n' maw, an' whar hit stood I
built up a leetle mound with a sorter cross on hit, in thar memory.

"In course, I tried ter find out arterwards whar they come from, but hit
warn't no sorter use. Thar war no address on anything in the tent or
thar spare-close, and no one hed seen them in Fayville or tharerbouts,
so I reckoned thay come clar ercross the mountains from Kentuck. Mebbe,
ef I hed hed more money, I mought hev found out erbout them; but us war
powerful po'r them days. An'--mebbe, again, hit war wrong--but maw an'
me couldn't holp thinkin' thet the leetle gal war sent us by the good
Lord, fer we didn't hev no children, hevin' lost a leetle gal jest
erbout es old es Smiles, ten years back."

"I don't think that you have any cause for reproaching yourself, Mr.
Webb," broke in Donald, reassuringly. "It seems to me that you did all
you could do, under the circumstances. Certainly the child was
fortunate, for you have been very kind to the little waif."

"We war mostly kind ter ourselves," was Big Jerry's simple rejoinder.
"She shorely hes been a ray of sunshine in this hyar cabin--'specially
since maw died three years ergone, since when Rose hes taken keer of
hit, an' me. She air a leetle mite of a tyrant, et times, but I reckon
I'm ther better fer hit.

"Wall, we brung her up like our own flesh an' blood, but altho' she
called my woman 'Maw', she allus called me 'Grandpappy.' An' we didn't
never try ter make her fergit her real paw an' maw, an' every
birthday--leastwise we calls ther day she come ter us her birthday--she
puts wild flowers on the mound I made. She's growed up like the other
children hyar, and 'twar them what fust called her Smiles; but 'twarnt
long erfore maw an' me sorter got inter the habit of doin' hit too, fer
hit suits her right well."

The speaker became silent, his memory dwelling in scenes of the dimming
past, while Donald's thoughts were busy with the story which he had just
heard. The inherent difference between _her_ personality and that of the
average mountain girl was explained. The curtsy which she--a
three-year-old baby--had made Big Jerry, seemed to indicate that she
had been a flower of city hothouse culture before being transplanted to
the wilds, and there growing up, in outward semblance at least, in
conformity with her environment. But, Donald felt, within the child lay
an ineradicable strain of breeding, making her different from these
others, an inherited fineness of soul of