that day she went to do the washin'. Likely Miz Teasley war sick--anyway she lef' us here. She baked corn-bread--hit war all we had in the house to eat them days, an' she fotched water fer the day, an' kivered up the fire. Then she locked the door an' took the key with her, an' tol'

we-uns did we hear a noise like anybody tryin' to get in, to go up garret an' make out like thar wa'n't n.o.body to home. The' war three o'

us chillen. I war the oldest. We war Caswells, my fam'ly. My little brothah Whitson, he war sca'cely more'n a baby, runnin' 'round pullin'

things down on his hade whar he could reach, an Cotton war mos' as much keer--that reckless."

She paused and smiled as she recalled the cares of her childhood, then wandered on in her slow narration. "They done a heap o' things that day to about drive me plumb crazy, an' all the time we was thinkin' we heered men talkin' or horses trompin' outside, an' kep' ourselves right busy runnin' up garret to hide.

"Along towa'ds night hit come on to snow, an' then turned to rain, a right cold hard rain, an' we war that cold an' hungry--an' Whit, he cried fer maw,--an' hit come dark an' we had et all the' war to eat long before, so we had no suppah, an' the poor leetle fellers war that cold an' shiverin' thar in the dark--I made 'em climb into bed like they war, an' kivered 'em up good, an' thar I lay tryin' to make out like I war maw, gettin' my arms 'round both of 'em to oncet. Whit cried hisself to sleep, but Cotton he kep' sayin' he heered men knockin' 'round outside, an' at last he fell asleep, too. He alluz war a natch'ly skeered kind o'

child.

"Then I lay thar still, list'nin' to the rain beat on the roof, an'

thinkin' would maw ever get back again, an' list'nin' to hear her workin' with the lock--hit war a padlock on the outside--an' thar I must o' drapped off to sleep that-a-way, fer I didn't hear nothin', no more until I woke up with a soft murmurin' sound in my ears, an' thar I seed maw. The rain had stopped an' hit war mos' day, I reckon, with a mornin'

moon shinin' in an' fallin' on her whar she knelt by the bed, clost nigh to me. I can see hit now, that long line o' white light streamin' acrost the floor an' fallin' on her, makin' her look like a white ghost spirit, an' her two hands held up with that thar book 'twixt 'em.

"I knew hit war maw, fer I'd seed her pray before, but I war skeered fer all that. I lay right still an' held my breath, an' heered her thank the Lord fer keerin' fer we-uns whilst she war gone, an' fer 'lowin' her to get that thar book.

"I don't guess she knew I seed her, fer she got up right still an' soft, like not to wake we-uns, an' began to light the fire an' make some yarb tea. She war that wet an' cold I could see her hand shake whilst she held the match to the light'ud stick. Them days maw made coffee out'n burnt corn-bread, an' tea out'n dried blackberry leaves an' sa.s.safrax root." She paused and turned her face toward the open door. David thought she had lost somewhat the appearance of age; certainly, what with the long rest, and Ca.s.sandra's loving care, she had no longer the weary, haggard look that had struck him when he saw her first.

Following the direction of her gaze, he went to the shelf and took down the old spelling-book, and turned the leaves, now limp and worn. So this was Ca.s.sandra's inheritance--part of it--the inward impulse that would urge to toil all day, then walk miles in rain and darkness through a wilderness, and thank the Lord for the privilege--to own this book--not for herself, but for the generations to come. David touched it reverently, glad to know so much of her past, and turned to the old mother for more.

"Have you anything else--like this?"

Her sharp eyes sparkled as she looked narrowly at him. "I have suthin'

'at I hain't nevah told anybody livin' a word of, not even Doctah Hoyle--only he war some differ'nt from you. But I'm gettin' old, an' I may as well tell you. Likely with all your larnin' you can tell me is it any good to Ca.s.s. She be that sot on all sech." She fumbled at her throat a moment and drew from the bosom of her gown a leather shoe-lacing, from which dangled an iron key. Slowly she undid the knot, and handed it toward him.

"I nevah 'low n.o.body on earth to touch that thar box, an' the' ain't a soul livin' knows what's in hit. I been gyardin' them like they war gold, fer they belonged to my ol' man--the first one--Ca.s.sandra's fathah; but I reckon if I die the' won't n.o.body see any good in them things. If you'll onlock that thar padlock on that box yander, you'll find it wropped in a piece o' gingham. My paw's mothah spun an' wove that gingham--ol' Miz Caswell. They don't many do work like that nowadays. They lived right whar we a' livin' now."

David unlocked the chest and lifted the heavy lid.

"Hit's down in the further cornder--that's. .h.i.t, I reckon. Just step to the door, will you, an' see is they anybody nigh."

He went to the door, but saw no one; only from the shed came an intermittent rat-tat-tat.

"I don't see any one, but I hear some one pounding."

"Hit's only Hoyle makin' his traps." She sighed, then slowly and tenderly untied the parcel and placed in his hands two small leather-bound books. Tied to one by a faded silk cord which marked the pages was a thin, worn ring of gold.

"That ring war his maw's, an' when we war married, I wore hit, but when I took Farwell fer my ol' man, I nevah wore hit any more, fer he 'lowed, bein' hit war gold that-a-way, we'd ought to sell hit. That time I took the lock off'n the door an' put hit on that thar box. Hit war my gran'maw's box, an' I done wore the key hyar evah since. Can you tell what they be? Hit's the quarest kind of print I evah see. He used to make out like he could read hit. Likely he did, fer whatevah he said, he done."

It seemed to her little short of a miracle that any one could read it, but David soon learned that her confidence in her first "old man" was unlimited.

"What-all's in hit?" She grew restless while he carefully and silently examined her treasure, the true significance of which she so little knew. Filled with amazement and with a keen pleasure, he took the books to the light. The print was fine, even, and clear.

"What-all be they?" she reiterated. "Reckon the're no good?"

David smiled. "In one way they're all the good in the world, but not for money, you know."

"No, I don't guess. Can you read that thar quare printin'?"

"Yes. The letters are Greek, and these books are about a hundred years old."

"Be they? Then they won't be much good to Ca.s.s, I reckon. He sot a heap by them, but I war 'feared they mount be heathen. Greek--that thar be heathen. Hain't hit?"

David continued, speaking more to himself than to her. "They were published in London in eighteen twelve. They have been read by some one who knew them well, I can see by these marginal notes."

"What be they?" Her curiosity was eager and intent.

"They are explanations and comments, written here on the margin--see?--with a fine pen."

"His grandpaw done that thar. What be they about, anyhow?"

"They are very old poems written long before this country was discovered."

"An' that must 'a' been before the Revolution. His grandpaw fit in that.

The' is somethin' more in thar. I kept hit hid, fer Farwell, he war bound to melt hit up fer silver bullets. He 'lowed them bullets war plumb sure to kill. Reckon you can find hit? Thar 'tis." Her eyes shone as Thryng drew out another object also wrapped in gingham. "Hit's a teapot, I guess, but Farwell, he got a-hold of hit an' melted off the spout to make his silvah bullets. That time I hid all in the box an' put on the bolt an' lock whilst he war away 'stillin'. The' is one bullet left, but I reckon Frale has. .h.i.t."

David took it from her hand and turned it about. "Surely! This is a treasure. Here is a coat of arms--but it is so worn I can't make out the emblem. Was this your husband's also? Is there anything else?"

"That's all. Yes, they war hisn. I war plumb mad at Farwell. I nevah could get ovah what he done, all so't he mount sure kill somebody.

Likely he meant them bullets fer the revenue officers, should they come up with him."

"It would have been a great pity if he had destroyed this mark. I think--I'm not sure--but if it's what I imagine, it is from an old family in Wales."

"I reckon you're right, fer they were Welsh--his paw's folks way back.

He used to say the' wa'n't no name older'n hisn since the Bible. I told him 'twar time he got a new one if 'twere that old, but he said he reckoned a name war like whiskey--hit needed a right smart o' age to make hit worth anything."

Thryng laid the antique silver pot on the bed beside the old mother's hand and again took up the small volumes. As he held them, a thought flashed through his mind, yet hardly a thought,--it was more of an illumination,--like a vista suddenly opened through what had seemed an impenetrable, impalpable wall, beyond which lay a joy yet to be, but before unseen. In that instant of time, a vision appeared to him of what life might bring, glorified by a tender light as of red fire seen through a sweet, blue, obscuring mist, and making thus a halo about the one figure of the vision outlined against it, clear and fine.

"'Pears like you find somethin' right interestin' in that book; be you readin' hit?"

"I find a glorious prophecy. Was your first husband born and raised here as you were?"

"Not on this spot; but he was born an' raised like we-uns here in the mountains--ovah th'other side Pisgah. I seed him first when I wa'n't more'n seventeen. He come here fer--I don't rightly recollect what, only he had been deer huntin' an' come late evenin' he drapped in. He had lost his dog, an' he had a bag o' birds, an' he axed maw could she cook 'em an' give him suppah, an' maw, she took to him right smaht.

"Aftah suppah--I remember like hit war last evenin'--he took gran'paw's old fiddle an' tuned hit up an' sot thar an' played everything you evah heered. He played like the' war birds singin' an' rain fallin', an' like the wind when hit goes wailin' round the house in the pine tops--soft an' sad--like that-a-way. Gran'paw's old fiddle. I used to keer a heap fer hit, but one time Farwell got religion, an' he took an' broke hit 'cause he war 'feared Frale mount larn to play an' hit would be a temptation of the devil to him."

"Well, I say! That was a crime, you know."

"Yes. Sometimes I lay here an' say what-all did I marry Farwell fer, anyway. Well--every man has his failin's, the' say, an' Farwell, he sure had hisn."

"May I keep these books a short time? I will be very careful of them.

You know that, or you would not have shown them to me."

"You take them as long as you like. Hit ain't like hit used to be. Books is easy come by these days--too easy, I reckon. Ca.s.sandry, she brung a whole basketful of 'em with her. Thar they be on that cheer behin' my spinnin'-wheel."

"Was the basket full of books? So, that was why it was so heavy. Might I have a look at them?"

"Look 'em ovah all you want to. She won't keer, I reckon. She hain't had a mite o' time since she come home to look at 'em."

But David thought better of it. He would not look in her basket and pry among her treasures without her permission.