ess branches the wind soughed
pleasantly overhead, unfelt by her, so completely was she protected by
the thickly growing laurel and rhododendron on either side of her path.
The snow of the day before was gone, leaving only the glistening wetness
of it on stones and fallen leaves and twigs underfoot, while in open
spaces the sun beat warmly down upon her.

The trail led by many steep scrambles and sharp descents more directly
to her home than the road, which wound and turned so frequently as to
more than double the distance. At intervals it cut across the road or
followed it a little way, only to diverge again. Here and there other
trails crossed it or branched from it, leading higher up the mountain,
or off into some gorge following the course of a stream, so that, except
to one accustomed to its intricacies, the path might easily be lost.

Old Sally paid no heed to her course, apparently leaving the choice of
trails to her horse. She sat easily on the beast and smoked her pipe
until it was quite out, when she stowed it away in the black cloth bag,
which dangled from her elbow by its strings. Spying a small sassafras
shrub leaning toward her from the bank above her head, she gave it a
vigorous pull as she passed and drew it, root and all, from its hold in
the soil, beat it against the mossy bank, and swished it upon her skirt
to remove the earth clinging to it. Then, breaking off a bit of the
root, she chewed it, while she thrust the rest in her bag and used the
top for a switch with which to hasten the pace of her nag.

The small stones, loosened when she tore the shrub from the bank,
rattled down where the soil had been washed away, leaving the steep
shelving rock side of the mountain bare, and she heard them leap the
smooth space and fall softly on the moss among the ferns and lodged
leaves below. There, crouched in the sun, lay a man with a black felt
hat covering his face. The stones falling about him caused him to raise
himself stealthily and peer upward. Descrying only the lone woman and
the gray horse, he gave a low peculiar cry, almost like that of an
animal in distress. She drew rein sharply and listened. The cry was
repeated a little louder.

"Come on up hyar, Frale. Hit's on'y me. Hu' come you thar?"

He climbed rapidly up through the dense undergrowth, and stood at her
side, breathing quickly. For a moment they waited thus, regarding each
other, neither speaking. The boy--he seemed little more than a
y