Part 4

The young people eyed the new-comer cautiously, and would have little to say to him; but the elders used all their homely arts to entertain him and make him comfortable. After supper, when they had returned from the kitchen to the entry, he grew more communicative. The boys were off in the thickets bird-thrashing, and Tempy sat in the best room with Jeff Morgan, her sweetheart, who lived in an adjoining settlement, and came on Saturday evening, and remained until Monday morning. So the older people were sitting alone in the entry, and Sam Upchurch smoked his pipe, and Peggy dipped snuff, but Dyer declined joining them in using tobacco.

"Had ter quit that years ergo. I have had ups an' downs sence the war. One time I went down inter the piny woods of Alabama an' j'ined the gopher traders, but it wasn't a payin' business, an' I quit it an' sot up ter teachin' school. If you can spell _baker_ you can teach school in them diggin's. Then I tuk it inter my head to settle down an' have er home; but Susan she died, and the little un had ter go too, an' I've jes' be'n knockin' erbout ever sence." His poor thin hands worked nervously, and his head drooped dejectedly again.

How sharply his empty, desolate life contrasted with his sister's busy, useful, happy one! Her husband was beside her; the shouts of her boys floated up from the pine thickets where their torches flashed in and out like the flame of a "Jack-o'-lantern," and occasionally Tempy's full, hearty laugh rang out. The sister thought of it with a sigh, but feeling humbly grateful for her own good fortune. Upchurch, too, vaguely felt the contrast, for he said: "Well, you've got er home here now if you er mind ter take it. Peggy'll be doctorin' you up in no time."

He shook his head with a faint, dry smile.

A screech-owl flew into the yard near the house and began a doleful "shir-r-r-r." The men did not seem to notice it, but Mrs. Upchurch moved uneasily, for neither religion nor common sense could rid her of the superstitious feeling that it meant bad luck. That night her short, simple, but earnest prayers included the poor wanderer, and also an entreaty that no bad luck might come to any of them.

On Sunday morning the wagon was brought around, and all the family came out in their "go-ter-meetin'" clothes.

Ab declined accompanying them, although he had partially recovered from the fatigue of the day before, and he obstinately refused to allow one of the family to remain at home with him, to his sister's distress. She would gladly have remained, for there were still many things she wished to talk over with him, but he would not hear to it.

"I make no pretensions, Peggy, but neither am I goin' ter keep them erway that does," he said more decidedly than she had yet heard him speak.

He was sitting on the fence whittling a stick, and many were the curious glances directed toward the shabby, stooping figure, as the country people passed on their way to Ebenezer.

It was soon known throughout the settlement that Ab Dyer, Peggy Upchurch's brother had come, and the women discovered they owed Peggy a visit, and the men dropped in to see Upchurch, or to borrow some farming tool. Ab did not impress the visitors very favorably. Some regarded him suspiciously, others with more or less contempt.

"He's shore to be crazy," said old Miss Davis confidentially to Sally Gancey.

"You reckon?" in a shocked tone.

"Yes, an' er tramp, too. Won't you take er dip?" producing the little black snuff-box her grandfather had bequeathed to her.

"B'lieve I will. Po' Mis' Upchurch! how she mus' feel!"

"Law, it ain't no new thing. I knowed Ab Dyer when he wasn't much bigger'n er woodpeck, an' he never was right bright. He ain't 'walked fur with Solomon,' I kin tell you," rolling her eyes knowingly.

So the bit of gossip went from house to house, and hints of it reached the Upchurches; but if the poor wanderer ever heard of it, he made no sign. Yet it cut Peggy Upchurch to the heart, and she strove, by additional tenderness and consideration, to make up to him for all he had lost in not gaining the good will of the neighbors.

"I've always noticed that them that's talked erbout is apt ter be better than them that does the talkin'," she said privately to Upchurch.

But once she ventured to gently remonstrate with Ab about the palpable lack of pride in his personal appearance.

"'Tain't no use, Peggy. I wanted ter be somethin' an' I tried, but ever'thing went ag'in' me."

"You mus'n't be mad erbout that, Ab. It was the Almighty's doin's, though I ain't one er them that lays ever'thing ter Providence. Mebby you didn't start right."

"Mebby I didn't," he replied, spiritlessly, and with a fit of coughing. He sat on the door-step in the sunshine, his shoulders bent over, his chin almost touching his knees, as much of a vagabond as the day on which he walked up the road, seeking the last of his kith and kin.

"It pesters me to see you so down in the mouth. I'm all the time a-wantin' ter see you pearten up. Don't that fat light'ood-splinter tea help yer cough?"

"No; but don't you be a-botherin' erbout me, Peggy. 'Tain't no use."

"Ah, that sayin' o' yourn, ''Tain't no use,' has done a sight er harm in this world. Too many folks says it fer their own good," said Mrs. Upchurch solemnly.

"That may be so, but I ain't been no use ter myself nor nobody else."

"Well, I say you have. Don't forgit yer young days an' the time you run between me an' old Miss Whitlock's mad dog. I remember it, an' I'll keep on rememberin' it till I die."

"Lor'! that wasn't nothin'," he said, moving uneasily, a sort of flush passing over his face.

"Yet if you hadn't 'a' done it, I might not 'a' been here now," impressively, and with the feeling that she must ever hold him lovingly and gratefully in her heart, no matter how idle and purposeless his life might be--and one might better have been dead than lazy in that community.

"Mebby if the little un had 'a' lived--" he muttered, but leaving the sentence unfinished, he hastily rose and walked away toward the lot.

He grew rather fond of Tempy, after a cautious, undemonstrative fashion. His eyes would follow her in an absorbed, wistful way, for in her he saw, as it were, a pale vision of his own child grown to womanhood--a pale vision, for no girl could compare with what the reality would have been in his eyes.

Tempy's wedding-day approached, and he astonished her with the gift of ten dollars--all he had.

"Ter help buy yer fixin's," he said, and carefully restored the empty leather purse to his pocket.

The days came and went, and the farmers worked from daylight till dark, but Ab Dyer idled about the house or wandered aimlessly through the woods with a gun. Sometimes he would bring home game, but oftener he would come empty-handed.

"What ails him, Peggy?" Sam Upchurch inquired one evening, after Dyer had gone off to bed. "There ain't nothin' to be got outen him."

"He's give up--that's what ails him, an' it's the worst thing a body could do fer themselves. Ab always was easy to git down in the mouth, an' it 'pears like he ain't a-goin' to git over the loss o' his fambly. Poor fellow! he always was an onfortunit creetur," wiping her eyes on her nightcap and sighing deeply.

The summer drew near its end, and one cloudy morning, late in August, Sam Upchurch pulled out the buggy, harnessed his best horse to it, and invited Ab to go with him over to Rockymount, to buy some things for Tempy's wedding. It had rained torrents the night before, and Bear Creek rushed along turbulent, muddy, and nearly up to the bridge.

"But we'll be all right, if it don't set in to rainin' ag'in," said Upchurch, taking a sweeping glance at the clouds rolling so darkly above them.

"An' ef it does?" Ab dryly inquired.

"Well, I reckon we will, ennyhow; the bridge is new," Sam easily and carelessly replied.

It did rain again, heavy, flooding rains, and they were detained in town until quite late. Indeed, they did not realize how swiftly the day passed, until night was upon them.

"Better lie over in town to-night. Bear Creek ain't er pleasant sight jes' now," said an acquaintance, who also lived beyond the creek. But Sam Upchurch shook his head.

"No, Peggy'll be a-lookin' fer us, an' the bridge is strong. There ain't no danger, ef the water does run over it."

"You don't know that. My old woman'll be a-lookin' fer me, too, but I ain't a-goin' ter risk my life jes' fer that," muttered the other countryman, shrugging his shoulders.

It was dark when the belated travelers reached the creek--not the gray darkness of twilight, but the pitchy blackness of a clouded, stormy night. They could hear the rush and roar of the stream, and the horse trembled and shrank back from it in fear, but, urged on by his master's voice, he ventured in. For many a day Sam Upchurch reproached himself for that rash and foolhardy act, but he had such faith in the strength of the bridge, that he did not think of danger until with a desperate plunge they were floundering in the creek.

"Good God! the bridge is gone!" he groaned, and the next moment felt the buggy swept away from him by the strong current.

"Ab!" he shouted loudly.

"Here I am. Can you swim, Sam?"

"Not much here," he cried hoarsely, realizing that only a bare chance of life remained. A vision of his home rose up before him, and of his wife and children; life never seemed so precious and desirable a thing as when death stared him in the face. He groaned aloud; then he heard Ab's voice close beside him--

"Ketch onter this limb."

It was a willow bough clipping into the water, a slender, flexible thing, not strong enough to bear the weight of both men; but Upchurch did not know that when he clutched so desperately at the frail chance of salvation.

Ab loosened his grasp.

"What's the matter?" cried his brother-in-law in quick alarm, for the poor fellow brushed against him as the strong, swift current carried him away.

"Nothin'! Git home ter Peggy an' the chillun if you can. I'm goin'"--but there his voice died away, was swallowed up in the confusion of noises around them. Upchurch shouted himself hoarse, but no reply came back to him, and chilled and stiffened he drew himself up out of the water, realizing at last that Ab had given up to him the one chance of life that lay between them.

They laid him down within the shadow of Ebenezer Church, along with the other quiet sleepers who rested there, and no one ever again breathed aught against the luckless vagabond; while in one household his memory was gratefully and tenderly cherished. Never did a stormy night come, but they would draw up around the flaming pine-knot fire thinking of him, and Mrs. Upchurch would take one of Tempy's children on her knee, to shield her tearful eyes from observation.

Then again she would sit in the entry on calm, clear summer days, with her knitting and her snuff, just as she sat that day he came up the road, footsore, and weary with his tramp, and, recalling all the trials and failures of his life, she would far away toward those misty blue mountains, softly murmuring:

"Poor Ab! He always was an onfortunit creetur."

*BET CROW.*

*A DIALECT STORY OF GEORGIA LIFE.*

Mr. Jesse Crow sat on the front fence with his feet comfortably resting on the lower rail, whittling a stick. Crops had been "laid by," and he felt that he could afford to sit on the fence and engage in the pleasing recreation of whittling. But it was not, on this particular occasion, enjoyed as heartily as usual. It seemed to be a mere mechanical occupation to aid him in solving a knotty problem. He was a small, wiry, mild-eyed man, with a deeply tanned complexion and a good-humored expression. He was a prosperous farmer, and highly respected in the settlement, where he had a good reputation for fair, honest dealing and clear judgment, though often permitting his love of mercy to overrule the rigid laws of justice.

"It ain't no use in bein' hard on enny creetur," he would say mildly. "We ain't all been tried erlike, an' thar mought be extinguishin' sarcums-tances ter jedge by if we could see 'em."

But this morning his brows were drawn together in a perplexed frown, and he stared at the slowly sharpening splinter with abstracted eyes. The steady, even fall of hoofs upon the hard, dry road roused him from his reflections, and glancing up he saw Jim Edwards, his neighbor and crony, approaching on his old gray mare. Mr. Jesse Crow hailed him with hearty delight.

"Won't you 'light an' come in?" he asked hospitably.

"No, reckon not this mornin'. Nancy's in er pow'ful hurry fer some truck, but I don't know as I min' a-jinin' you thar a little while."

He dismounted, threw the bridle over a low projecting limb of the great chestnut-tree standing near the gate, and in a few minutes sat on the fence by the side of his friend.

"You have heard erbout Tom Fannin a-takin' that money from Bill Sanders, down whar they air a-workin' on the new railroad?" he said, fumbling for his knife from mere force of habit, and settling himself for a little gossip.

"Yes," said Mr. Crow, seriously, "an' I don't min' sayin' that I never was more tuk down."

"Well, I thought better o' Tom than that myself, but you know what the scripturs say 'bout Satan allus a-havin' work fer idle hands ter do, an' it's purty well known Tom Fannin's as lazy as his hide kin hold."

"Yes, that's so," assented his companion.

Edwards stole a glance at him, shifted the tobacco around in his mouth, and then--

"How does Bet take it?" he rather diffidently inquired.

"That's what's pesterin' me erbout the matter, Ed'ards," exclaimed Mr. Crow, dropping the last sliver from his whittling, and turning toward his companion. "Bet lows he didn't do it; she knows in reason he didn't, an' ter that point she sticks."

"But, man alive, the money was found in his pocket! It was this way, an' I hearn it from Bill hisself. Him an' Tom has been a-roomin' together since Tom tuk an' started to work down thar, an' Bill one mornin' put twenty dollars in the top er his trunk with nobody seein' it but Tom. At dinner-time it wus gone. The men, black an' white, wus all fer havin' their pockets searched, an' when they come ter Tom's coat a-hangin' on er bush, thar wus the money stacked down in the little pocket. Some er the boys say he turned mighty white, an' 'lowed he didn't know 'twas thar, an' kep' on denyin' it, but the p'int is, how did it come thar then?"

"I've tole Bet that, time an' ag'in, but every time she sez, 'Pa, I know he didn't take it.'"

"How do you know?" says I.

"''Cause he sez so--' as if that kin clar up the matter. Thar ain't no reasonin' with wimmen folks, Ed'ards."

"That's so, Jesse. If you ax 'em why they believe sech an' sech, they'll apt ter say 'jes' 'cause,' an' that's all the sense you kin git outen 'em."

"It ain't my fault Bet's been a-keepin' comp'ny long o' Tom Fannin--it's er puzzlin' thing ter me how she kin like him, knowin' he is lazy an' sorter triflin', but Bet's got er head of her own," with a sudden touch of pride, and fumbling along the rail for another loose splinter.

"She's er likely gal, if I do say it ter you, Jesse Crow, an' I'd 'a' been mighty glad if she'd 'a' tuk a likin' ter Pink. She knows how ter work, an' she ain't afeerd ter put her hand tu it."

"Her ma hain't sp'ilt her, that's a fact," said Mr. Crow, modestly. "Thar she comes now," he continued, raising his head, and glancing across the road.

She had been to the spring, and walked briskly up the path and across the dusty road, her sun-bonnet swinging from one hand, a pail of water poised evenly on her head. Her black hair hung in a thick braid down her back, the sun had tanned her skin to a fine brown, but there was a ruddy glow in her cheeks, and full, firm lips. Her bright, steady eyes were dark gray, and when she smiled two rows of even white teeth were disclosed to view.

"A likely" girl indeed, dressed in a neat, clean cotton gown, its clumsy folds not able to hide the graceful development of her figure. She was Jesse Crow's only child, and he regarded her with a just feeling of pride, and, though it had now taken a perplexing turn, felt secretly pleased at her disposition and ability to have her own way. Edwards nodded to her with a friendly smile.

"Mornin', Bet."

"Mornin' Mr. Ed'ards. How's Mis Ed'ards and the chillun?" she inquired in a pleasant, soft-toned voice, pausing at the gate.

"'Bout as common, Bet."

She looked inquiringly at him. Mr. Edwards cleared his throat.

"Now, Bet, you ain't goin' ter be onreasonable 'bout this Fannin scrape, air ye?"

A sudden flush passed over her face, and she lifted the brimming pail from her head and placed it on the fence.

"Depends on what you mean by that, Mr. Ed'ards, hopin' you'll take no offence a-talkin' so plain."

"I mean you ain't a-goin' ter hold up fer him ag'in everybody else, an' pester yer ma an' pa."

Her lips trembled; she looked at her father.

"Pa knows I ain't a-meanin' ter pester him."

"Yes, honey, we know that," he said, her appealing glance melting his heart to tenderness at once. When had he ever failed to respond to her joy or sorrow?

"Now, that's Pink, an' Sile Jill, an' Bill Sanders, an'--"

"Don't be a-namin' Bill Sanders ter me, Mr. Ed'ards, if yer please," she exclaimed quickly.

"But it ain't fair ter be a-blamin' him fer Tom Fannin's fault, Betsy," shaking his head reprovingly.

"How kin I help it, Mr. Ed'ards, when I feel an' know that in some way or other he's the cause o' it?" she cried, with a passionate tremor in her voice. "It ain't a-hurtin' nobody fer me ter b'lieve in Tom, spite o' everything, an' please don't ax me not to, fer I must; I can't help it."

She opened the gate, and took up the pail of water and went on into the house, and a few minutes later the men heard the steady click-clack of the loom.

All day she sat on the high bench, weaving steadily a stripe of blue and a stripe of brown, counting the threads carefully; but her heart lay heavy in her bosom, and her eyes were grave. She had been deeply shocked at the charge against Tom Fannin, but her faith in his honesty remained unshaken. She understood his faults, his weaknesses, but they only appealed to her womanly tenderness. He was generous, honest, and truthful, and if he was not so good-looking or so prosperous as others--Pink Edwards and Bill Sanders, she loved him. The heart of woman is past finding out. Bet Crow might have had pick and choice among the beaux of the settlement, and instead of favoring the suit of one of her smart, industrious lovers, she chose Tom Fannin, the poorest, least fortunate young man in the county. He had a farm, but it did not prosper, and his stock were neglected and shabby.

"He's shiftless," said his neighbors, and Bet knew it to be true, though too loyal even to acknowledge it to any one but herself.

The shadows were growing long across the yard, and the soft lowing of the cows, wending their way home, could be heard, when a step sounded in the entry, and Tom Fannin himself walked into the room where Bet sat weaving.

"Mis' Crow said 'Jest walk right in,'" he said, stopping near the door, holding his hat awkwardly in his hands.

"Tu be shure, Tom," said the girl, feeling his new embarrassment acutely, and longing to put him at his ease and make him understand that story would not change her regard. "Jes' take er cheer."

She did not stop her work, and he drew a chair up near the bench, laid his hat on the floor, and then for the first time looked straightly and frankly at her. His eyes were clear and honest if not handsome. Bet felt his steady look, and flushed, and the hand holding the shuttle trembled slightly.

"You have heard?" he said at last, with a deep, dejected sigh.

"Yes," suddenly facing him and looking into his eyes. They did not waver, though his sunburnt face flushed.

"It wus in my pocket, Bet, but if it's the las' word I'm ever ter say, I don't know how it got thar," he said, solemnly.

"I know'd you didn't do it," she said with generous faith. "Bill Sanders mus' be at the bottom o' it himself."

"I don't know--I don't know nothin' erbout the matter 't all. I can't seem ter understan' why ennybody'd wanter spile my character, I've been shiftless an' lazy, I'll 'low that," humbly, "an' I don't know as you oughter 'a' put up with me, but I never tuk nothin' that didn't berlong ter me, an' never lifted er finger to harm a human creetur."

His voice shook slightly, and he leaned his head upon the weaving bench, his face hidden in a fold of Bet's dress.

She trembled in a passion of tender sympathy; tears filled her eyes, ran down her face, but she would not let a single sob pass her quivering lips. She laid her hand softly on his ruddy hair, and when she could speak without crying, said:

"It'll never make enny difference with me, I don't care what they say."

"But the whole world'll be turnin' ag'in me now, Bet. I've come over to tell you I won't think hard o' yer fer takin' back yer promises," he said with an effort.

"Promises air promises, an' I never make 'em 'thout wantin' ter keep 'em," she said steadily.

He raised his head, he saw the tears on her face, the trembling of her lips, and starting up threw one arm around her, and pressed her head against him.

"God A'mighty bless yer, Bet, honey, for keerin' fer sech a poor creetur as I, when you mought git the best. Ef I don't make somethin' o' myself now arter this, I'll never ax yer to keep yer word," he whispered, passionately pressing his rough cheek against her smooth, warm one.

For a moment the girl did not move, then she gently removed his arm, and sitting upright began to look confusedly for her shuttle, flushing, paling, not daring to meet her lover's eyes.

"Can't nothin' be done to clear up the matter?" she said finally in a low tone.

Fannin shook his head sadly.

"Nothin'; it wus thar, an' I hain't no way o' provin' I didn't put it thar."

That was true, and gossip was rife throughout the settlement, and the members of Cool Spring Church met in solemn conclave to "deal" with the erring young man, who persisted in denying his guilt, thereby adding the sin of a lie to the sin of stealing. He lost his situation on the railroad, he lost his friends, and seemed to sink to the lowest ebb of fortune. But his trials put a new spirit into him, or else called forth a great deal of latent strength, for he met the slights of his associates and neighbors with quiet dignity and went to work energetically on his farm.

"I 'lowed you 'ud be a-huntin' a new home," said one of his neighbors to him, eying him curiously.

"No, I'm goin' ter stay right t' hum," he replied doggedly.

"He's er turrible sinner," said the gossips on learning his determination to remain at his old home.

Those long summer days were wretched ones to Bet Crow. She devised a thousand plans for clearing her lover, but they all came to naught. She firmly believed Bill Sanders had caused the trouble, though why or how she could not determine. He had been one of her most ardent admirers, and betrayed as much anger as disappointment when she refused to "keep cump'ny" with him, but she did not connect that with Tom's disgrace. After that one afternoon visit her lover did not come again to see her, and if they met accidentally at church or elsewhere, they only exchanged the briefest and quietest greeting, but eyes may speak as well as lips, and there were glances eloquent and sweet to both.

Bet did not parade her feelings, and people said she had come to her senses at last, and had sent "that triflin' Tom Fannin erdrift."

One day Bill Sanders stepped boldly up and asked permission to walk home from meeting with her. She curtly refused.

"What's the matter, Bet? It's onjest to treat me in sech er way 'thout er cause," he said in wounded tones.