and kindly look anyone would have known her at a glance as the
boy's mother. "Land sakes, if it ain't Sammy Lane! How are you,
honey?"

"I am alright," answered the voice; "I've come over t' stop with
you to-night; Dad's away again; Mandy Ford staid with me last
night, but she had to go home this evenin'." The big fellow at the
woodpile drove his axe deeper into the log.

"It's about time you was a comin' over," replied the woman in the
doorway; "I was a tellin' the menfolks this mornin' that you
hadn't been nigh the whole blessed week. Mr. Matthews 'lowed maybe
you was sick."

The other returned with a gay laugh, "I was never sick a minute in
my life that anybody ever heard tell. I'm powerful hungry, though.
You'd better put in another pan of corn bread." She turned her
pony's head toward the barn.

"Seems like you are always hungry," laughed the older woman, in
return. "Well just go on out to the barn, and the men will take
your horse; then come right in and I'll mighty soon have something
to fill you up."

Operations at the woodpile suddenly ceased and Young Matt was
first at the barn-yard gate.

Miss Sammy Lane was one of those rare young women whose appearance
is not to be described. One can, of course, put it down that she
was tall; beautifully tall, with the trimness of a young pine,
deep bosomed, with limbs full-rounded, fairly tingling with the
life and strength of perfect womanhood; and it may be said that
her face was a face to go with one through the years, and to live
still in one's dreams when the sap of life is gone, and, withered
and old, one sits shaking before the fire; a generous, loving
mouth, red lipped, full arched, with the corners tucked in and
perfect teeth between; a womanly chin and nose, with character
enough to save them from being pretty; hair dark, showing a touch
of gold with umber in the shadows; a brow, full broad, set over
brown eyes that had never been taught to hide behind their fringed
veils, but looked always square out at you with a healthy look of
good comradeship, a gleam of mirth, or a sudden, wide, questioning
gaze that revealed depth of soul within.

But what is the use? When all this is written, those who knew
Sammy will say, "'Tis but a poor picture, for she is something
more than all this." Uncle Ike, the postmaster at the Forks, did
it much better when he said to "Preachin' Bill," the night of the
"Doin's" at the Cove School, "Ba thundas! That gal o' Jim Lane