untain-side.
We were near our journey's end then, for at the foot of the embankment
that sheered down at our left we heard the swish of a mountain-stream.
The horse went down. There was a cry from Tip--a sound of splintering
wood--something seemed to strike me a brutal blow. Then I lay back,
careless, fearless, and was rocked to sleep.

[Illustration: The horse went down.]

XVIII

She sat smoking.

Had I never heard of her before, had I opened my eyes as I did that day
to see her sitting before me, I should have exclaimed, "It's John
Shadrack's widder!"

So, with the crayon portrait, gilt-framed, that hung on the wall behind
her, I should have cried, "And that is John Shadrack!"

This crayon "enlargement" presented John with very black skin and
spotless white hair. His head was tilted back in a manner that made
the great bushy beard seem to stick right out from the frame, and gave
the impression that the old man was choking down a fit of uproarious
laughter. I knew, of course, that he had been posed that way to better
show his collar and cravat. Though Tip had described him to me as a
rather gloomy, taciturn person, the impression gained in the long
contemplation of his picture as I lay helpless on the bed never
changed. To me he was the ideal citizen of Happy Valley, and the
acquaintance I formed then and there with his wife served only to
endear him to me.

She sat smoking. I contemplated her a very long while and she gazed
calmly back. A score of times I tried to speak, but something failed
me, and when I attempted to wave my hand in greeting to her I could not
lift it from the bed.

At last strength came.

"This is John Shadrack's house?" I said.

"Yes," said she, "and I'm his widder."

[Illustration: "And I'm his widder."]

She came to my side and stood looking down at me very hard. I saw a
woman in the indefinable seasons past fifty. In my vague mental
condition, the impression of her came slowly. First it was as though I
saw three cubes, one above the other, the largest in the middle. Then
these took on clothing, blue calico with large polka dots, and the
topmost one crowned itself with thin wisps of hair, parted in the
middle and plastered down at the side. So, little by little, John
Shadrack's widow grew on me, till I saw her a square little old woman,
with a wrinkled, brown face, a perpetual smile and a pipe that snuffled
in a homely, comfortable way.

I smiled. You could