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Simeon Roxby had a keen, not unkindly face, and he had that look of extreme intelligence which is entirely distinct from intellectuality, and which one sometimes sees in a minor degree in a very clever dog or a fine horse. One might rely on him to understand instinctively everything one might say to him, even in its subtler aesthetic values, although he had consciously learned little. He was of the endowed natures to whom much is given, rather than of those who are set to acquire. He had many lines in his face-even his simple life had gone hard with him, its sorrows un assuaged by its simplicity. His hair was grizzled, and hung long and straight on his collar. He wore a grizzled beard cut broad and short. His boots had big spurs, although the lank old sorrel had never felt them. He sat his horse like the cavalryman he had been for four years of hard riding and raiding, but his face had a certain gentleness that accented the Quaker-like suggestion of his garb, a look of communing with the higher things.

“I never blamed ’em,'” he went on, evidently reverting to the spectres of the bridge-“I never blamed ’em for comin’ back wunst in a while. It ‘pears ter me ‘twould take me a long time ter git familiar with heaven, an’ sociable with them ez hev gone before. An’, my Lord, jes’ think what the good green yearth is! Leastwise the mountings. I ain’t settin’ store on the valley lands I seen whenst I went ter the wars. I kin remember yit what them streets in the valley towns smelt like.”

He lifted his head, drawing a long breath to inhale the exquisite fragrance of the fir, the freshness of the pellucid water, the aroma of the autumn wind, blowing through the sere leaves still clinging red and yellow to the boughs of the forest.

“Naw, I ain’t blamin’ ’em, though I don’t hanker ter view ’em,” he resumed. “One of ’em I wouldn’t be afeard of, though. I feel mighty sorry fur her. The old folks used ter tell about her. A young ‘oman she war, a-crossin’ this bredge with her child in her arms. She war young, an’ mus’ have been keerless, I reckon; though ez ‘twar her fust baby, she moightn’t hev been practised in holdin’ it an’ sech, an’ somehows it slipped through her arms an’ fell inter the ruver, an’ war killed in a minit, dashin’ agin the rocks. She jes’ stood fur a second a-screamin’ like a wild painter, an’ jumped off’n the bredge arter it. She got it agin; for when they dragged her body out’n the ruver she hed it in her arms too tight fur even death ter onloose. An’ thar they air together in the buryin’-ground.”

He gave a nod toward the slope of the mountain that intercepted the melancholy view of the graveyard.

“Got it yit!” he continued; “bekase” (he lowered his voice) “on windy nights, whenst the moon is on the wane, she is viewed kerryin’ the baby along the bredge–kerryin’ it clear over, safe an’ sound, like she thought she oughter done, I reckon, in that one minute, whilst she stood an’ screamed an’ surveyed what she hed done. That child would hev been nigh ter my age ef he hed lived.”

Only the sunbeams wavered athwart the bridge now as the firs swayed above, giving glimpses of the sky, and their fibrous shadows flickered back and forth. The wild mountain stream flashed white between the brown bowlders, and plunged down the gorge in a succession of cascades, each seeming more transparently green and amber and brown than the other. The chestnut horse gazed meditatively at these limpid out-gushings, having drunk his fill; then thought better of his moderation, and once more thrust his head down to the water. The hand of his rider, which had made a motion to gather up the reins, dropped leniently on his neck, as Simeon Roxby spoke again: