stem of enchantment was only "the
mountings"; that here was Foxy, and there was Big Injun, and still
beyond was another, which he had "hearn tell ran spang up into
Virginny." The sky that bent to clasp this kindred blue was of varying
moods. Floods of sunshine submerged Chilhowee in liquid gold, and
revealed that dainty outline limned upon the northern horizon; but
over the Great Smoky mountains, clouds had gathered and a gigantic
rainbow bridged the valley. . . . . . . . . Simon Burney did not speak
for a moment. . . . "That's a likely gal o' yourn," he drawled, with
an odd constraint in his voice,--"a likely gal, that Clarsie." . . .

"Yes," Peter Giles at length replied, "Clarsie air a likely enough
gal. But she air mightily sot ter havin' her own way. An' ef 't ain't
give to her peaceable-like, she jes' takes it, whether or no."

This statement, made by one presumably informed on the subject, might
have damped the ardor of many a suitor,--for the monstrous truth was
dawning on Peter Giles's mind that suitor was the position to which
this slow elderly widower aspired. But Simon Burney, with that odd,
all-pervading constraint still prominently apparent, mildly observed,
"Waal, ez much ez I hev seen of her goin's-on, it 'pears ter me az her
way air a mighty good way. An' it ain't comical that she likes
it." . . . . . . . The song grew momentarily more distinct: among the
leaves there were fugitive glimpses of blue and white, and at last
Clarsie appeared, walking lightly along the log, clad in her checked
homespun dress, and with a pail upon her head.

She was a tall lithe girl, with that delicately transparent complexion
often seen among the women of these mountains. Her lustreless black
hair lay along her forehead without a ripple or a wave; there was
something in the expression of her large eyes that suggested those of
a deer,--something free, untamable, and yet gentle. "'Tain't no wonder
ter me ez Clarsie is all tuk up with the wild things, an' critters
ginerally," her mother was wont to say; "she sorter looks like 'em,
I'm a-thinkin'."

As she came in sight there was a renewal of that odd constraint in
Simon Burney's face and manner, and he rose abruptly. "Waal," he said,
hastily, going to his horse, a raw-boned sorrel, hitched to the fence,
"it's about time I war a-startin' home, I reckons."

He nodded to his host, who silently nodded in return, and the old
horse jogged off with him down the road, as Clarsie