. And I’d counted so on the good times we’d have together.”

“Now, Mart, don’t you worry about me one minute. I reckon it’s all for the best. Maybe there’s something special in the mountains for me to do; I’m going to try to think so anyway.”

“What reason are you going to give the folks for going home?”

“I’m going to tell them the truth that there wasn’t room for so many girls. I shan’t say a word about Gincy only that she’s well and having a fine time.”

That afternoon while Gincy was out of the room, Talitha removed the tiny wardrobe she had brought, to make room for Urilla’s. Long before light the next morning, while Gincy slept soundly, all unaware of her friend’s sacrifice, Talitha boarded the train which could only take her so short a distance toward home. She sank into a seat timidly. She had never travelled alone before, and when she reached the Gap the loneliest part was yet to come.

As the train pulled out she tried to wave a cheerful good-bye to Martin, who stood disconsolately outside in the darkness. The coach was full of people who had evidently travelled all night, for they were in all sorts of positions trying to get a little sleep. Talitha’s eyes were sleepless, although she had hardly closed them that night. It was disagreeably warm and stuffy. She longed to open the window, but the girl beside her was propped comfortably in the corner of the seat, oblivious to her surroundings.

Talitha looked at her curiously. She was a mountain girl, that was evident, but not from Goose Creek nor the Settlement—possibly from Redbird. She might be kin to the Twilligers, there were legions of them scattered through the mountains, and she favoured them wonderfully, now Talitha thought of it.

Suddenly the girl opened her eyes and stared at Talitha. “I reckon I must hev been asleep,” she said with a wide yawn. “Whar did you git on?”

“At Bentville.”

“Bentville! What kind of a place is hit? I come purty nigh goin’ thar onct and then I changed my mind. I couldn’t pin myself down ter book larnin’ nohow.”

Talitha viewed the speaker with astonishment. “What’s your name?” she inquired coldly.

“Piny Twilliger.”

“Did you know that Gincy Gooch is going to school at Bentville?” asked Talitha.

“Law me, why Gincy’s my cousin. Whatever put hit into her head? I wouldn’t hev thought hit of her.”

“Then you don’t know Gincy,” was the retort. “She’s as ambitious as can be and loves to study. She’s going to be somebody, I tell you. Abner’s at school too, and their folks are so proud of them.”

“Law me,” said the girl again. “I never heerd of any kin ter the Twilligers takin’ ter larnin’ afore,” and she relapsed into silent amazement. She had not recovered speech when the small station at the Gap was reached.

“Ter think I never asked her name!” murmured Gincy’s cousin in sudden dismay as Talitha left the car.

IV THE STORM

WHEN Talitha alighted from the train the sun had not yet risen, but the rosy banners which heralded its coming floated wide across the eastern sky. It was on a morning like this that she and Martin had started homeward with such elation of spirits, such hopes for the coming year. But then summer was just begun; now it had gone and her hopes with it.

She started across the foothills and up the long mountain trail, the old elasticity gone from her step, the hardness of her lot weighting her down. It seemed as though her feet could never carry her the long, weary way home. Upon a jutting crag she stopped and looked back. Far in the distance, cradled among the foothills of the Cumberlands, it lay, the place of her heart’s desire. Would she ever see it again?

Talitha looked at the sky. The breakfast bell would be ringing by this time, and happy, laughing faces gathered around the long tables. Her head bowed as though she could hear the fervent grace, and a sob rose in her throat. Suddenly the petition of a young leader at prayers, the night before, came to her: “Wilt Thou give us strength and courage to meet bravely the trials and temptations of each day.” How full of meaning they were to the one who uttered them Talitha well knew. Owen Calfee’s face showed with what high courage he was meeting the hardships which had beset his path from early youth.

Talitha fiercely blinked back the tears. “I’m plumb spoilin’ everythin’ by my foolishness,” she thought aloud, unconsciously relapsing into the speech of the mountains. “I reckon hit ain’t pleasin’ ter the Lord—my thinkin’ sech sorry thoughts. I’ve clean forgotten that I’d ought ter be thankful that Martin could stay and that Gincy’s havin’ a chance. My, but if she isn’t the happiest child!” Talitha rose reluctantly. “I shouldn’t like to be caught in the dark, and that’s what I’m bound to be if I stop here any longer.” She stretched out her hands toward the valley with a wistful gesture of parting. “I’m so glad you’re there, Gincy,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t have you home for nothing.”

Through the long forenoon’s weary climb up the mountain’s interminable slope and over its craggy crest to the other side, she resolutely laid aside all thoughts of her disappointment and began making plans to be put into execution as soon as possible after reaching home.

At noon she was almost thankful that she had not reached the creek where the little party had lunched so happily two days before. Now she spread her simple fare upon a smooth ledge and watched the varied light and shadow across the fast changing foliage as she ate. The birds fluttered and sang in the pines above her head. Now and then one grew bold enough to fly down for the crumbs she scattered upon the ground. Over the opposite edge of the flinty table a pair of bright eyes peered longingly. Talitha laughed as she flung the bushy-tailed visitor her last morsel, and rose to resume her journey.

She planned to reach home by supper time, but it had not been so easy to travel without the aid of a strong arm over the roughest places. No thought of fear had entered her mind until that moment; now the prospect of being alone at night on those wooded heights where the darkness was dense under the thick branching trees made her shrink.