et his things together and leave
those hills forever.

How lonely had been his trip--how lonely was the God-forsaken little
town behind him! How lonely the road and hills and the little white
clouds in the zenith straight above him--and how unspeakably lonely the
green dome of the great Pine that shot into view from the north as he
turned a clump of rhododendron with uplifted eyes. Not a breath of
air moved. The green expanse about him swept upward like a wave--but
unflecked, motionless, except for the big Pine which, that far away,
looked like a bit of green spray, spouting on its very crest.

"Old man," he muttered, "you know--you know." And as to a brother he
climbed toward it.

"No wonder they call you Lonesome," he said as he went upward into the
bright stillness, and when he dropped into the dark stillness of shadow
and forest gloom on the other side he said again:

"My God, no wonder they call you Lonesome."

And still the memories of June thronged--at the brook--at the river--and
when he saw the smokeless chimney of the old cabin, he all but groaned
aloud. But he turned away from it, unable to look again, and went down
the river toward Uncle Billy's mill.

* * * * * * *

Old Hon threw her arms around him and kissed him.

"John," said Uncle Billy, "I've got three hundred dollars in a old yarn
sock under one of them hearthstones and its yourn. Ole Hon says so too."

Hale choked.

"I want ye to go to June. Dave'll worry her down and git her if you
don't go, and if he don't worry her down, he'll come back an' try to
kill ye. I've always thought one of ye would have to die fer that gal,
an' I want it to be Dave. You two have got to fight it out some day,
and you mought as well meet him out thar as here. You didn't give that
little gal a fair chance, John, an' I want you to go to June."

"No, I can't take your money, Uncle Billy--God bless you and old
Hon--I'm going--I don't know where--and I'm going now."

XXXIII

Clouds were gathering as Hale rode up the river after telling old Hon
and Uncle Billy good-by. He had meant not to go to the cabin in Lonesome
Cove, but when he reached the forks of the road, he stopped his horse
and sat in indecision with his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle
and his eyes on the smokeless chimney. The memories tugging at his heart
drew him irresistibly on, for it was the last time. At a slow walk he
went noiselessly through the de