ere he's goin' to run the furrow. If livin' a dozen years
and mo' with such a sancterfied woman as Martha Gordon won't make out to
toll a man up to the pearly gates, I allow the' ain't no preacher goin'
to do it."

"Well, now; maybe that's the reason," drawled Japheth Pettigrass, the
only unmarried man in the small circle of listeners; but he was promptly
put down by the tall mountaineer.

"Hold on thar, Japhe Pettigrass! I allow the' ain't no dyed-in-the-wool
hawss-trader like you goin' to stand up and say anything ag'inst Marthy
Gordon while I'm a-listenin'. I'm recollectin' right now the time when
she sot up day and night for more'n a week with my Malviny--and me
a-smashin' the whisky jug acrost the wagon tire to he'p God to forgit
how no-'count and triflin' I'd been."

Thomas Jefferson had opened the church-house doors and windows and was
out among the unhitched teams looking for Scrap Pendry, who had been one
of a score to go forward for prayers the night before. So it happened
that he overheard the flat-chested mountaineer's tribute to his mother.
It warmed him generously; but there was a boyish scowl for Japheth
Pettigrass. What had the horse-trader been saying to make it needful for
Bill Layne to speak up as his mother's defender? Thomas Jefferson
recorded a black mark against Pettigrass's name, and went on to search
for Scrap.

"What you hiding for?" he demanded, when the newly-made convert was
discovered skulking in the dusky shadows of the pines beyond the
farthest outlying wagon.

"I ain't hidin'," was the half-defiant answer.

"You're a liar," said Thomas Jefferson coolly, ducking skilfully to
escape the consequences.

But there were no consequences. Young Pendry's heavy face flushed a dull
red,--that could be seen even in the growing dusk,--but he made no move
retaliatory. Thomas Jefferson walked slowly around him, wary as a wild
creature of the wood, and to the full as curious. Then he stuck out his
hand awkwardly.

"I only meant it 'over the left,' Scrap, hope to die," he said. "I
allowed I'd just like to know for sure if what you done last night made
any difference."

Scrap was silent, glibness of tongue not being among the gifts of the
East Tennessee landward bred. But he grasped the out-thrust hand
heartily and crushed it forgivingly.

"Come on out where the folks are," urged Thomas Jefferson. "Sim Cantrell
and the other fellows are allowin' you're afeard."

"I ain't afeard," denied the