d ef ye likes me, Turner," she demurely assured him.
"We've growed up together an' ef ye was to go away somewhar's an' leave
me, I reckon I'd nigh die of lonesomeness."

Distrust of effusiveness was bred in his bone. Laconic utterance was
his heritage, and now that his heart demanded expression and his eyes
kindled with the dreamer's fire, he stood struggling against the
fettering of his tongue. Then abruptly, tumultuously he burst out,
talking fast.

"I hain't got ther gift of speech, Blossom; I only knows thet hit
hain't enough ter jest have ye miss me ef I went away. I knows thet
when ye stands thar with ther sun on yore hair hit would be springtime
fer me, even ef thar war snow on ther hillsides an' ice in ther creek.
I knows thet I'm standin' hyar on solid rock. Yore paw says these-hyar
hills were old when ther Alps hadn't riz up yit outen ther waters, but
when I looks at ye, Blossom, this mountain's shakin' under me ... an'
yore face is ther only thing thet's steady afore my eyes."

He broke off with something like a choke in his throat and Blossom was
trembling a little under that first impact of new emotion that comes
with the waking of the senses. Then she remembered the stories of his
escapades and her eyes clouded. Her hand fell flutteringly on his arm.

"If--if ye cares thet much about me, Turner, I wish--I don't aim ter
nag ye--but I wish ye'd promise me thet ye won't give men cause ter say
ye drinks too much."

Turner's brow contracted and his lips stiffened. The defensive mask
which seemed sullen because it was his idea of impassiveness set itself
again, but he nodded.

"Thet's a fair thing," he said slowly at last. "Drinkin' hain't hardly
a thing a gal kin understand noways. I hain't jest a common drunkard,
Blossom. Thar's times though when I feels es ef I war a-livin' in a
jail-house--an' seekin' ter git free. Thar's su'thin' in me--I don't
know jest what--thet's always fightin'. These hyar hills with their
ign'rance an' dirt an' poverty seems ter be on top of me 'stid of
underneath me. Thet's when I drinks too much. Fer a little spell I
seems ter dream I'm free."

A few minutes later the girl started down the "yon" side of the wooded
slope, going with a light step and humming a ballade that had come
across the sea with the beginnings of America, and the boy looked after
her with a passionate tenderness that was far from stoical.

If most of his dreams were intangible and misty, this, his great