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By the light of the fire I could see that, in spite of his full first growth of beard, he was young,–even younger than myself,–and that he was by no means bad-looking. As he still showed signs of retreating at any moment, I took my flask and tobacco from my saddle-bags, handed them to him, pointed to the stool, and sat down myself upon the bed.

“You live near here?”

“Yes,” he said a little abstractedly, as if listening for some interruption, “at Ten Mile Crossing.”

“Why, that’s two miles away.”

“I reckon.”

“Then you don’t live here–on the clearing?”

“No. I b’long to the mill at ‘Ten Mile.'”

“You were on your way home?”

“No,” he hesitated, looking at his pipe; “I kinder meander round here at this time, when Johnson’s away, to see if everything’s goin’ straight.”

“I see–you’re a friend of the family.”

“‘Deed no!” He stopped, laughed, looked confused, and added, apparently to his pipe, “That is, a sorter friend. Not much. SHE”–he lowered his voice as if that potential personality filled the whole cabin–“wouldn’t like it.”

“Then at night, when Johnson’s away, you do sentry duty round the house?”

“Yes, ‘sentry dooty,’ that’s it,”–he seemed impressed with the suggestion–“that’s it! Sentry dooty. You’ve struck it, pardner.”

“And how often is Johnson away?”

“‘Bout two or three times a week on an average.”

“But Miss Caroline appears to be able to take care of herself. She has no fear.”

“Fear! Fear wasn’t hangin’ round when SHE was born!” He paused. “No, sir. Did ye ever look into them eyes?”

I hadn’t, on account of the lashes. But I didn’t care to say this, and only nodded.

“There ain’t the created thing livin’ or dead, that she can’t stand straight up to and look at.”

I wondered if he had fancied she experienced any difficulty in standing up before that innocently good-humored face, but I could not resist saying:–

“Then I don’t see the use of your walking four miles to look after her.”

I was sorry for it the next minute, for he seemed to have awkwardly broken his pipe, and had to bend down for a long time afterwards to laboriously pick up the smallest fragments of it. At last he said, cautiously:

“Ye noticed them bits o’ flannin’ round the chillern’s throats?”

I remembered that I had, but was uncertain whether it was intended as a preventive of cold or a child’s idea of decoration. I nodded.

“That’s their trouble. One night, when old Johnson had been off for three days to Coulterville, I was prowling round here and I didn’t git to see no one, though there was a light burnin’ in the shanty all night. The next night I was here again,–the same light twinklin’, but no one about. I reckoned that was mighty queer, and I jess crep’ up to the house an’ listened. I heard suthin’ like a little cough oncet in a while, and at times suthin’ like a little moan. I didn’t durst to sing out for I knew SHE wouldn’t like it, but whistled keerless like, to let the chillern know I was there. But it didn’t seem to take. I was jess goin’ off, when–darn my skin!–if I didn’t come across the bucket of water I’d fetched up from the spring THAT MORNIN’, standin’ there full, and NEVER TAKEN IN! When I saw that I reckoned I’d jess wade in, anyhow, and I knocked. Pooty soon the door was half opened, and I saw her eyes blazin’ at me like them coals. Then SHE ‘lowed I’d better ‘git up and git,’ and shet the door to! Then I ‘lowed she might tell me what was up–through the door. Then she said, through the door, as how the chillern lay all sick with that hoss-distemper, diphthery. Then she ‘lowed she’d use a doctor ef I’d fetch him. Then she ‘lowed again I’d better take the baby that hadn’t ketched it yet along with me, and leave it where it was safe. Then she passed out the baby through the door all wrapped up in a blankit like a papoose, and you bet I made tracks with it. I knowed thar wasn’t no good going to the mill, so I let out for White’s, four miles beyond, whar there was White’s old mother. I told her how things were pointin’, and she lent me a hoss, and I jess rounded on Doctor Green at Mountain Jim’s, and had him back here afore sun-up! And then I heard she wilted,–regularly played out, you see,–for she had it all along wuss than the lot, and never let on or whimpered!”