The Mountain Girl. Erskine Payne
days ago. I travelled slowly, for I have been ill myself."
"Hit's right quare now; 'pears like ef I was a doctah I wouldn't 'low myself fer to get sick. An' you seed Doctah Hoyle fo' days back!"
"No, he has gone to England on a visit. I saw his wife, though, and his daughter. She is a young lady – is to be married soon."
"They do grow up – the leetle ones. Hit don't seem mo'n yestahday 'at Cass was like leetle Hoyle yandah, an' hit don't seem that since Doctah Hoyle was here an' leetle Hoyle came. We named him fer th' doctah. Waal, I reckon ef th' doctah was here now 'at he could he'p me some. Maybe ef he'd 'a' stayed here I nevah would 'a' got down whar I be now. He was a right good doctah, bettah'n a yarb doctah – most – I reckon so."
David smiled. "I think so myself," he said. "Are there many herb doctors here about?"
"Not rightly doctahs, so to speak, but they is some 'at knows a heap about yarbs."
"Good. Perhaps they can teach me something."
The old face was feebly lifted a bit from the pillow, and the dark eyes grew suddenly sharp in their scrutiny.
"Who be ye, anyhow? What aire ye here fer? Sech as you knows a heap a'ready 'thout makin' out to larn o' we-uns."
David saw his mistake and hastened to allay the suspicion which gleamed out at him almost malignantly.
"I am just what I said, a doctor like Adam Hoyle, only that I don't know as much as he – not yet. The wisest man in the world can learn more if he watches out to do so. Your herb doctors might be able to teach me a good many things."
"I 'spect ye're right thar, on'y a heap o' folks thinks they knows it all fust."
There was a pause, and Thryng leaned back in his stiff, splint-bottomed chair and glanced around him. He saw that the girl, although moving about setting to rights and brushing here and there with an unique, home-made broom, was at the same time intently listening.
Presently the old woman spoke again, her threadlike voice penetrating far.
"What do you 'low to do here in ouah mountains? They hain't no settlement nighabouts here, an' them what's sick hain't no money to pay doctahs with. I reckon they'll hev to stay sick fer all o' you-uns."
David looked into her eyes a moment quietly; then he smiled. The way to her heart he saw was through the magic of one name.
"What did Doctor Hoyle do when he was down here?"
"Him? They hain't no one livin' like he was."
Then David laughed outright, a gay, contagious laugh, and after an instant she laughed also.
"I agree with you," he said. "But you see, I am a countryman of his, and he sent me here – he knows me well – and I mean to do as he did, if – I can."
He drew in a deep breath of utter weariness, and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and gazed into the blazing fire. The memories which had taken possession of his soul during the long ride seemed to envelop him so that in a moment the present was swept away into oblivion and his spirit was, as it were, suddenly withdrawn from the body and projected into the past. He had been unable to touch any of the greasy cold stuff which had been offered him during the latter part of his journey, and the heat brought a drowsiness on him and a faintness from lack of food.
"Cass – Cassandry! Look to him," called the mother shrilly, but the girl had already noticed his strange abstraction, and the small Adam Hoyle had drawn back, in awe, to his mother.
"Get some whiskey, Sally," said the girl, and David roused himself to see her bending over him.
"I must have gone off in a doze," he said weakly. "The long ride and then this warmth – " Seeing the anxious faces around him, he laughed again. "It's nothing, I assure you, only the comfort and the smell of something good to eat;" he sniffed a little. "What is it?" he asked.
Old Sally was tossing and shaking the frying salt pork in the skillet at the fireplace, and the odor aggravated his already too keen appetite.
"Ye was more'n sleepy, I reckon," shrilled the woman from the bed. "Hain't that pone done, Sally? No, 'tain't liquor he needs; hit's suthin' to eat."
Then the girl hastened her slow, gliding movements, drew splint chairs to a table of rough pine that stood against the side of the room, and, stooping between him and the fire, pulled something from among the hot ashes. The fire made the only light in the room, and David never forgot the supple grace of her as she bent thus silhouetted – the perfect line of chin and throat black against the blaze, contrasted with the weird, witchlike old woman with roughly knotted hair, who still squatted in the heat, and shook the skillet of frying pork.
"Thar, now hit's done, I reckon," said old Sally, slowly rising and straightening her bent back; and the woman from the bed called her orders.
"Not that cup," she cried, as Sally began pouring black coffee into a cracked white cup. "Git th' chany one. I hid hit yandah in th' cornder 'hind that tin can, to keep 'em f'om usin' hit every day. I had a hull set o' that when I married Farwell. Give hit here." She took the precious relic in her work-worn hands and peered into it, then wiped it out with the corner of the sheet which covered her. This Thryng did not see. He was watching the girl, as she broke open the hot, fragrant corn-bread and placed it beside his plate.
"Come," she said. "You sure must be right hungry. Sit here and eat." David felt like one drunken with weariness when he rose, and caught at the edge of the table to steady himself.
"Aren't you hungry, too?" he asked, "and Hoyle, here? Sit beside me; we're going to have a feast, little chap."
The girl placed an earthen crock on the table and took from it honey in the broken comb, rich and dark.
"Have a little of this with your pone. It's right good," she said.
"Frale, he found a bee tree," piped the child suddenly, gaining confidence as he saw the stranger engaged in the very normal act of eating with the relish of an ordinary man. He edged forward and sat himself gingerly on the outer corner of the next chair, and accepted a huge piece of the pone from David's hand. His sister gave him honey, and Sally dropped pieces of the sizzling hot pork on their plates, from the skillet.
David sipped his coffee from the flowered "chany cup" contentedly. Served without milk or sugar, it was strong, hot, and reviving. The girl shyly offered more of the corn-bread as she saw it rapidly disappearing, pleased to see him eat so eagerly, yet abashed at having nothing else to offer.
"I'm sorry we can give you only such as this. We don't live like you do in the no'th. Have a little more of the honey."
"Ah, but this is fine. Good, hey, little chap? You are doing a very beneficent thing, do you know, saving a man's life?" He glanced up at her flushed face, and she smiled deprecatingly. He fancied her smiles were rare.
"But it is quite true. Where would I be now but for you and Hoyle here? Lying under the lee side of the station coughing my life away, – and all my own fault, too. I should have accepted the bishop's invitation."
"You helped me when the colt was bad." Her soft voice, low and monotonous, fell musically on his ear when she spoke.
"Naturally – but how about that, anyway? It's a wonder you weren't killed. How came a youngster like you there alone with those beasts?" Thryng had an abrupt manner of springing a question which startled the child, and he edged away, furtively watching his sister.
"Did you hitch that kicking brute alone and drive all that distance?"
"Aunt Sally, she he'ped me to tie up; she give him co'n whilst I th'owed on the strops, an' when he's oncet tied up, he goes all right." The atom grinned. "Hit's his way. He's mean, but he nevah works both ends to oncet."
"Good thing to know; but you're a hero, do you understand that?" The child continued to edge away, and David reached out and drew him to his side. Holding him by his two sharp little elbows, he gave him a playful shake. "I say, do you know what a hero is?"
The startled boy stopped grinning and looked wildly to his sister, but receiving only a smile of reassurance from her, he lifted his great eyes to