No light now came from the conflagration he was desiring to witness, but there would be, as soon as he emerged once more into the open. He went on cautiously, until he came out into the moonlight again. Yonder to the right of him was the fire, still burning brightly, sending up a flickering blaze. He hurried his pace as much as possible over the road, and now saw a lone horseman speeding like the wind toward him. In another moment he pa.s.sed. His head was uncovered, but that was not unnatural. It was all right; he knew him not. This lone horseman turned in his saddle and glanced at Wade when he had got past him, never a moment allowing his steed to slacken his pace. That was also all right.

They did not know each other. Wade hurried on, finally reaching the burning building, where he found not a living thing, human nor beast, nothing saving the dying embers of a burning home. The light from the burning barn was brighter, and as he glanced that way he discovered a poor horse lying by the gate in the agonies of death.

"Poor fellow," he thought, as he watched him breathe his last, "your useful days are over; nothing can save you now."

Wade looked farther. On all sides he saw nothing but charred ruins, dark devastation, no sign of human nor animal life--not even a sign of vegetable life. No noise, not even the deep bay or the low whine of the farmhouse dog greeted his ears. Again he turned back into the darkness of the night and made his way to his cabin, none the wiser for having taken the trip.

CHAPTER III

Jack Wade was neither physically nor mentally afflicted. His great body was physically strong, his mind was symmetrically powerful. His college training prepared him to face the many difficult problems of life, his elect wisdom led him carefully at all times, and his athletic ability stood him well in hand on many occasions. As he sat pondering, he wondered over the peculiar fact that not a soul in the entire valley with whom he had talked had been willing to breathe one word concerning the great conflagration of a few nights previous. No one ever spoke of it, as though nothing so important had ever happened. Yet one man had lost, in little more time than an hour, what it had taken a lifetime to acc.u.mulate.

Things down in the valley were mysteriously strange. Wade had been in the community for some time, with an avowed purpose, but had not learned a single thing that would lead him to any knowledge of what he most desired to know. He was not yet even fully acquainted with his nearest neighbors, and, feeling this to be necessary, he placed a book under his arm and strode up the hot dusty road toward the cabin nearest the mountain, knowing but little what kind of reception would be accorded him. However, the reception was a secondary matter,--the sort did not bother him in the least,--as his thoughts were not on kindly receptions in this G.o.d-forsaken community. Apparently there was no friendly feeling between any two persons in the valley, therefore he did not look for a kindly reception, nor did he desire one. He wanted to know the people, that was all.

He pa.s.sed the little bush which had so kindly sheltered him when Tom Judson came rushing by, and reached the spot where he had bid the little wild flower, the valley girl, good-by. It all looked the same yet. There was the planter's cabin, just as he had seen it on the other occasion; there was the old rickety wire gate through which the girl drove the cow and through which her brother had led his horse soon afterward, and through which he himself now strolled. He felt a peculiar shyness, this man of the world, when he went into the little farmyard. The dog bayed, the chickens cackled loudly, and the ducks quacked, raising their heads loftily and scampering off toward the horse-lot. One old turkey gobbler proudly strutted dangerously near him, signifying that he must be very careful while treading on the soil of their domain. Through the window the girl was watching him, her l.u.s.trous eyes all aglow at his approach, her big heart beating a pit-a-pat against her shapely bosom, so fast that she greatly feared lest he must hear it from his waiting place outside.

It was really the newcomer, the one person of all persons whom she most desired to see. She remembered his last conversation, his kind words, his attentive att.i.tude. She had enjoyed him hugely, and wished for the time when she should hear his sweet voice again. By the time he was ready to knock she stood at the door, slightly blushing, not in the least backward. Their eyes met, but that bespoke nothing. Her eyes had met the gaze of others; so had his.

"I've brought a book for you to read," he said, not knowing that she could read at all.

"You needn't," she replied, reddening. But she took the book, as he gave it to her. Turning her face back toward the house she cried with a loud voice, "Mam! here's John, ther newcomer."

Jack looked up startled, greatly confused. She laughed at his confusion.

"That's the name I give everybody who I don't know," she said, smiling.

Wade felt quite relieved, his confusion at once disappearing. The simplicity of this pure valley girl wrought within his soul a feeling almost sympathetic. The simple means she had employed in asking him to introduce himself caused a feeling akin to shame to cover his heart.

Recovering his composure, he said:

"I am Jack Wade. I beg your pardon for not having told you before."

"Ye needn't," she replied, extending her hand. A continuous smile played about her face.

"And your name?" he asked hesitatingly.

"Huh!" she grunted. "Thought everybody knowed me. I'm Nory Judson, only gal of Peter Judson, owner of this large terbac--to-bac-ker farm. I'm pleased ter know ye, Jack."

Wade smiled as she requested him to take a seat upon the rickety little porch and make himself at home. She sat beside him and dangled her feet in and out under the porch.

"You haven't got it quite right yet," he said, looking into her face.

"Got whut right?" she asked, a far-away expression covering her countenance.

"Tobacco. T-o-b-a-c-c-o."

"To-bac-co, tobacco," she slowly spelled after him studiously. "I thought hit was terbacker," she continued in apparent animation, "an'

n.o.body hain't never said hit ain't 'round here." She did not mean to rebuke him for the correction. He thought so only because he understood her so very little. However, the subject was most too grave for him just at this juncture in their lives, therefore he quietly evaded further comment, feeling a.s.sured that it was not his duty to show this simple, sweet child of the mountainside how incorrectly she spoke, although he would gladly have done so could it have been done without in the least affecting her feelings. The time was not opportune. She was sensitive, perhaps, in a large degree, and he cared not to trample upon her sensibility. Far better that he place himself on a plane equal to her own as regards the use of the English language; otherwise she was more than his equal. Besides, he was in sore need of friends to a.s.sist him in fulfilling his purpose.

"No one may ever say that you are not quite right," he said jovially.

"If they do, you may call on me and I'll see to it that justice is done."

He smiled and she could not refrain from smiling.

"I forgive ye," she said, "because ye are a lonely bachelor, an' I don't want ye ter feel bad. Ye look so lonesome."

"Thank you. It is very lonely down at my cabin just now, though I surely will become accustomed to this quiet life soon. Then all loneliness will disappear, I presume. Just think of a fellow being away out here by his lonesome self all day and all night, without a human soul to vent his wrath upon or to have a quiet conversation with, and your old brindle cow won't come down that way any more."

She blushed, the crimson covering her face making her appear the more beautiful, if such was possible. The flickering sunlight played on her face as she replied, "She mout a-come agin fer all ye know sometime."

"If she does, I hope she'll get entirely lost deep down in the woodland."

She turned sharply toward him.

"What fer?"

"So you may take longer to look for her, and upon discovering your inability to locate her, may request the newcomer to aid you in the search."

She was studiously silent for a moment, her feet still swinging to and fro underneath the porch. "I know these woods better'n you."

"But we are to suppose that the hour is very late and you are quite afraid to go into the woodland for fear some wild beast will catch you."

Her merry laughter rang over the mountain.

"Would ye help me agin?" she asked.

"Every time."

Again she sat silent.

"Old brindle mout git out agin and she mout git lost. Whut's ther book ye brought me?"

"A story of the Dark Ages."

"Whut's that?"

"What?"

"Ther Dark Ages."

"Oh, that's a time away back yonder before you were born."

"Hit was putty dark in them days, wasn't it?"

Wade's face flushed perceptibly, but he smiled.

"You cannot be so very much younger than myself," he said.