ke
inside, to the soft cadences of the night-song and the silver wash of
the moonlight.

Turner Stacy found her sitting, with her face between her palms, under
a great oak that leaned out across the trickle of the creek, and when
he spoke her name, she raised eyes glistening with tears.

"Blossom," he began in a contrite voice, "ye're mad at me, ain't ye?
Ye've done heerd about--about last night." Then he added with moody
self-accusation, "God knows I don't blame ye none."

She turned her head away and did not at once answer. Suddenly her
throat choked and she broke into sobs that shook her with their
violence. The young man stood rigid, his face drawn with self-hatred
and at last she looked up at him.

"Somehow, Turner," she said unsteadily, "hit wouldn't of been jest ther
same ef hit had been any other time. Yestiddy--up thar on ther
ridge--ye promised me thet ye'd be heedful with licker."

"I knows I did," he declared bitterly. "Ye've got a right ter plumb
hate me."

"Ef I'd a-hated ye," she reminded him simply, "I wouldn't sca'cely have
watched ther road all day." Then irrelevantly she demanded, "How did ye
git yore shoulder hurt?"

The wish to defend himself with the palliations of last night's
desperate fatigue and the chill in his wound was a strong temptation,
but he repressed it. Knowledge of his encounter with Ratler Webb would
only alarm her and conjure up fears of unforgiving vengeance.

"Hit war just a gun thet went off accidental-like," he prevaricated. "I
wasn't harmed none, Blossom." Then in a tense voice he continued: "I
only aimed ter drink a leetle--not too much--an' then somehow I didn't
seem ter hev ther power ter quit."

He felt the lameness of that plea and broke off.

"I'd been studyin' about what you said on ther ridge," she told him
falteringly, and the tremor of her voice electrified him. Again the
mountains on their ancient foundations grew unsteady before his eyes.

"Does ye mean thet--thet despite last night--ye keers fer me?"

He bent forward, lips parted and heart pounding--and her reply was an
unsteady whisper.

"I hain't plumb dead sartain yit, Turner, but--but this mornin' I
couldn't think of nothin' else but you."

"Blossom!" exclaimed the boy, his voice ringing with a solemn
earnestness. "I don't want thet ye shall hev ter feel shame fer
me--but----"

Once again the words refused to come. The girl had risen now and stood
slender in the silver light, her lashes wet