est and
brightest dream, was at least clear and vivid.

When he could no longer see the flash of her blue dress between the
interlacing branches he turned, and drawing his sack of sprouted corn
out of its hiding place, hefted it to his shoulders. He would have to
hurry now to finish his task and get back by dusk.

CHAPTER III

Old man Bud Jason stood at the door of his tub-mill, leaning on the
long hickory staff which he always carried. He stood gauntly tall even
now that his once-broad shoulders sagged and his mane of hair was
white, and from his lips came a querulous mumbling as though he were
awaiting some one tardy of arrival. At last, though, he gave a grunt of
relief when the thicket far above him stirred and the figure of Bear
Cat Stacy appeared, bending under his load of grist.

He turned then into the shack and drew out a sack of meal from the
bottom of a pile, and as he finished this task a shadow fell across the
door. Turner Stacy let his burden fall and availed himself of the
opportunity to drop into a sitting posture on the step of the shanty,
resting his back against a post. His broad chest heaved and a profound
sigh of relief broke from his panting lips. The old miller stood
regarding him for a little while without words, then broke into
volcanic utterance:

"Hell's banjer! May God Almighty holp a country whar a young pa'r of
shoulders like your'n don't find no worthier use than man-powerin' good
corn acrost ther ridges ter turn hit inter bad licker."

Turner Stacy glanced up with mild surprise for the sentiment.

"I hain't nuver heered ye cavil with a man's license ter use his own
corn as he sees fit, afore, Bud," was his casual reply, and the
white-bearded one wagged his head and laughed tremulously after the
fashion of the old.

"I reckon ye don't mistrust me none, Bear Cat, even ef I does hit now,
but here of late I've cogitated a heap whilst I've been a-settin' hyar
listenin' ter ther creak of that old mill. Seems almost like ther wheel
was a-lamentin' over hits job. Thar bein' sich a sight of wickedness in
ther community whar my grand-children hes got ter be reared up is a
powerful solemn thing fer me ter study over, an' I've jes erbout
concluded thet whilst ther whiskey-makin' goes on ther killin's an
gin'ral wickedness won't hardly diminish none."

Furrows of dubious thought etched themselves on the young man's
forehead.

"Ef ye feels thet-a-way, Bud, why does yer consent ter