that I been stayin' over thar fer nothin' on earth but jes to see
you ag'in; 'n' I want ye to know that I was a-sorrowin' fer ye when
y'u was sick, 'n' a-pinin' to see ye, 'n' a-hopin' some day y'u
mought kinder git over yer hate fer me." He had been talking with low
tenderness, half to himself, and with his face to the river, and he did
not see the girl's tears falling to the porch. Her sorrow gave way in
a great sob now, and he turned with sharp remorse, and stood quite near
her.

"Don't cry, Marthy," he said. "God knows hit's hard to think I've
brought all this on ye when I'd give all these mount'ins to save ye
from it. Whut d' ye say? Don't cry."

The girl was trying to speak at last, and Rome bent over to catch the
words.

"I hain't cryin' fer myself," she said, faintly, and then she said no
more; but the first smile that had passed over Rome's face for many a
day passed then, and he put out one big hand, and let it rest on the
heap of lustrous hair.

"Marthy, I hate to go 'way, leavin' ye hyeh with nobody to take keer o'
ye. You're all alone hyeh in the mount'ins; I'm all alone; 'n' I reckon
I'll be all alone wharever I go, ef you stay hyeh. I got a boat down
thar on the river, 'n' I'm goin' out West whar Uncle Rufe use to live. I
know I hain't good fer nothin' much"--he spoke almost huskily; he could
scarcely get the words to his lips--"but I want ye to go with me. Won't
ye?"

The girl did not answer, but her sobbing ceased slowly, while Rome
stroked her hair; and at last she lifted her face, and for a moment
looked to the other shore. Then she rose. There is a strange pride in
the Kentucky mountaineer.

"As you say, Rome, thar's nobody left but you, 'n' nobody but me; but
they burned you out, we hain't even--yit." Her eyes were on Thunderstruck
Knob, where the last sunlight used to touch the Stetson cabin.

"Hyeh, Rome!" He knew what she meant, and he kneeled at the pile of
kindling-wood near the kitchen door. Then they stood back and waited.
The sun dipped below a gap in the mountains, the sky darkened, and the
flames rose to the shingled porch, and leaped into the gathering dusk.
On the outer edge of the quivering light, where it touched the blossomed
laurel, the two stood till the blaze caught the eaves of the cabin; and
then they turned their faces where, burning to ashes in the west, was
another fire, whose light blended in the eyes of each with a light older
and more lasting than its own--the lig