him, slow-mouthed,
cold-hearted lout, she would have been safe and happy with Morgan that
hour. Old Isom would have been living still, going about his sordid ways
as before she came, and the need of his money would have been removed
out of her life forever.

Joe was at the bottom of all this--spying, prying, meddling Joe. Let him
suffer for it now, said she. If he had kept out of things which he did
not understand, the fool! Now let him suffer! Let him hang, if he must
hang, as she had heard the women say last night he should. No act of
hers, no word----

"The wagons is coming, honey," said Mrs. Greening at her door. "We must
git ready to go to the graveyard now."

CHAPTER XI

PETER'S SON

Mint grew under the peach-trees in Colonel Henry Price's garden,
purple-stemmed mint, with dark-green, tender leaves. It was not the
equal of the mint, so the colonel contended with provincial loyalty,
which grew back in Kentucky along the clear, cool mountain streams. But,
picked early in the morning with the dew on it, and then placed
bouquet-wise in a bowl of fresh well-water, to stand thus until needed,
it made a very competent substitute for the Kentucky herb.

In that cool autumn weather mint was at its best, and Colonel Price
lamented, as he gathered it that morning, elbow-deep in its dewy
fragrance, that the need of it was passing with the last blaze of
October days.

Yet it was comforting to consider how well-balanced the seasons and
men's appetites were. With the passing of the season for mint, the
desire for it left the palate. Frosty mornings called for the comfort of
hot toddy, wintry blasts for frothing egg-nog in the cup. Man thirsted
and nature satisfied; the economy of the world was thus balanced and all
was well. So reasoned Colonel Price comfortably, after his way.

Colonel Price straightened up from his mint-picking with dew on his arm
and a flush of gathered blood in his cheeks above his beard. He
looked the philosopher and humanitarian that he was that morning,
his breast-length white beard blowing, his long and thick white hair
brushed back in a rising wave from his broad forehead. He was a tall
and spare man, slender of hand, small of foot, with the crinkles of
past laughter about his eyes, and in his face benevolence. One would
have named him a poet at first look, and argued for the contention on
further acquaintance.

But Colonel Price was not a poet, except at heart, any more than he was