-t 
 
 library of 
 Zli^ Uuicersity of Hortl] Carolina 
 
 COLLHCTION OF 
 
 NORTH C A R O L I N I A N A 
 
 ENDOWED V. Y 
 
 JOHN S P R U N T HILL 
 of the class of 1889 
 
This book must not 
 be token from the 
 Library building. 
 
 Form No. 471 
 
IN THE 
 
 NANTAHALAS 
 
 A NOVEL 
 
 BY 
 
 MRS. F. L. TOWNSEND 
 
 N.CL 
 
 4> 
 
 Nashville, Tenn.; Dallas, Tex. 
 
 Publishing House M. E. Church, South 
 
 Smith & Lamas, Agents 
 
Copyright, 1910, 
 By 
 
 MRS. F. L. TOWNSEND 
 
T 
 n 
 
 A 
 
 ■J 
 
 WHOSE IDEAL OF LIFE HAS HELPED ME ] 
 
 TO KEEP A CLEAR VISION, i 
 
 j 
 
 i fjoofnglg ^ehitQte Ei\\a look. i 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. In the Nantahalas .... 7 
 
 II. The Motto ..... 16 
 
 III. A Boy's Way 24 
 
 IV. Linda at School ..... 33 
 V. Friends 41 
 
 VI. Stepping Stones .... 49 
 
 VII. At Eagle's Nest .... 57 
 
 VIII. A Rift in the Lute .... 64 
 
 IX. Miss McGregor, Genealogist. . . 74 
 
 X. The Cup of Pleasure . . .81 
 
 XL Mountain Pride .... 89 
 
 XII. The Tie of Blood .... 99 
 
 XIII. All for Love 106 
 
 XIV. Unrest 114 
 
 XV. Home Again 121 
 
 XVI. Fannie 131 
 
 XVII. The Lover's Coming .... 139 
 
 XVIII. The Reunion 145 
 
 XIX. Perchance to Dream . . -154 
 
 XX. "As in a Dream When One Awaketh" 165 
 
 XXI. Concluding . .... 177 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 A decade or more ago there began to appear in the 
 Church press fugitive articles which covered such a 
 wide range of practical and living subjects and which 
 were marked by such cultured wisdom and literary 
 finish as to move many an edified reader to ask the 
 question, "Who is she?" This natural and, therefore, 
 pardonable interest suffered no decline when the writer 
 was found to be a Methodist preacher's wife, who had 
 caught a view of a world much bigger than the parson- 
 age and the parish, and who had demonstrated her 
 ability to minister as a true wife and loving mother in 
 a little parsonage home and at the same time to make 
 the great outside world better by her thought-product. 
 
 The reading public is to be congratulated on the fact 
 that Airs. Townsend essayed the ambitious task of 
 writing a book, and that the book is "In the Nanta- 
 halas." 
 
 It is a story of heart-touching interest in which a 
 labor of love and justice is apparent. It forms the 
 motif of the book. The mountaineers of North Caro- 
 lina are presented in their true character, and not as the 
 ignorant, shiftless, hopeless people who live in sensa- 
 tional fiction and in the newspaper articles of the unin- 
 formed missionary zealot. 
 
 Judge Jeter C. Pritchard, who as United States 
 Senator reflected honor on his State, and who is now 
 rendering distinguished service as Judge of the United 
 States Ciraiit Court, is proud of the fact that he is one 
 of these "mountain whites." Judge Pritchard says: 
 "I have recently read with much pleasure Mrs. F. L, 
 Townsend's book entitled 'In the Nantahalas.' In 
 this book Mrs. Townsend in portraying the character 
 
 5 
 
in tfte Ji5anta!)ala0 
 
 of the typical mountaineer comes nearer doing our 
 people justice than any one who has heretofore dealt 
 with the subject. . . . We are making wonderful prog- 
 ress along moral and intellectual lines, and this book 
 will prove to be valuable in that it places people in a 
 proper light before the country at large." 
 
 As a work of fiction "In the Nantahalas" is a strong, 
 artistic production in which knowledge of human na- 
 ture, imaginative reach, and descriptive power are im- 
 portant elements. When the last chapter has been read, 
 the reader of the right kind feels that he has been 
 breathing a pure atmosphere and has been mingling 
 with characters who in their weakness or strength can 
 stir the noblest impulses of the soul. 
 
 Bishop James Atkins, who has lived nearly all his 
 useful and honored life among Mrs. Townsend's moun- 
 taineers, says: "The story is one of love, and is all 
 the better for that. It is not complicated, but sim- 
 ple, deep, beautiful, ennobling." These words contain 
 a just tribute to the book. 
 
 In introducing Mrs. Townsend's book to the public, 
 I have the feeling which possesses one when he knows 
 that he is introducing something good. I know that 
 "In the Nantahalas" is a real contribution to the wel- 
 fare fund of humanity, and I present it as such, 
 
 Thomas N. Ivey. 
 August 22, 191 1. 
 
 6 
 
In the Nantahalas 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 IN THE NANTAHALAS. 
 
 The mountains, in their calm majesty, lifted their 
 heads against the glow of a sunset sky\ The clear call 
 of a bird struck across the still air. Red and gold 
 battled for preeminence in the heavens while the valley 
 and the green hillsides bathed themselves in the 
 mingled flood of radiance. 
 
 A young girl stood with her face turned toward the 
 mountains of the gleaming West. Her arms were bare 
 to the elbows, and showed the strength of healthful 
 usage. In spite of her simple calico dress, made with 
 no reference to the latest fashion, her figure had grace 
 and charm. The face held its own tale of mingled 
 sadness and sweetness. The austereness of these 
 mighty hills sometimes touches the women with an 
 oppressive restraint. The glad outflowing of buoyant 
 spirits is alien to the mountain girl who has kept 
 within her fastnesses. 
 
 She had started home from the pasture, and after 
 closing the gap turned to look out on the scene which 
 was old and yet ever new in its manifold beauty. 
 
 A sound of horse's hoofbeats along the trail at the 
 
 7 
 
In t6e Ii5anta|bala0 
 
 edge of the wood caught her attention. She turned, 
 and the light of a quick smile brightened her face. 
 
 A bit of a pony, old and shaggy and blind in one 
 eye, was coming up the hillside. Seated on his back, 
 in an attitude of courageous uneasiness, was a little 
 woman no longer young but carrying with her the 
 everlasting spirit of youth. 
 
 "Wait for us, Linda. I have started to your house." 
 
 "I am glad," answered the girl. 
 
 The pony stopped with such suddenness that his 
 rider saved herself from pitching off head foremost 
 only by clutching fiercely at his mane. The lady 
 dismounted and started up the path, walking by the 
 girl's side and leading her horse. "I think Bob is try- 
 ing his best to make me believe in the doctrine I fought 
 during twelve long years." 
 
 "What doctrine, Miss Wells?" 
 
 "The transmigration of souls." 
 
 "Yes'm?" There was interrogation in Linda's 
 voice. 
 
 "The Buddhists think even a woman may have the 
 good luck to be born a man sometime if she keeps do- 
 ing her best ; if not, she's likely to be a cat or some 
 other animal. Bob behaves as if he might be the 
 incarnate spirit of some contrary woman. He's sure 
 to go fast when I want him to go slowly and carefully. 
 Every time I speak to anybody he thinks we're in for 
 a long conversation and stops so suddenly that he 
 almost jerks my head off. Then he never forgets to 
 try to follow the path he once trod, no matter how 
 anxious I am to hurry on. I spent a night sometime 
 ago in Corbin's Cove, and it's a pitched battle now 
 every time I undertake to pass the road that leads 
 to it. O, he is a provoking little fellow, but I love 
 him!" 
 
 8 
 
In tbt i^anta!)a!ag 
 
 The girl had Hstened attentively. "You said they 
 believed over there that a woman might be a man if 
 she'd do her best. Is it that way ever'where — the 
 women having the hard time an' feeling that they are 
 not as good as the men?" 
 
 Her voice had a tone of bitterness that caused Miss 
 Wells to look intently at her. She spoke seriously in 
 answer to the girl's question. "That is often the case 
 among primitive peoples, Linda ; but I think we have 
 the highest trust. Except where their condition is 
 degraded women have the finest interests of the race 
 in their hands — the spiritual welfare of the men and 
 women who make a country's future." 
 
 "O. ]\Iiss Wells, sometimes when I hear you talk, I 
 feel like there's something to live for; but when I go 
 back to Aunt Sarah's and see how things are and what 
 little good I can do, I feel like giving up. We are so 
 poor, an' there's enough to do the work without me, 
 an' I cain't help feeling myself in the way." 
 
 "Dear, don't do that. W'e all have our moments of 
 discouragement when we feel sure our work is worth 
 nothing to others. But your aunt has talked to me of 
 your helpfulness. You are more thoughtful for her, 
 I'm sure, than her own daughters are ; and your in- 
 fluence in the home is for good — always." 
 
 "Maybe I do help her right smart, but I believe the 
 girls would think more about taking care of her if I 
 wasn't there. You see, they're used to my going ahead 
 an' doing for her." 
 
 "How old are you, Linda, if you don't mind my ask- 
 ing?" 
 
 "Eighteen next month." 
 
 "Have you ever thought of getting ready to do 
 work in the outside world ?" 
 
 "What could I do. Miss Wells ? I cain't do anything 
 
 9 
 
In tbt n5antai)ala0 
 
 well. I can cook a little, but how could I learn when 
 Aunt Sarah don't know much an' we don't have much 
 to learn with?" 
 
 Miss Wells looked at her sympathetically. She 
 knew that her own help and timely suggestions had 
 been Linda's only lessons in wholesome cooking. 
 
 "Then I don't know how to sew well. I cain't teach, 
 hard as I've tried to study since you've been among 
 us. What can I do?" 
 
 They had come now to the little home. As they saw 
 none of the boys of the household, the girl handed her 
 pail of milk to Miss Wells, put the pony in the stable, 
 and shook down a bundle of oats for-him. The two 
 then went around to the kitchen, where they found 
 Mrs. Gentry preparing supper. The listless, careworn 
 woman brightened noticeably at sight of the new- 
 comer. "Walk in an' set down while I finish supper," 
 she said cordially. 
 
 "No, Aunt Sarah ; I'll get supper ready. You go 
 right on in the house an' have a talk with Miss Wells 
 while me an' the girls do up the nighty work." 
 
 "Well, now, that's real good of you, Lindy. Send 
 Callie to the spring house to git the milk an' butter, 
 an' tell Susan to put the white cloth on the table." 
 
 "Don't go to so much trouble for me, Mrs. Gentry." 
 
 "That's all right. Since you've stayed with us, some- 
 how I don't feel right usin' a oilcloth. It don't 'pyear 
 to be clean." 
 
 The two went on into what served as hall, living 
 room, and bedchamber. In one corner steep stairs ran 
 up to the half story above. A smaller bedroom opened 
 into the larger one. The house was shabbily built, 
 poorly lighted, and poorly furnished ; but there were 
 signs that some one of the family had an instinct for 
 beauty. Flowers were placed here and there, some of 
 
 10 
 
In tfje laamaftalas! 
 
 them wild, others from the yard, where a few of the 
 old-fashioned favorites brightened the rather desolate 
 look of the home. 
 
 "I was just thinking I'd have a talk with you about 
 Linda, Mrs. Gentry. If we could arrange for her to 
 go away to school, could you manage without her?" 
 
 The youngest child, a girl of three, had slipped 
 quietly in and was standing by her mother's chair. 
 Mrs. Gentry snatched the child up and held her close 
 to her bosom. "I don't see how I could git on 
 without Lindy, Miss Wells. Do you think I ought 
 to give her up? It don't seem right jest when I've 
 got her so she can tek hold an' give me some rest. 
 She can he'p with the little uns so much better than 
 the other girls, an' I depend on her to do all the best 
 ironin' an' right smart o' the washin'." 
 
 "Yes, I know it would be hard on you ; but I think 
 you are too good a woman to stand in her way." 
 
 Miss Wells had touched the right spring. The 
 woman was little used to appreciation, and this imput- 
 ing good motives to her stirred all her best impulses. 
 "Well, of course I'd hate to keep her jes' to please 
 myse'f. It'd be sorter selfish, wouldn't it ? An' Lindy's 
 such a smart girl she'd do well wherever she goes. 
 But I have thought she liked Harry Turner. Ef that's 
 so, maybe she wouldn't want to go 'way." 
 
 "O, she's too young to know her own mind about a 
 thing of that sort!" 
 
 'T don't know 'bout that. Girls 'round here marry 
 pow'ful young. My first baby was born before I was 
 as old as Lindy." 
 
 "But you wouldn't like for Linda or your own 
 daughters to have the cares you had at that early age ?" 
 
 "No, I wouldn't. It makes a girl old befo' her 
 time. Anyhow, where's the money to come from?" 
 
 11 
 
Un tht Ii^anta!)ala0 
 
 'I've tl^ougbt-ef-+hat. At the Sunday School Con- 
 vention a^lCullowhee /a Mr. Willingham was there in 
 
 the interests Ot' thejBrevard Schoolj I talked with 
 him, and they are doing""fifIe"wo>k. He told me of one 
 girl who walked twelve miles to reach the railroad on 
 her way to the school. Some of the pupils pay full 
 rates, others help work their way through, and still 
 others are helped by the different home mission so- 
 cieties of your Church." 
 
 "Ain't that fine to give po' girls such a chance?" 
 
 "I spoke to him of Linda. Haven't mentioned it to 
 her because I wanted to talk to you first, and then see 
 if there was any chance to get her in." 
 
 As a result of this conversation Miss Wells set 
 herself to work. Though not a member of the church 
 doing mission work through the Brevard School, 
 she wrote to the leaders of the Home Mission Society 
 and secured their interest. Before long arrangements 
 were made by which Linda might enter the school and 
 not feel that she was a beneficiary. Certain work was 
 open for her, and the President was empowered by a 
 woman of means to aid the girl in buying books and 
 other necessaries. 
 
 When the news came to Linda that she was to enter 
 this open door, light flooded her soul. Generous im- 
 pulses throbbed with every heart-beat. When the full- 
 ness of life was hers, how much good she would 
 do! Aunt Sarah and all the children should feel 
 the benefit of her uplifted powers. These things 
 she tried to express in her grateful talks with 
 Miss Wells, who caught her half-told meaning and 
 answered her in sweet, wise words that prepared her 
 for some of the struggles before her and still did 
 not chill the glow of her enthusiasm. 
 
 12 
 
Kn tbt ji5antaJ)ala0 
 
 Into these hopes came no disturbing thought of the 
 young man whose preference for her had attracted the 
 attention of Mrs. Gentry and others. The world lying 
 beyond those mountain peaks promised so much that 
 there was no room in her mind for girlish dreams of 
 love. 
 
 The Sunday before she was to leave for the school 
 there was an afternoon service in the little church 
 nearest the Gentry home. It was one of Miss Wells's 
 Bible-readings ; and here the young people of the 
 community gathered to listen, to question — if they 
 would — and to have their opening minds stirred to 
 thoughts of kindness and unselfish service. 
 
 On leaving the church young Turner came to her, 
 and the two were soon passing through the fragrant 
 woods behind the other young members of the Gentry 
 household. The girl talked brightly. The youth that 
 was in her had waked to unwonted vigor. At last the 
 young man said : 'T reckon you are mighty glad to go 
 'way." 
 
 "O, I am so glad to get this chance of goin' to 
 school ! I hate some to leave home, but I do want 
 to learn. O, I am that thankful ! Living seems like 
 it's worth something now." 
 
 "You'll go 'way an' forget yo' ol' friends, maybe." 
 
 The youth was awkward, self-conscious, and ill- 
 developed. He did not know his own capacities. His 
 simple round of duties on his father's farm, a few win- 
 ter months of school, and the narrow social life of the 
 community had constituted his world. Yet the primal 
 feelings of manhood were his, and all his strength 
 of brain and heart responded to the charm of the girl 
 beside him. 
 
 "No, no; I don't intend to forget anybody. You 
 
 2 13 
 
M tht Ji5anta5ala0 
 
 don't think a little education's goin' to make my heart 
 worse, do you? Why, I hope I'll have a better heart 
 an' mind, both." 
 
 He looked at her with the humility of a great love 
 shining through his eyes. "You're already so far 
 ahead o' me that you make me ashamed o' mvse'f, 
 Lindy." 
 
 "What makes you feel that way ? I don't know any 
 more in school books than you do. Don't you remem- 
 ber how you used to work my sums for me?" and she 
 smiled brightly in a frank, comrade fashion. 
 
 "Yes, but you could beat me in ever'thing else. And 
 now that you've been readin' these here books I never 
 heard tell of, you're clean out o' sight." 
 
 "Why don't you read, too ? You know Miss Wells 
 keeps books a-purpose to lend." 
 
 "I don't know— hardly." 
 
 "I know," and there was a return of the old bitter- 
 ness which had been in abeyance of late. "You've 
 never been made to feel that you need it. Your 
 mother and father an' ever'body acts just like a man 
 was better than a woman, anyhow. We're always 
 kept down, an' the only way I see for a girl to amount 
 to anything is for her to use her eyes an' tongue while 
 she's young an' good-looking. If she marries, there's 
 nothin' to keep her from bein' a slave. Look at Aunt 
 Sarah. She's just thirty-eight years ol', and she looks 
 like she was fifty. An' you know there ain't a man 
 in the settlement that's not willin' for his women folks 
 to go into the field, besides doin' all the washin' an' 
 everything." The young man looked dumbly at her. 
 The girl went on with an air of defiance : "O, I know 
 this sort of talk is strange to you ; but I've watched 
 close, an' if I never say a word to anybody but Miss 
 Wells, I've felt it. I spoke about Aunt Sarah because 
 
 u 
 
In tbt J^antaftalag 
 
 she's just like the rest of the women, I'd rather be 
 dead than Hving such a Hfe." Her eyes flashed, her 
 cheeks flamed with a rush of color. She looked at the 
 young man as if expecting resentment. 
 
 He hesitated, mentally pulling himself together, then 
 spoke with a touch of dignity that overmastered his 
 awkwardness : "I don't know how much o' that you're 
 meanin' for me jes' to warn me off, but I'm goin' to 
 have my say; then it'll all be over. You cain't he'p 
 knowin' that you're the only girl in the world to me. 
 I loved you when I was goin' to school an' used to 
 Stan' next to you in spellin' class ; and, somehow, I 
 felt glad that it was you that stood head most o' the 
 time. Thinkin' of you has kept me straight all these 
 years. If I ever felt like takin' a dram with the boys, 
 I'd stick it out because you don't believe in it. An' I've 
 tried to shut my eyes an' ears many a time to things 
 that a young fellow oughtn't to know about — jes' for 
 your sake. I didn't talk to you about marryin', but I 
 couldn't he'p showin' to ever'body that I was a fool 
 over you. I'm poor ; but I had thought, maybe, some- 
 time you'd care a little, an' I could wait an' work. But 
 feelin' like you do, it's the best thing that you're goin' 
 away. I'll not worry you any more." 
 
 Only those who know the contradictory nature of 
 the eternal feminine can guess at the workings of 
 Linda's mind. The manliness of the boy's speech, the 
 self-respecting spirit that animated it touched her as 
 much as the words of love. She looked up at him, the 
 color gone from her cheek, and spoke softly: "I'm 
 sorry if I was rough. I do care— a little ; and if you'll 
 go to work and make a real man of yourself, I'll try 
 harder at Brevard to make a woman worthy of you." 
 
 15 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MOTTO. ^ 
 
 The east-bound train pulled up at Nantahala, a little 
 wayside station whose sole interest lay in the fact 
 that it possessed one of the musical Indian names that 
 hold a charm for the traveler who penetrates the moun- 
 tains of western Carolina. A horse and buggy stood 
 near the little wooden building that served as a depot. 
 On the platform were a young girl and a boy of fifteen 
 or thereabout. A diminutive, tin-covered trunk stood 
 on end near the edge of the platform. 
 
 After the train stopped the agent came out of the 
 depot and helped the girl on, telling the lad to come 
 in with her if he wished. "You'll only have two or 
 three minutes to stay. Maybe you'd better get off with 
 me," said the agent to the boy after securing a seat 
 for the girl and seeing that she was settled therein. 
 
 "Good-by, Lindy." There was no appearance of 
 feeling in the phlegmatic air of the lad. 
 
 But the girl held out her hand, and tears came to 
 her eyes: "Good-by, Bob. Tell Aunt Sarah I'm all 
 right. She mustn't be uneasy about me." 
 
 "Well, I'll tell her. Take kyer o' yo'se'f, Lindy." 
 
 "I will. Good-by, Bob. Take care of yo' mother, 
 an' don't let her work too hard." 
 
 Two ladies who were sitting near each other ex- 
 changed significant looks. "I like that," said the elder 
 of the two. "And do you notice how pretty she is?" 
 
 16 
 
Kn tf)e j^antaijalas; 
 
 "With development she'd be a beauty. Her hair is 
 wonderful — such rich, splendid gold — and her com- 
 plexion is perfect. Where did she get those regular 
 features ? Ah, I would like to have her and a full 
 purse just to see her blossom out." 
 
 "You would need time also, my dear. The air that 
 is necessary comes only by long training. It's not so 
 much the shabby clothes that spoil her beauty as her 
 evident awkwardness and self-consciousness." 
 
 "Anyway, she is a good subject for experiment. She 
 has the look of native ability." 
 
 "I wish — I have half a mind " 
 
 "You might talk to her. Of course you'll have to 
 find out a great many things before you make her an 
 offer." 
 
 The older lady soon left her seat and took a vacant 
 one just back of the newcomer. Leaning over and 
 lightly touching the girl's shoulder, she said : "I beg 
 your pardon, but you will allow an old lady to be 
 sociable. You look so young, and I suppose you're 
 unused to traveling." 
 
 The lovely eyes looked into hers with a world of 
 expression. An appealing timidity, gratitude, trustful- 
 ness shone from them. "I've never been on a train 
 before" — this with a little apologetic air. "I've never 
 been away from home except for a day or so, an' I do 
 feel strange." 
 
 "You are going away for a visit?" 
 
 "No, ma'am ; I've started to Brevard to school." 
 
 "O ! Into that beautiful country? I suppose you 
 are accustomed to the mountains ; but to those of us 
 who live in the low countries, 
 and all up there are dreams of lo^ 
 Waynesville a nd its surroun dings are quite as pretty. 
 Do you know f Waynesville F " 
 
 17 
 
3n tbt iaantal)ala$ 
 
 "No, ma'am; but I'm goin' to stay there to-night." 
 
 "Ah! \Ve^rejta-sp£JDd the night the»-e. Later we 
 will go to |Eagi^ Lj\T^est) IMy niece and I feel that a 
 summer is lost if we do not visit western Carolina." 
 
 "Yes, ma'am." 
 
 "My home is in Savannah, and the hot weather 
 there is very depressing to me. My physician hurries 
 me ofif to the mountains every year, and tries to keep 
 me there till frost. I go back stronger than when 
 I leave, and the memory of all this beauty brightens 
 me for the whole winter. It's a wonderful country — 
 magnificent ! Such sunsets as you have in the autumn ! 
 I was in the Eagle's Nest through September and Oc- 
 tober once, and I shall never forget the wealth of color- 
 ing. The woods were in flames, and the skies seemed 
 to be trying to outshine them — such rich crimson and 
 gold sunsets. I can't imagine more perfect beauty. 
 But I am letting my tongue run away. I forget my- 
 self when talking of these things that have long ago 
 become common to you." 
 
 "I like to hear you." There was absolute sincerity 
 of voice and manner. "I don't know how to tell what 
 I mean, but I do love the mountains. They've always 
 seemed like ol' friends to me; an' a heap o' times, 
 when things were wrong, I've gone off to myself where 
 I could see the" Bald 'an' stayed till I'd feel better— 
 a little like talkin' to yo' mother, I reckon." 
 
 "Your mother isn't living?" 
 
 "No'm ; she died when I was a baby, an' my father 
 didn't live many months longer." 
 
 "And you've made your home with relatives?" 
 
 "Yes'm ; my aunt took me an' raised me." 
 
 "And this is your first experience in leaving home 
 to attend school?" 
 
 "Yes'm." 
 
 18 
 
Sn tbt Bamai)ala0 
 
 Invited by the lady's friendly sympathy, Linda, 
 usually so reticent, told of her struggles for an edu- 
 cation — struggles that were half-hearted till the com- 
 ing of Miss Wells, a returned missionary from India, 
 who had left her home in Chicago to work in the 
 Carolina mountains. She spoke with the most grate- 
 ful appreciation of Miss Wells's interest in herself, 
 of the help and encouragement that friend had given 
 her, and finally of the plan by which she was to re- 
 ceive the year's schooling in Brevard. 
 
 "After that, what next ?" 
 
 "I don't know. Maybe I can learn to do something 
 out in the world — make a living for myself an* be able 
 to help Aunt Sarah an' the children. That's what I'd 
 like." 
 
 There was something about the young girl cal- 
 culated to inspire confidence. Her beauty, obscured as 
 it was, so appealed to the older woman that it required 
 an effort on the latter's part to avoid doing a foolish 
 thing. Now that her niece had married and was 
 living in a distant city, she was on the lookout for a 
 young girl to serve as companion for herself. She was 
 inclined to try to engage this stranger, but prudence 
 interfered. "I am a lonely woman, but I have not 
 lost sympathy with youth. I love young people ; and 
 if I can be of any service to you, won't you write to 
 me?" and she opened her satchel to find a card. 
 
 Linda took the card : "Mrs. De Jarnette. Do I pro- 
 nounce the name right?" 
 
 "Yes ; we accent the first syllable now. That's a 
 concession to the English tongue. It's French and was 
 once pronounced differently." 
 
 "It's a pretty name." 
 
 "Your name_is— -Linda, the young man called you ?" 
 
 "Linda rCTraham^ ' 
 
 
 ^l^^t.^1^ 
 
m tfie ii^antaljalas! 
 
 "Then you are Scotch. Graham is a good name." 
 
 "I don't know much about such things. I reckon I 
 don't know much, anyhow," and the girl smiled. When 
 she did so, her beauty was wonderfully heightened. In 
 repose her face had a wistful look, as though the 
 young spirit were looking out on life with doubtful 
 questioning ; but with the smile the genius of youth and 
 hope asserted itself and glorified her face. 
 
 Homesick, her heart aching for mother love, her life 
 empty in ways she dimly realized but did not under- 
 stand, she was in a mood to respond to every kindly 
 touch. The sympathetic manner of the lady had 
 broken down the barriers, and she had opened her 
 heart in unwonted fashion. When she looked at the 
 well-dressed woman who seemed so unconscious of 
 what she wore, a sudden shame possessed her — shame 
 because of her own shabby apparel and because she 
 could not forget her clothes. But Mrs. De Jarnette's 
 manner did not long leave her ill at ease. With 
 Southern warmth she showed her interest in every de- 
 tail of the girl's life and every hope for her future. 
 
 Before they reached Waynesville Linda was intro- 
 duced to Mrs. Scott, the elder lady's niece, and found 
 her so kind and gracious that she began to think 
 the outer world was made up of kindness and grace. 
 
 At Waynesville Linda looked about her in bewil- 
 derment. She drew back from her new acquaintances 
 as if she feared to force herself on their attention ; 
 but the train had scarcely stopped before an elderly 
 lady came on, and, looking through the coach, singled 
 Linda out as the girl whom she sought. 
 
 "Miss Linda Graham?" and a friendly handclasp 
 followed the affirmative answer. "I am Mrs. Eccles." 
 
 In a few moments they were driving toward one of 
 
 20 
 
In tbt Bantai)ala0 
 
 the lovely homes of the village. To Linda it seemed 
 a dream. She had never been in a carriage before. 
 She was entirely unused to ladies who are of the world 
 in its best sense — women who have the ripe culture, 
 the beautiful manners that come only by contact with 
 other fellow-beings who have read, thought, suffered, 
 and lived broadly. 
 
 Mrs. Eccles was one of the leaders in the society 
 by which the Brevard school was controlled. She 
 had become interested in Linda through correspond- 
 ence with ]\Iiss Wells, and had invited the young girl 
 to spend a night with her on her way to school. She 
 found Linda answering her in monosyllables ; and as 
 she set her powers to work to try to get closer to the 
 girl, she began to fear failure. 
 
 Perhaps it was the inborn air of the grande dame, 
 perchance it was the calm dignity which belongs to 
 forceful characters — whatever it was, there was some- 
 thing about her that overawed the girl who had just 
 opened her heart in frank confidence to the emotional 
 Southern nature of Mrs. De Jarnette. 
 
 After the evening meal was over and the two sat in 
 the library, the talk turned to books. Then Linda 
 gradually gave rein to her thoughts and showed her 
 would-be friend a glimpse into a mind of rich natural 
 beauty, though one but ill-developed because of poor 
 opportunity. She had read few books. There were 
 none in her aunt's home save the Bible and two or 
 three volumes bought from agents ; but Miss Wells 
 had turned over to her use a small, select library. A 
 half dozen novels of a wholesome sort, a few devotional 
 books, Tennyson, Longfellow, and others of our 
 English-speaking poets — these she had read with 
 crude but original insight. Miss Wells had wisely 
 
 21 
 
3n tf)e jeantaijaias 
 
 forborne any pre-criticism, so that the author's impres- 
 sion on the plastic mind was absolutely genuine. 
 
 After a long talk in which the girl had let her 
 soul, overbearing all timidity, loose its tether and 
 reach out after the sweeter and finer things of life, 
 Mrs. Eccles went to a shelf and, taking down a vol- 
 ume, said: "Here's a book I want to give you, Linda. 
 I have marked it myself. Perhaps you'll enjoy it the 
 more for that." Standing under the arc light, she 
 read aloud, noting as she did so the changing play of 
 feeling on her listener's face. It was Sidney Lanier's 
 poems, and the reader turned the pages in search of 
 those lines wherein the spiritual beauty of the man best 
 expressed itself. As she marked the responsiveness of 
 this child of nature, whose face quivered, whose eyes 
 shone over passages of unusual beauty, she felt a great 
 pity and anxiety for the untried soul standing at the 
 open door of life with its temptations, its awful re- 
 sponsibilities, its divine possibilities. When she came 
 to the Hne in "The Marshes of Glynn," "I will build 
 me a nest on the greatness of God," she laid her hand 
 gently on the girl's fair head, and, brokenly murmur- 
 ing a few words, knelt with her, and the great heart 
 of the woman poured its mother love out in a prayer 
 for this motherless one who was going into a new life 
 and would need infinite wisdom, infinite love to guide 
 her. 
 
 When they arose, they looked into each other's eyes, 
 Tenderest sympathy glowed on the older woman's 
 face. From the tear-wet eyes of the young one a 
 great purpose shone. "T zmll 'build me a nest on the 
 greatness of God,' " she softly murmured. 
 
 Thus passed Linda's first day away from home — 
 a day that told mightily on the after years of her life, 
 
 22 
 
In tht jf^antai)ala0 
 
 so great are the seemingly small things along our way. 
 A smile here to a stranger, a kindly word there, and 
 God's opportunity has come. Souls touch, and new- 
 born life springs up to vivify and brighten many 
 lives. 
 
 23 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 A boy's way. 
 
 He was scarcely more than a lad, but hope and virile 
 energy and newly awakened ambition stirred the 
 springs of his being. He trod the hillsides as if walk- 
 ing among the stars. Every wild flower and bush 
 and tree shone with fresh beauty, seen as they were 
 through the glorified medium of his love. 
 
 His body became to him a temple consecrated to the 
 finer uses of his spirit. He would look at his hands, 
 hardened by contact with plow and hoe, and think how 
 their rugged strength could fend for a woman, for 
 her and — he blushed in maiden modesty at the thought 
 — for her children. 
 
 The woman ! Ah, through the waking hours of day 
 and the happy dreams of night moved the slender 
 figure of a girl with shining eyes and sunny hair and 
 tender, wistful look. For days after saying good-by 
 to her he seemed to hold his strength in leash and 
 gather his forces for some great movement. It was 
 as if an athlete were resting himself for the final 
 struggle, drawing deep breaths and measuring the 
 strength and staying powers of his opponent as well 
 as the difficulties of the track before him. 
 
 When he felt that the time had come for some 
 definite move toward that larger life which his ambi- 
 tion was forecasting, he struck across fields and 
 through woods to see the woman whose goodness had 
 planned for the girl whom he loved. 
 
 24 
 
M tJje Jl5antaf)alas 
 
 "I have never known the boy," Miss Wells thought 
 as she looked into his face and listened to his quiet 
 voice. 
 
 He began by saying that he had come to her for 
 books. Then gradually, as the sympathetic and tactful 
 woman drew him out, he told her of the new hope 
 that was brightening his life — how he expected to 
 work with the girl's half promise shining as a star 
 before him. The very poetry of love trembled through 
 his simple speech and gave it beauty and dignity. 
 His awkwardness yielded to a self-possession born of 
 overmastering emotion. 
 
 "I wish you the best, the highest success," said Miss 
 Wells. "Nowadays when a young man determines 
 to educate himself there's always a way. Have you 
 any definite plans?" 
 
 "No, ma'am." The boy used the crude Southern- 
 ism with an air that spoke of manliness and chivalrous 
 reverence for woman. *T haven't talked to father. 
 He can't well spare me now. It will soon be time 
 to gather fodder, and then the corn. I don't see 
 how he can do without me this fall." 
 
 "But you should be in school now, without waiting 
 another week." 
 
 "I haven't got the money. I had thought may- 
 be I could help the neighbors gather their crops and 
 make something that way. I hope to go after Christ- 
 mas — somewhere." 
 
 "You are not prepared for the university?" 
 
 "I don't know, ma'am." 
 
 In a few pointed questions she sounded the lad. "It 
 might be well for you to spend this year in a good 
 preparatory school. What of Professor Harrison's, in 
 the valley? That is not expensive." 
 
 "I had thought of that." 
 
 25 
 
Un tf)e jaantal)ala0 
 
 "Would you like for me to write to him about you ? 
 I'd be glad to do so." 
 
 "Thank you, Miss Wells ; you are so good." 
 
 "In the meantime take this book. Get off to your- 
 self and read a few of the essays, then tell me your 
 opinion of them. I can tell better what to give you 
 to read after that." 
 
 "I'd think you'd be a mighty happy woman, doin' so 
 much good. The whole settlement's different since 
 you've lived among us." 
 
 "It does make me happy to hear you talk that way, 
 and I can have no richer reward for anything I can do 
 than to see my young friends leading noble lives." 
 
 Harry left her with a sense of elation, of masterful 
 courage filling his heart. He could, he zvould accom- 
 plish great things and bring his success to the girl who 
 had only halfway given herself to him. She should yet 
 find him worthy of a full and free surrender. 
 
 On the way home he turned off from the beaten 
 trail and struck out along the mountainside till he came 
 to a place he had often visited in his boyhood. Here 
 steep, overhanging rocks lifted their heads above a 
 dense forest which covered the hillside. On the brow 
 of one of these projecting rocks he threw himself 
 down beneath the shade of a rugged pine and opened 
 his book. 
 
 When Harry Turner sent his mind questing in 
 the wide spaces opened up by the Concord sage, it 
 was as if some young Balboa should stand upon a 
 lofty eminence and with far-seeing eye should sweep 
 the boundless waters of the Pacific. He read eagerly, 
 hungrily on. Deep in his nature a revolution was 
 taking place. Old, careless habits of thought were 
 giving way to a mighty force. He laid his book down 
 
 26 
 
Un tj^e I^antaf)ala0 
 
 and looked inward upon himself — upon the new man 
 that was waking to such fullness of life. 
 
 A stir in the wood struck Harry's attention. Look- 
 ing up, he saw a gentleman coming toward him — 
 a stranger and evidently a man from that great outer 
 world to which his thoughts were continually turn- 
 ing these latter days. The boy still lay with his 
 book open on the grass. 
 
 "Good evening." The man sat down near the lad. 
 
 "Howdy." The response was a little shy. 
 
 "Reading, are you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir." 
 
 "May I look at your book?" The boy handed him 
 the volume. "Ah, Emerson ! Where did you get ac- 
 quainted with him?" 
 
 "A friend lent me the book." 
 
 "Do you like it?" 
 
 The young fellow's eyes shone. "It's fine. I never 
 read anything like it." 
 
 "One never knows what to look for in this land 
 of surprises. Now, I've been led to think you folks 
 away off here care little about books." 
 
 "Yes, sir. I reckon you thought we all say 'you 
 uns.' I know just how most folks think about us. 
 But we do know a little, an' we don't say 'you all' 
 when we mean one person, an' we have heard that 
 the war is ended." 
 
 They looked at each other and smiled. 
 
 "I'm revising my opinion right along. You're a 
 pretty shrewd lot. I've seen men in these mountains 
 who have as much philosophy as Emerson, and some- 
 times it's of a more practical sort." He turned the 
 leaves of the book, dipping into it here and there. "A 
 young man could hardly fail to get inspiration from 
 such a book. Do you care much for reading?" 
 
 27 
 
In tht Ii5ama[)ala0 
 
 "I haven't had many books — a few histories and 
 the hves of Lee and Jackson. My father fought 
 through the war, and we are interested in such things." 
 
 "And you've learned to hate us — the Yankees — I 
 guess ?" 
 
 "No ; father has a pretty good opinion of the Yan- 
 kees when it comes to a fight." 
 
 "That's good. It begins to look like the war really 
 had ended. Do you expect to go to college? I've 
 found a good many young fellows hereabout are going 
 to the university." 
 
 "I wish I could." 
 
 The man looked at the boy intently. He began to 
 speak, then paused. Harry waited expectantly. The 
 stranger finally went on : "Do you know this neigh- 
 borhood well?" 
 
 "I've hunted through these woods all my life." 
 
 "You know that Coon Bletcher has a distillery some- 
 where in these cliffs, not far from where we now 
 are. 
 
 Harry said nothing, but looked the other in the 
 face with admirable self-mastery. 
 
 The stranger went on : "You must know that moon- 
 shining has been a curse to western North Carolina. 
 Now that prohibition has had time to get in her work, 
 the trouble is lessening. In a few years the business 
 will be a thing of the past. In the meantime those 
 who help us break up this lawlessness will do the whole 
 country good." 
 
 "I think you're mistaken. Our county was nearly 
 shet of stills before prohibition passed. There's been 
 mighty little moonshinin' here since I could re- 
 member," 
 
 "Perhaps it has been better in your county, but as a 
 
 28 
 
3n tbt Ji5antaf)ala0 
 
 whole the mountains have been cursed by it. I'll tell 
 you — say, can't you show me that distillery ?" 
 
 "Wha-a-t?" Incredulous astonishment was ex- 
 pressed in the gentle drawl. 
 
 "Tell me where itjSi^_S.Iiai^.me. and I'll see to it 
 that you go to the /State Universi^ Y^7 The man leaned 
 forward and watched the lad's face. 
 
 Slowly the fire kindled in the boy's eyes. His nos- 
 trils dilated, his mouth curved contemptuously. "Do 
 you mean to offer me pay for being a sneak and a 
 scoundrel ?" 
 
 "O, let's have no heroics. That's just as you look 
 at it. The South thought John Brown a villain ; the 
 North considered him a martyr. If you could help to 
 break up the making of a deadly poison, wouldn't you 
 think it your duty to do so ?" 
 
 The boy looked out beyond the man, down the 
 thickly clad mountain side, across the verdant valley, 
 and far toward the blue line of the horizon. He had 
 been taught that it was a crime to report a distiller. 
 This code of honor among his neighbors was as bind- 
 ing as the law of honesty. His training bade him shun 
 the man. His hunger for education caused him to 
 hesitate. 
 
 "Mind you, I am not tempting you to do what I 
 consider a wrong thing. I have been employed to 
 break up these distilleries. Good men are paying me 
 for the time I'm putting into it, and you shall be 
 liberally rewarded if you help me." 
 
 The young fellow's mind was unused to any fine 
 discriminations between right and wrong. The half- 
 hidden temptations that assail men in the world of 
 business had never come his way. He looked into 
 the man's face as if seeking the motive back of the 
 offer. 
 
 3 29 
 
Sn tht laantaftalas 
 
 "Do you reckon that's a square thing to do? Me 
 and Coon Bletcher went to school together. Why, 
 he's not much older than I am, and, besides, he's got 
 a wife an' little baby to take care of ! No, sir-ee ! 
 I just cain't do it." He sprang to his feet and reached 
 for his book. "I must be goin', sir." 
 
 The stranger laughed. 
 
 " 'He that fights and runs away, 
 May live to fight another day,' " 
 
 he quoted. "That's all right. If you can't see it as I 
 do, you ought to refuse." 
 
 The two parted, going in opposite directions. After 
 the man was well out of sight and hearing, the lad 
 turned his course, plunging through the thick under- 
 growth down the mountain side. As he went his mind 
 was filled with thoughts of the distiller's wife and 
 child. Only the Sunday before he had seen them at 
 Miss Wells's meeting, the babe bright and sweet, 
 the young mother proud and happy. Why, it would 
 be a brute that could break up the little home. He 
 had come to a part of the mountain side so steep 
 that he was forced to let himself down by swinging 
 from one stout shrub to another '■" dropped 
 
 from the lower limb of a tref iself at 
 
 the end of a path that wound .lillside 
 
 and lost itself in the laurel bus. ^d aside 
 
 the undergrowth and crept softly v... ..aid, calling: 
 "Coon, Coon! Come out. It's nobody but me — Harry 
 Turner." 
 
 There was absolute stillness. He pressed on till 
 he came to the object of his search — the narrow 
 mouth of a cave. Again le paused. To go on might 
 mean death if Coon was there and failed to recognize 
 
 30 
 
In tht Ii^antaftala0 
 
 him. "Coon," he cried in a subdued voice, "don't you 
 know me?" 
 
 "Shucks ! Harry Turner, you've had me skyeered 
 'most to death. Come on in, but you know I'm ready 
 to shoot ef there's airy bit o' meddhn'." 
 
 Harry bent low and passed through the opening into 
 the cave. Coon was standing near the entrance with 
 his gun pointed toward the newcomer. The latter 
 looked calmly into the distiller's face. "Put down 
 your gun. Coon. I won't do you any harm, an' I 
 reckon you ain't 'specially anxious to git y o'se'f hun^ 
 
 "Well, I don't know's I'm hankerin' furthe hernp, 
 an' I ain't any too anxious to see the inside o' that 
 Yankee jail in Atlanta. Uv co'se you know what's 
 a-goin' on in this yere cave, but I don't believe I've got 
 airy neighbor low-down enough to peach on me." 
 
 Coon motioned Harry to a seat, and himself dropped 
 down on a rough block and laid his gun across his 
 knees, "See here, Coon," said Harry, "you don't need 
 this sort o' life. Why don't you quit it, anyway?" 
 
 "It's mighty easy for you to talk — all you folks 
 that's got a home o' yo' own. How could I git bread 
 an' meat offen my few acres o' po' land? It won't 
 hardly sprout peas, and the only thing that's wuth 
 shucks on it is the orchard my po' ol' daddy planted. 
 Ef I ain't allowed to use the fruit the Lord put there, 
 what can I do ? You cain't sell it jes' so ; an' ef you 
 can tu'n it into sumpin you can sell, whose business 
 is it, I say?" He spoke defiantly, his eyes shifting 
 uneasily the while. 
 
 "But there's danger in it, Coon. Law is law, even 
 if we don't see the right of it. You know blockin' has 
 led to a heap o' trouble in these mountains. It's all 
 wrong, the whole business, an' you must git out of 
 it." 
 
 31 
 
In tht Ji^antaf)aIa0 
 
 "Must?" 
 
 "Yes, must. That's a strong word, but as a friend 
 I'll say it. There's a stranger in the settlement now. 
 I don't know exactly what he is — revenue spy or some- 
 thing. He's on the hunt for you — I know that." 
 
 Coon gripped his gun and scowled. His uneasy 
 life was hardening his nature, and the strain of it 
 was beginning to show on his youthful face. He 
 prefaced his words with a string of oaths, then went 
 on : "Let him come in reach o' me, an' I'll give him 
 a dose to last him many a day." 
 
 "Then what would become of your wife and baby?" 
 
 "Go to the po'house, I reckon." 
 
 "What about the disgrace you'd bring on your little 
 girl? I tell you, Coon, the right way is the one, after 
 all." 
 
 The shadows were lengthening when the two came 
 out into the sunlight, but Harry's pleading had won. 
 He carried with him Coon's promise that his still 
 would be forever closed, and in his own heart was the 
 glad consciousness that a fellow-being had been up- 
 lifted through his help. Again he walked as if 
 among the stars. A woman's love is not all of life. 
 In the depths of his soul was the stirring of new 
 forces — love for his brother-man, a sweet recognition 
 of kinship with Infinite Love, and a sense of humble 
 gratitude that through him Infinite Good might work 
 to noble ends. 
 
 32 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LINDA AT SCHOOL. 
 
 This seemed a new world into which Linda Graham 
 had come. During the first few days waves of home- 
 sickness would drown all other feelings. She longed 
 for the old familiar surroundings — the little lonely 
 farm-house, the spring beneath the big water oaks, 
 the cows browsing in their pasture, the noble hills 
 sweeping around her, and over all the Bald keeping 
 its eternal watch. The mountains were here around 
 the beautiful town, but they seemed alien to the eyes 
 that had gazed on the same scenes for a lifetime. 
 As the weeks passed she adjusted herself to the new 
 conditions and began to win from them a deep happi- 
 ness. She felt a sense of space and freedom hitherto un- 
 known in her experience. She fell easily into the routine 
 of school life. The daily recitations brought the con- 
 sciousness of a power that thrilled her with joy. She 
 found that mentally she could keep step with the 
 leaders in her class, and soon this fact began to tell 
 on her intercourse with the girls of the school. In- 
 stead of dreading the keen eyes of strangers, fearful 
 lest they discover something laughable in manners or 
 attire, she gradually became at ease among her fel- 
 lows. And while she watched other girls and took 
 many an unofifered hint as to dress and deportment, 
 she felt less constraint among them and learned to 
 make the best of her scant wardrobe. 
 
 33 
 
In the i^antabalas 
 
 Her work in sewing room, laundry, and dining 
 hall was a pleasure rather than a burden. From it 
 she fed her independence of spirit and unconsciously 
 strengthened her character. From it, too, her love 
 of beauty drew sustenance. Orderliness and the joy 
 of attainment grew as she fashioned a garment or 
 watched the dainty shirt waist or serviceable linen 
 come from the pressure of her iron. Especially did 
 she gather pleasure from her duties in the dining 
 hall. The neatly kept tables were wonderfully attrac- 
 tive to the girl who had been accustomed to seeing 
 the meal time pass as if it were a few moments 
 snatched from work and used for the display of boor- 
 ish manners. Along with other girls who attended 
 to the dining room, she would search the woods for 
 wild fllowers and later for ferns and autumn leaves 
 with which to decorate her table. Often at such 
 times she would feel a pang of pity for the ones at 
 home, accustomed as they were to the oilcloth-covered 
 table, the rough ware, and unseemly manners. 
 
 She resolved to work for a better order of things 
 when vacation should come. Mentally she planned 
 little means by which she would change the home 
 methods. She could manage. There would be more 
 linen, even though it must be of an inferior sort. 
 Flowers would brighten the table. The children must 
 be appealed to in unobtrusive ways, and thus perhaps 
 the older ones might be reached. 
 
 As her intercourse with other girls broadened and 
 deepened, hfe took on a richer fullness. She stood 
 tip-toe, looking out toward the brightening horizon. 
 
 One morning, a few weeks after entering school, 
 she was passing through the hall when one of the 
 day pupils met her. The girl ran to Linda and, 
 throwing her arms about her, cried: "O, you beauty! 
 
 34 
 
M tjbe Ii5antti!)ala0 
 
 I don't believe you begin to know how awfully pretty 
 you are. We all think you are quite the prettiest 
 girl in school, but you never seem to dream of such 
 a thing. Didn't anybody ever tell you about it?" 
 
 "No — O, no!" and the delicate face flushed. 
 
 "Do you know, if I were a man I'd simply haunt 
 you? You'd have to love me." 
 
 "Don't! don't!" said Linda in real distress. 
 
 "O, it's true !" vrent on the mischievous girl ; "but 
 I ought not to tell you. If we spoil you by making 
 you think of your looks, you'll not be half so pretty. 
 But tell me about yourself and your people. You 
 know, Tm a 'mountain white,' as mother says, and 
 we must be good friends. You'll get over being 
 shy, and you'll like the girls, I'm sure. Now talk 
 to me," and Fannie Everett drew Linda toward the 
 front door. 
 
 Soon the girls were walking slowly back and forth 
 in front of the building while Linda's timidity was 
 giving way before Fannie's warm impetuosity. This 
 was the beginning of a friendship which gave to the 
 motherless girl one of her greatest pleasures. 
 
 The Everetts were among the leading people of the 
 county. They were possessed of that culture which 
 elevates both head and heart. Hospitality was one 
 of their chief characteristics, and soon Linda was a 
 frequent visitor in their home. Here she began to 
 see life at its best — a life where kindness and gentle 
 courtesy added to matepai-tLeauty and made up an 
 ideal existence. Mrs. fEverett^vas one of the most 
 motherly of women. Tfff^sured position in the 
 best society of town and/county had never given her 
 an air of conscious superiority. Genuine kindness 
 and unselfishness predominated in her nature; and 
 when Fannie, to u^e her enthusiastic phrase, ''fell 
 
 35 
 
 
In the jaantalbala$ 
 
 in love" with Linda, the mother was ready to do any- 
 thing in her power to further the friendship. 
 
 During the Christmas vacation Linda was an hon- 
 ored guest in the Everett home. For her, in her iso- 
 lated life, the happy season had meant little. Usually 
 there had been a few gatherings at which some of 
 the young men were almost sure to be under the in- 
 fluence of liquor. To one of Linda's native tendency 
 to refinement these little parties were trials rather 
 than pleasures. Looking back now, she wondered 
 that she had endured one. 
 
 On Christmas eve all was joyous commotion in 
 the home. Mrs. Everett's brother, a physician from 
 a large town below the mountains, was expected to 
 spend the holidays with them. He was a prime 
 favorite with Fannie and the younger children, and 
 all were excited at the prospect of his visit. When 
 the carriage drove up with Mr. Everett and Dr. Mon- 
 tague there was a glad rush through the hall, and 
 the children gathered on the porch in spite of the snow 
 that blew this way and that in hearty Christmas style. 
 
 "Come, Linda," cried Fannie, dragging her friend 
 through the hall ; but Linda drew back at the front 
 door and retreated to the brilliantly lighted parlor. 
 The sound of merry voices, heart-free laughter, the 
 stamping of feet to shake ofif the gathering snow 
 brought again to the girl that old ache — the sense 
 of being an alien, homeless, not fitting into any place, 
 but ever unresting, ever one to herself. 
 
 When they crowded into the parlor Fannie ran to 
 her. "Uncle Win, this is my best friend, Linda 
 Graham. Dr. Montague, Miss Graham." 
 
 She looked up into his face. He held out his hand 
 with a friendly smile. "I may be allowed a hand- 
 shake, then." He was prepared to treat the girl as 
 
 36 
 
Un tfje i^anmf)ala0 
 
 if she were half child, half woman ; but when he 
 looked down into her eyes and watched the changing 
 face he felt that here, in spite of her youth, was a 
 girl who had overstepped the last boundary into 
 womanhood. Here was not simply the care-free 
 thoughtlessness of Fannie and her kind, but the half 
 sadness that comes with life's later experiences. He 
 gently dropped her hand and turned to the little folks, 
 who were clamoring for his attention. A toss-up of 
 the baby, a merry joke with the boys, a mammoth 
 hug for demure little Elizabeth, and the group was 
 filled with bubbling happiness. 
 
 The earlier part of the evening was given to the 
 children. At the supper table bright talk of Santa 
 Claus was bandied about, and each child was invited 
 to tell just what the dear old Saint should bring 
 him. After the tots had been put to bed. Dr. Mon- 
 tague arose. "I say, Lizzie, if you don't happen to 
 have the things your youngsters are expecting, I'd 
 like to serve as Santa to-night myself." 
 
 "They have everything they need. Your questions 
 made them think of things that might never have en- 
 tered their minds." 
 
 "Well, I'm going out to find those very things." 
 
 "O, don't go and buy a whole menagerie. If you 
 are anxious to spend your money, you may help me 
 with the work we are trying to do for a few poor 
 families." 
 
 "Mamma, do let Linda and myself go with Uncle 
 Win to fit up those children. I know exactly what 
 I want for little lame Mamie Fisher." 
 
 "Isn't it too bad for the girls to be out, Winstead?" 
 
 "Bundle them up and let them come on. It's only 
 fun to be out in the snow." 
 
 In a few moments they were dressed to go with 
 
 37 
 
In the s^anmMlm 
 
 him, Linda wearing a heavy wrap of Mrs. Everett's 
 with the deep fur collar drawn up about her throat. 
 "This is much warmer than your jacket, Linda, and 
 you must please me by wearing it. Remember it is 
 just as if Fannie should do so." 
 
 Linda looked into the gentle eyes and fought the 
 tears back. "How good you are !" she said in a lo\V 
 voice. "I don't deserve it all." 
 
 "Yes, you do ; and you must let me mother you all 
 I wish." 
 
 With many a jest from Fannie and Dr. Montague 
 they went forth to search the stores. As they neared 
 the post office Fannie suggested that they inquire for 
 mail. Dr. Montague brought out a batch and handed 
 two letters to Linda. Standing under a street light, 
 with the snow falling softly on her eager hands, the 
 girl opened one of them. She caught a deep breath 
 and looked at Fannie. 
 
 "What is it, Linda? You look daft, my dear," 
 
 "I was only thinking what a lovely world this is 
 and how Fve misjudged it." A tender light shone 
 from her eyes. Her lips quivered. 
 
 Fannie took the extended letter. In an instant she 
 grasped Linda's arm and shook it vigorously. "Isn't 
 that fine? 'Let us all cry,' as Dr. Holmes would say. 
 You dear old thing ! How do you manage to make 
 people love you so ? Say, can I tell Uncle Win ?" 
 
 "It wouldn't interest him." 
 
 Fannie turned to him. "Come, Uncle mine, let me 
 read you a page from a fairy tale : 'Dear Linda: I 
 inclose you a check for a small sum [I think it 
 princely] . I hope you will get as much pleasure from 
 spending it as I am having in sending it to you. With 
 good wishes and prayers that He whose spirit prompts 
 all Christmas cheer mav hold you in loving com- 
 
 38 
 
Sn tbt Ji^ama!)ala0 
 
 munion, I am your friend, Henrietta Eccles.' Now 
 isn't that fine?" 
 
 "I think so." 
 
 "Come on, Linda, let's celebrate. You must have 
 such a Christmas as you've never had before," and 
 the happy girl linked her arm in her friend's, swung 
 her around, and ordered, "Forward, march !" 
 
 Linda's heart thrilled with deep happiness. Over 
 and over she was saying to herself: " 'I will build me 
 a nest on the greatness of God.' " The words carried 
 her back to the night she had spent with Mrs. Eccles, 
 when that noble woman broke down the barriers of 
 Linda's timid reserve and went straight into the 
 young heart's holy of holies. "I will be a better girl 
 because I have the memory of such a friend. Lord, 
 help me to be a little like her." She dared not hope 
 for such richness of womanhood. That distinguished 
 grace, that air of intellectual beauty mingled with a 
 spiritual power that shone preeminent, made up a com- 
 bination as rare as it was impressive. 
 
 Not until Linda was in her room alone did she open 
 the other letter. For a long time she sat with the 
 sheet in her hand, her face a study in conflicting 
 emotions. She had been away from home five months, 
 and this was only the third letter she had received 
 from the young man. On the condition that their cor- 
 respondence should be restrained and occasional she 
 had agreed to write to him. Now she questioned the 
 right and wisdom of allowing so much. She had 
 acknowledged to a little interest, a little special feel- 
 ing for him. She had gone farther and encouraged 
 him to make greater effort toward building a real 
 manhood for himself, holding out to him the hope of 
 ultimate reward — a reward that could be construed 
 to mean only one thing. Had she gone too far? 
 
 39 
 
3tt tjbe Ji5anta|)ala0 
 
 She looked at the letter, written in a cramped, boyish 
 hand, the English crude, the spelling imperfect, and a 
 sense of shame possessed her. She thought of his 
 awkwardness, his ill-fitting clothes, his lack of de- 
 velopment at every point. She set him beside the men 
 she had met in these school months, and she knew 
 that shame would overwhelm her if she were forced 
 to acknowledge before her new friends the relation- 
 ship that really existed between them. Then she 
 would upbraid herself for lack of loyalty in this, the 
 first test her heart had endured. Again came the 
 words : "I will build me a nest on the greatness 
 of God." Should she allow a few outside circum- 
 stances to hide the boy's genuine worth? Was there 
 any depth in the spiritual nature that professed to 
 be building on God and at the same time looked on 
 life with such shallow-seeing eyes? 
 
 She knevi^ it had been hard for him to leave home 
 and enter school. He had been working his way, 
 chopping wood and doing odd jobs for his board. It 
 humiliated her to remember that he was making this 
 manly struggle while she was doubting and debating. 
 
 At last she folded the letter with a firm hand and 
 rose to undress. Her mind was settled. She would 
 be true to him. He was older than herself ; but be- 
 cause of a girl's earlier maturity she had that feel- 
 ing for him that women often have for men — a feeling 
 in which the maternal is mixed with other and more 
 complicated instincts. "He said I'd forget old 
 friends." She went back in memory to that last walk 
 through the sweet mountain woods. "It must not 
 be. It shall not be." 
 
 40 
 
 V 
 V 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 FRIENDS. 
 
 "Christmas gift ! Christmas gift !" the children 
 were shouting at her door when Linda waked. There 
 was a scurry of Httle feet, a combined rush of restless 
 little bodies and another door was assailed with merry 
 cries and a tumultuous pounding of fists : "Uncle 
 Win, Uncle Win ; get up ! Christmas gift ! Christmas 
 gift !" 
 
 A deep voice called, "Get out ! Go 'way ; go 'way, 
 you little scamps, and let me have my beauty sleep." 
 
 "Tome on, Unc' Win. Yet see what Santa Taus 
 b'ought us. Mamma said wait for you." 
 
 "All right, lady; I'll be down in a jiffy." 
 
 Before Linda was dressed Fannie came in and 
 greeted her affectionately. "This must be a royal 
 day for you, the first Christmas you ever spent away 
 from home. We must make up to you for every- 
 thing." 
 
 "You are doing more than that, Fannie. You 
 must remember 'home' to me is very different from 
 what the word means to you. I can't remember father 
 or mother, and Aunt Sarah has never been able to 
 make a real holiday time for us. You may think it 
 strange, but I never had a Christmas present in my 
 life 'till last night." 
 
 "Well, hurry up and see what Saint Nicholas is 
 doing for you this time, you dear old darling." 
 
 41 
 
3n tbt J^antafjalag 
 
 For a short while the household gathered in the 
 big living room. A scene of joyous confusion fol- 
 lowed. The glad voices of delighted children, the ex- 
 clamations of the old cook, "Dar now, bress de 
 Lawd — Thanky', thanky', Miss Lizzie, thanky', Mr. 
 John"; the housemaid's voluble gratitude; Fannie's 
 happy chatter, all served to create an atmosphere in 
 which sadness would have been utterly out of place. 
 Yet to Linda there came crowding thoughts that 
 sobered her by contrast. In her memory's vision rose 
 a shabby house meanly furnished. Where now she 
 saw soft carpets, easy chairs, well bound books and 
 tasteful pictures, in the other scene there were bare, 
 rough walls and floors, home-made chairs — everything 
 cheap and unlovely. The girl's heart ached as she 
 recalled the familiar surroundings and saw the worn 
 face and hopeless air of her mother's sister. The 
 narrowness of the life smote her cruelly. She felt 
 that she must get out of this sunlight, that she had 
 no right to this bright, rich life while those to whom 
 she was united by closest ties were shut up in such 
 prison bounds. These thoughts were flashing through 
 her brain while the children and servants were open- 
 ing their packages. 
 
 "Now," cried Fannie ; "we'll see our presents. Come 
 on, Linda." The older ones gathered about the table. 
 There was an elegantly bound set of books for Mr. 
 Everett, different articles for LTncle Win, as each child 
 must contribute to his store. A few pieces of ex- 
 quisite china and some dainty books bore Mrs. Ever- 
 ett's name, but the family had spent most gener- 
 ously where the young girls were concerned. 
 
 The way in which the two received their presents 
 showed how widely different their temperaments were, 
 and yet Fannie's ah's and oh's, her happy effusiveness, 
 
 42 
 
In tf)c jeantaftala0 
 
 held no hint of insincerity. On Linda's tell-tale face, 
 appreciation, deep gratitude, amounting- almost to pain, 
 seemed to be struggling with the lighter feelings that 
 she tried to express, 
 
 "Oh, come off, you goosey ! I do believe you want 
 to fall on my neck and weep. Let's dance instead," 
 and Fannie swung Linda around the room in a mad 
 whirl, keeping time to a merry tune as it came from 
 her own daintily pursed-up mouth. 
 
 "Win, don't you think it's time for Fannie to stop 
 whistling? It's a dreadfully tomboyish habit — to me 
 — but her father seems to think it's a fine joke." 
 
 "Let her whistle, dear. There'll come a time, all 
 too soon, when the child will not care to whistle." 
 
 "That's right, Daddy. Take up for me! Til be 
 fearfully and wonderfully dignified after my coming 
 out. Don't you think that'll be time enough, Uncle 
 Win?" 
 
 "I certainly do." 
 
 "Don't you see, mother, they are two to one ? Come 
 on and let me convert you." She paused a moment, 
 released Linda and, throwing her arm about her 
 mother's waist, waltzed rapidly around the room with 
 her. 
 
 "How's that? Don't you feel better? Younger? 
 More like the beautiful and accomplished I\Iiss ]\Ion- 
 tague in the days when she was the belle of central 
 Carolina?" 
 
 "I feel like stopping and trying to get a breath. 
 Do let me sit down, Fannie, Fm fairly gasping." 
 
 "I see; please forgive me, mother," and she led 
 Mrs. Everett to an easy chair, gently seated her and 
 stood by her with a serio-comic look on her face. 
 "There now, you are coming to ! It all goes to illus- 
 trate what I've been trying to teach you, that it's 
 
 43 
 
Kn tfte jQantafjalajf 
 
 best to have a little fun as you go along. There's 
 Linda with her tragedy-queen make-up. Watch her 
 struggling for breath yet, while I'm perfectly calm. 
 What is it Master William says? — 'Your merry heart 
 goes all the way, you're sad tires in a mile — a?' 
 That reminds me, let me see your Shakespeare, Linda. 
 I believe Daddy did the nice thing when he bought 
 that for you." Linda picked up the two handsome vol- 
 umes. "He did a beautiful thing and I don't know 
 how to thank him enough." 
 
 "You like it? That pays me well," answered Mr. 
 Everett. 
 
 "Now allow me to decorate you, Miss Graham," 
 Fanny deftly adjusted a brooch at Linda's throat— 
 "you behold your friend's perfect taste in this pin. 
 Ma Mere was inclined to pearls and turquoise be- 
 cause of your blonde hair and complexion, but with 
 your dark eyes and intense nature I thought the rose 
 garnet better, so you have a real Carolina gem, one, 
 too, peculiar to your native country. You haven't 
 tried the ring, have you ?" and she slipped a splendid 
 Mexican opal on Linda's finger. "You know I re- 
 fuse to believe in bad luck at all. This does look 
 like flying in the face of a whole world's wisdom, 
 but I know of no stone so pretty." 
 
 "It is lovely, and " 
 
 "And you''d like to kiss me, but you're too timid 
 to suggest it ? Well, here goes." 
 
 With such happy badinage Fannie brightened the 
 morning hours till the time came for the distribution 
 of Mrs. Everett's gifts to her proteges. 
 
 At ten o'clock a sleigh was driven to the front and 
 Dr. Montague and the two girls drove off with their 
 well-filled baskets. 
 
 On Linda's cheek there was a soft flush, and in her 
 
 44 
 
3Jn tU iaanta|bala0 
 
 eye a happy light. The contagion of Fannie's spirits 
 had driven out the half-sad thoughts that came with 
 the vision of her old home. She could not be un- 
 happy in this atmosphere of genial friendship, of 
 beautiful kindliness. 
 
 Enveloped in a long wrap which Mrs. Everett 
 had just given her in the privacy of her own room, 
 she w^as conscious that her appearance suggested 
 neither poverty nor out-of-dateness, and the con- 
 sciousness gave her ease of manner. 
 
 When Dr. Montague helped her into the sleigh 
 he noted the glow on her face, the beauty there. As 
 he seated himself by her side he marked her delicate 
 profile, the perfection of nose and brow and mouth, 
 and marveled that such flower-like loveliness could 
 have blossomed in rough mountain surroundings. 
 
 The first stop was made at the home of the crippled 
 child. Fannie and Linda went in, leaving Dr. Mon- 
 tague in charge of the horses. 
 
 "You will find gratitude here, Linda ; but with some 
 of mother's pets it's funny to see how her gifts are 
 accepted. I want to take you to see Aunt Mad-cap." 
 
 Nannie's face was bright as the sunlight on the 
 gleaming snow outside when Fannie opened her bas- 
 ket and undid the bundles. There was a warm sack 
 for the thin little body, a big doll flaunting the most 
 elegant clothes, candies and fruits galore, while the 
 mother was gladdened with the sight of a dressed tur- 
 key, loaves of bread, a cake and other things to com- 
 plete a Christmas feast. Mrs. Fisher's few broken 
 words of thanks were eloquent with gratitude, and the 
 two girls went out of the room with softened step and 
 tremulous voices. 
 
 "I see now -why people are opposing the Lady 
 Bountiful business. It's the old feeling that steals 
 
 4 45 
 
In tfje jaantaf)ala0 
 
 our pleasure away by making us think we ought not 
 to enjoy anything. I'm going to give more recklessly 
 even than mother, and pat myself on the head for 
 being good if I wish. Don't vou think that's wise, 
 Uncle Win?" 
 
 "Of course. I am not able to see the beauty of our 
 modern philanthropy. If you see a poor fellow in 
 need of a coat you surely wouldn't send a committee 
 to inquire of his financial standing. However, I 
 guess there is some excuse for organized charity. 
 I've been fleeced often enough to be sure of that ; but 
 I go on just the same." 
 
 "Yes, here's Aunt Mad-cap, she ought to be under 
 a Board of Directors, I suppose ; but mother keeps on 
 with the good work in spite of everything." 
 
 They alighted in front of a tumble-down cabin in 
 the poorest part of the town. Fannie took a basket 
 and the girls were soon in the shabby room. 
 
 "Christmas gift, Aunt Mad-cap," shouted Fannie 
 in the old woman's ear. "How are you ?" 
 
 "Pohly. pohly ; w'hy didn't your mother come?" and 
 the old creature looked at the girl with marked dis- 
 approval. 
 
 "Oh, we wanted to come, we were so anxious to 
 give you pleasure." 
 
 "Ugh — h," the groan was dismal enough, but the 
 face gave sign of softening a little. 
 
 "Mrs. Everett has sent you such nice things. Aunt 
 Mad-cap, and hopes you will enjoy them," said Linda, 
 while they were unpacking the basket. 
 
 "Uncle Win has ordered you a load of coal. It 
 will soon be here, Auntie." 
 
 "How come your Uncle Win to do that? Tryin' 
 to save his soul by givin' to a ol' beggar?" 
 
 "No, he does it because his heart is big enough to 
 
 46 
 
in tbt J^antaf)aIa0 
 
 take in the world. You ought to know Uncle Win. 
 You'd change your mind about the badness of men in 
 general." 
 
 "They are all bad, all bad," grumbled the woman. 
 
 "In spite of the coal. Auntie ?" 
 
 "Yes, yes ; I never knowed any good uns, and you 
 youngsters better let 'em alone." There was a fero- 
 cious gleam in the dim old eyes, and the shriveled 
 hand clutched savagely at the arm of her chair. 
 
 '"O, but there are good and great men, Auntie. 
 Remember that He who made Christmas what it is 
 was once a man and walked the earth doing good." 
 
 Linda looked at her friend in astonishment. 
 
 "Mebbe I'd 'a' been a better woman if somebody 
 had 'a' tol' me mo' about Him," answered the woman ; 
 "but I never knowed much about good folks. Yo' 
 mother is mighty nigh the only good un I'm ac- 
 quainted with. And you be sho' to tell her I'm m ich 
 obleeged for all these nice things. You needn't say 
 nary word to your uncle, though. I hate the men ; 
 Lord, I hate 'em!" 
 
 The voice rose to a shriek, and the poor fist was 
 clenched. Fannie laid a gentle hand on the woman's 
 head. "There, there, you must not excite yourself 
 so. You'll feel better about these things yet." 
 
 Her voice was low and tender. A mother could not 
 have spoken more soothingly to a fretful child. Again 
 Linda looked the astonishment she felt. 
 
 As they left the cabin Fannie turned to her friend. 
 "I must have shown you the shallow side of my nature 
 always, you looked so surprised to see me trying to 
 quiet the old creature." 
 
 "I was surprised to hear you speak as if " 
 
 "As if I believed in Him whom we are trving to 
 follow?" 
 
 47 
 
3n tfje Ji5anta!)ala0 
 
 "Yes, that's it." 
 
 "Well, I do not wear my faith on my sleeve ; but 
 my love for Him is worth all the world to me, Linda, 
 and it shames me because you can show your religion 
 — use your religion so much more than I do." 
 
 "No, no, dear; you are full of the very essence of 
 religion — love for everybody about you." 
 
 "I wish I could feel that you are not mistaken. 
 But this poor, half-crazed woman always stirs me 
 mightily. I've only learned lately just why she hates 
 men. When her only child married, the husband 
 turned out to be a drunkard, beat his wife, and was 
 indirectly the cause of her death as well as that of her 
 little babe. Since then Mad-cap has been just as she 
 is now." 
 
 By the time the round of visits was made Fannie 
 was her old mischievous self, but to her friend the 
 morning had been a revelation, and when the day 
 had passed Linda fell asleep soothed by happy 
 thoughts. Above everything was the recognition that 
 people about her had unsounded depths of feeling, of 
 unimagined soul-beauty. 
 
 48 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 STEPPING STONES. 
 
 Linda felt dazed by the marvel of it. First there 
 was the letter from Mrs. De Jarnette, offering her 
 the position ; then one from her aunt, giving her con- 
 sent to its acceptance ; and later the exciting matter 
 of getting ready for life in this new world. 
 
 "Haven't I told you that it's better to be born lucky 
 than rich? And what's to become of a poor body 
 that's neither? Anyway, I'll be happy because you 
 are having such a good time." 
 
 "Why, Fannie ! You little goose ! you have the 
 loveliest home in the world, the dearest father and 
 mother, and everything." 
 
 "Yes, indeed, I do have the most precious daddy, 
 and mother is simply perfect ; but I am so glad you 
 are to have this chance of a beautiful life. Companion 
 to a rich old lady, travel, the luxuries of a real city — 
 why, it's more than ever like the pages of a fairy 
 tale!" 
 
 "What if I do not suit the work or that kind of 
 life?" 
 
 "You can very easily get out of it," 
 
 "And be the same girl ?" 
 
 "O, now, there you are ! 'Take the good the gods 
 provide you.' You surely were born for a tragedy 
 queen. If you fail as companion, I expect to see you 
 starring as Lady Macbeth. You take life too seri- 
 
 49 
 
Un tbt iaanta!)ala0 
 
 oiisly, darling. Be frothy, like your little goose of a 
 friend." 
 
 "Frothy?" and Linda bent to kiss the girl's brow. 
 "I know of no one who has more deep and genuine 
 good in her, more unselfish thought for others, than 
 you have, Fannie." 
 
 The commencement time passed most pleasantly to 
 Linda. She was in and out of the Everett home, al- 
 ways a petted guest and unconsciously fashioning her- 
 self to a fitness for the social life which was so differ- 
 ent from her own upbringing. There is a certain 
 aptness in the feminine nature which catches the key- 
 note of little things, and presto! the whole woman 
 is rapidly changing. At first Linda had shown a con- 
 scious awkwardness of manner, a hesitancy as to what 
 were the fitting thing to do ; but gradually the ease of a 
 well-poised nature became her own and added a new 
 charm to the natural grace that had belonged to 
 her in the secluded mountain home. 
 
 She had written to Aunt Sarah : "I will come home 
 for three weeks. Mrs. De Jarnette gives me that 
 time before I join her on the way to Eagle's Nest. 
 Tell Miss Wells I hope she will be with us as much 
 as possible. I can never be grateful enough to her 
 for all she has done for me. And you, Aunt Sarah, 
 I think of you so often, and wish that I could lighten 
 your burdens for you. If Mrs. De Jarnette is satis- 
 fied with my work, it may be in my power to do more 
 for you than I have ever been able to do. I would 
 be ungrateful if I did not hope and plan for you after 
 you have been a mother to me all these years." 
 
 When the train pulled up at Nantahala there was 
 the same shabby buggy and one of the plow mules, 
 accompanied by a boy in the gawkiest of all boy 
 ages. 
 
 50 
 
3n tht j^anta{)ala0 
 
 "Lawdy, Lindy ! I was erbout to tu'n 'roun' an' 
 go back. Didn't think you wus here." The lad's 
 look of bewilderment was a tribute to Linda's im- 
 proved appearance. 
 
 The girl laughed softly and kissed her cousin, an 
 act whch seemed to complete his stupefication. "How 
 are you, Bob? and how are Aunt Sarah and the girls, 
 and Bess and Muley and the calves — O, everything? 
 I am in such a hurry to see them all." 
 
 "I'll git you there es soon es I can, but how in 
 thunder do you expect me to carry that there bam?" 
 He motioned toward a new trunk which had just been 
 dumped onto the platform along with a tiny tin- 
 covered one that had sufficed to carry the girl's clothes 
 to school. 
 
 "That can be left here a day or two till it's more 
 convenient for some of you to bring it home. My 
 old trunk has all that is necessary for me at first." 
 
 Ten months had passed since the two had seen 
 each other — ten months in the time of a girl's life 
 when changes are miraculously quick. Linda had 
 left home beautiful but unformed, slender, graceful 
 except when hampered by self-consciousness ; she had 
 come back a girl of remarkable beauty, easy and gra- 
 cious of manner, dressed in quiet, good taste, and yet 
 in a way that seemed to emphasize, not hide, the 
 native charm of her. 
 
 "Whoopee, Lindy, where'd you git that dress ? You 
 look to kill in it." Bob was surprised out of himself. 
 His phlegmatic philosophy had not encountered so 
 great a shock. 
 
 Linda laughed. "I'm awfully glad you like it, 
 Bob. I was afraid you'd think I'm putting on airs. 
 You see, Mrs. De Jarnette expects this sort of thing." 
 
 "You reckin you're going to Hke that job, Lindy? 
 
 51 
 
Sn tbe Bantabalas 
 
 I wouldn't want to wait on no rich woman." Bob 
 gave his mule a mild jerk and looked at Linda as if 
 to note the effect of his words. 
 
 The girl answered with grave dignity: "I will not 
 be expected to do the work of a servant; rather I 
 will hardly be treated as a servant. But, after all, 
 we people of the mountains are too afraid of that kind 
 of service. We are proud and sensitive to a fault. 
 That's true of us the world over." 
 
 It was late in May. The mountains had on their 
 most deHcate coloring — the softest shades of green, 
 the tenderest grays, and over all that mystic haze that 
 gives an appealing beauty to the most rugged and 
 cliff-scarred landscape. The wonder of it all struck 
 to the heart of the girl. "As homesick as a Switzer 
 for the sight of the mountains" — she had once heard 
 the expression, and it set in a new light the life she 
 had led. There was something in it, after all — some- 
 thing that made for strength of affection, of character. 
 Did the unchangeable sturdiness of the hills so grow 
 into the fiber of one's being that he could not alto- 
 gether fashion himself differently? 
 
 That was a poor home-coming, one might say who 
 had been accustomed to a larger sort of life. There 
 were few words of welcome and but little show of 
 any kind ; but Linda noted that the girls and smaller 
 children, along with their mother, had donned their 
 "Sunday clothes," and even Uncle Bart had a gentler 
 tone when he greeted her. There was something 
 touching in the supper. The best cloth had been 
 laid, and every one seemed to have on his company 
 manners ; yet the best in everything was crude or 
 rough. When the meal was over Linda offered to 
 help with the cleaning up. 
 
 "No," said her Aunt Sarah ; "you mustn't mess up 
 
 52 
 
Sn tU laantafjalag 
 
 that pretty dress. Run erlong an' look erbout, ef 
 you want to, while me 'n' the girls wash the dishes." 
 
 Linda was glad to be alone. Out under the starlit 
 sky, with the deepening mist hanging around the sides 
 of the Bald and filling the valley with a sea of soft- 
 ened light, the girl fought over some of her old 
 battles. The sordidness of it all ! After the comforts 
 of her school life and the loveliness of her friend's 
 exquisitely kept home how poor and hopeless seemed 
 the things around her ! She was thoroughly miserable 
 in spite of her great love for her aunt. At the table 
 the rough manners of her uncle and the boys had 
 grated on her nerves. The spiritless conversation de- 
 pressed her. How could she bear it — this poor and 
 lifeless existence? 
 
 Out in the bright world she had left, men and 
 women lived; they did not simply exist. And yet 
 there was the ingratitude of such feelings. She must 
 love her people — these who had cared for her in her 
 childhood and helpless poverty. O, she did love them ! 
 She could not be so untrue as to forget. 
 
 She was leaning against the bars at the old gap, 
 where so often she had come for quiet and self- 
 communion. Linda's memory turned to that after- 
 noon — so long ago, it seemed — when Miss Wells and 
 her pony had come up the trail along the hillside. 
 Even as she thought of it the sound of footsteps 
 reached her. She stood alert, every nerve quivering. 
 Could it be? Ah, if it were he. how should she greet 
 him ? Love is not love that questions so ? Real love 
 should be full of self-surrender, glad to yield, proud 
 that one's soul has come upon this miracle of miracles. 
 Surely she did not love, and all these months she 
 had let the boy follow a shadow ! She must be cruel 
 in order to be kind, in order to be true. 
 
 53 
 
In tfte j8antaf)ala0 
 
 "O, Linda, is it you?" He held her hand for an 
 instant. "I had started to see you. I — I — couldn't 
 wait." 
 
 "How are you, Harry?" Her voice was composed, 
 though a stronger light might have shown the white- 
 ness of her face. "We will go on to the house." 
 
 "No, no, Linda ; just a minute here. I reckon you 
 oughtn't let a girl see what a fool you can be, but I 
 can't help it. Father advised me to wait a day or so. 
 He says a woman likes independence." There was a 
 wistful tone in his voice, and he waited. 
 
 "It's sometimes hard to tell what a woman does like, 
 Harry." The kindness she felt for him softened every 
 look and word and gave him courage. 
 
 "I've been tryin' mighty hard these ten months to 
 be what you'd like, Linda." 
 
 She could not bear to be harsh to him just yet. 
 After the struggle he had been making it would be 
 heartless to send him away. A little longer and she 
 would tell him. "Did you like vour school work, 
 Harry?" 
 
 "Fine, I was lucky enough to get work to do in 
 Mr. Harrison's home. It was Miss Wells that did it 
 for me." 
 
 "Yes, I know." 
 
 "Mr, Harrison and his wife were both just 
 as good to me as could be. They never made me feel 
 that I was the 'hired man,' and bein' in such a home 
 has been worth a whole heap to me, I had the use 
 of their library, and found out from them what a 
 young fellow ought to read." He paused. "O, I'll 
 make a man of myself yet, Linda. I must do it. I 
 will do it." His face was eager, his voice trembling 
 with emotion. There was a moment's quiet as they 
 stood there with the solemn night enwrapping them 
 
 54 
 
Sn tt)t Ii5antaf)ala0 
 
 and the calm moonlight lending a sense of awe and 
 mystery to the great mountains about them. He 
 held out his hand. "Many a time in these months 
 I've looked at this right hand — it don't look like a 
 gentleman's, does it? — and thanked God for the 
 strength that's in it. And when I had done my best 
 on my books I have thanked God for giving me brain 
 enough to put my strength to some use. . . . 
 Linda, Linda, haven't you got a word for me ?" 
 
 The girl's voice was low: "Forgive me, Harry, if 
 I am doing you a wrong. I can't tell you how Lve 
 troubled about — about what I said to you. Some- 
 times Lve felt that it would be all right; that you 
 would go on and make a fine man — as I believe you 
 will — and that I would finally care for you as you 
 deserve. Then again I would doubt myself and 
 would make up my mind to stop it all. What if I 
 should let things stand this way for a long time, and 
 then be compelled to send you away?" She paused as 
 if for an answer. At length the low, gentle voice 
 went on again : "Don't you know you'd have a right 
 to blame me then?" 
 
 "Is there — is there — anybody else?" 
 
 For an instant there rose before the girl's mental 
 vision a manly figure and a face whereon was written 
 the record and promise of a noble life, but the vision 
 was swiftly put aside. "No ; there's no one else, 
 Harry." 
 
 "Then I'm willing to wait, and I won't blame you 
 if I have to give you up. Let me work on with hope 
 before me, Linda." 
 
 "I'm afraid of myself, Harry. There's a line of 
 poetry that rings through my ears like a chime of 
 bells, I reckon — T will build me a nest on the great- 
 ness of God.' When I think of that I want to be true 
 
 55 
 
In tfje iaanta|)ala0 
 
 and honest all the way through ; then I'm afraid to 
 be treating you this way." 
 
 "But I'm willing to take the chances. Don't shut 
 me out yet, Linda. You do care a little for me, or 
 you wouldn't have let me have ground to stand on." 
 
 "O, I don't know, Harry. I don't know what is in 
 my nature. There are two separate selves, and I 
 envy my friend, Fannie. She never seems to be in 
 doubt, but goes ahead doing exactly the right thing 
 without seeming to think about it, while I 'doubt, de- 
 lay, and dodder,' as she says." 
 
 "I'm willin' for you to doubt a little longer if you'll 
 just give me a fightin' chance, an' I'll try not to be too 
 foolish. Father says for me to take care and not be 
 a fool for the want of sense, as that's the very worst 
 sort." He looked quizzically at her, and both smiled. 
 The situation ^vas cleared, and again the buoyancy 
 of youth and hope filled the lad's soul. Before him 
 lay the world and its possibilities ; while by his side, 
 smiling kindly on him, was the girl whose charm 
 had been his guiding star while he worked toward 
 higher things. 
 
 56 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 AT EAGLES NEST, y^ 
 
 As the carriage wound slowly up /he mountain side, 
 Linda fell silent. She watched t/ie panorama — the 
 sweep of far-stretching peaks, Pitt's Balsam stand- 
 ing out boldly against the softened background of 
 misty mountains, the valley through which the railway 
 wound, a sinuous thread, while the train seemed a 
 Lilliputian object moving meekly through this wide- 
 spread grandeur. 
 
 "Is it wonderful to you, Linda?" 
 
 "Yes; O, yes!" 
 
 "I never tire of this drive, but it is a pleasure to 
 me to look at it through young eyes. You have a 
 very tell-tale face, Linda, and I could see you are 
 enjoying it." 
 
 "I thought of a line of Milton's where he speaks 
 of 'hill and dale, for earth hath this diversity from 
 heaven.' " 
 
 "You like books ; are you willing to give up regular 
 school work, as I had planned if you came to me? 
 Of course I know you agreed to do so, but wouldn't 
 you prefer school?" 
 
 "If I please you and can do all you wish me to do 
 and at the same time can have tutoring, I believe that 
 would be better for me. I love Brevard and am 
 sorry to give up the school, but I thought that travel 
 and the use of books might do me as much good as 
 
 57 
 
Jn tbt Il5antaf)ala0 
 
 text-book training. Mrs. Eccles advised me to accept 
 your offer. She has been so good to me. I have 
 found such friends, anyway. I don't know why, but 
 people are ready to be kind." 
 
 "You have much in your favor. There's the attrac- 
 tion of youth in the first place, and your good looks, of 
 course. You must know that you are more than 
 ordinarily good-looking, my dear. I have all a French- 
 woman's weakness for beauty, and I'll own that if 
 you had been an ugly girl I would not have been at- 
 tracted so promptly. Mind you, one has to have 
 other qualities to hold the interest or affection of 
 people, though. You've learned that, and I hope you 
 will not find me so worldly as to teach you that too 
 much depends on your looks. There, there ! no offense 
 was intended. I like you very much in that suit. It 
 requires an absolutely perfect complexion to wear 
 that shade of gray. What have you for evening wear, 
 Linda?" 
 
 "Only my white dresses. They are rather plain, 
 but I like them best that way." 
 
 "That is safe. It's better for a young girl to dress 
 simply, but — we shall see," and Mrs. De Jarnette lost 
 sight of her loved scenery as she gazed dreamily out, 
 seeing a slender girl dressed elegantly and with ex- 
 quisite taste. 
 
 Eagle's Nest draws to itself many wealthy pleasure 
 or health seekers from the Southern cities. Mrs. De 
 Jarnette was sure of finding friends or old acquaint- 
 ances who, like herself, had learned to love the moun- 
 tain eyrie. After the guests had gathered in the spa- 
 cious parlors just before the evening meal, Mrs. De 
 Jarnette's entrance was greeted by a delighted chorus : 
 "Dear Mrs. De Jarnette, we are so happy to see you ! 
 so happy!" "We were quite in despair when you 
 
 58 
 
In tbt n^amafjalas 
 
 failed to come on the morning hack." "O, we were 
 so disappointed !"' "Indeed we were !" And the ladies 
 closed around the two newcomers. 
 
 "I am delighted to be back in the Nest, and to meet 
 you all again. Mrs. Eubanks, Mrs. Holt, ]\Iiss Mor- 
 ing, Miss Dupont — ah, a fine delegation from Sa- 
 vannah ! Are you just from the city ? I've been away 
 so long, you know. Allow me : this is a young friend 
 of mine who is to be with me this summer, ladies. 
 Miss Graham." 
 
 Linda met the ordeal with composure. If there was 
 not about her the perfect ease, the savoir-faire, of 
 the society woman, there was none of the obtrusive 
 awkwardness that one might expect from a backwoods 
 girl. 
 
 When the ladies were seated again, Linda found 
 that she had been separated from Airs. De Jarnette 
 and was nearest to ]\Irs. Eubanks, a portly dowager 
 dressed in an immense quantity of black satin. The 
 air of opulent sleekness, the sheen of her rustling 
 skirt, the glitter of jet, the gleam of her bediamonded 
 hand all conspired to humble her neighbor and make 
 her feel particularly slim and poor and meekly clad. 
 
 Linda smiled inwardly. She bethought herself of a 
 description her friend, Fannie, had given of an even- 
 ing with a certain chaperone: "I saw it was to be the 
 Fourth all over again. If I allowed her, she would 
 squelch me within the hour; and I resolved that no 
 British-looking gorgon should conquer me without a 
 struggle. It was dreadful, but she will never attempt 
 to subdue me again. She simply lets me alone !" 
 
 "Miss Graham, if I caught your name rightly?" 
 
 "Yes ; Linda Graham." 
 
 "The Augusta Graham.s?" 
 
 "I am a North Carolinian." 
 
 59 
 
3n tf)e jeantal)ala0 
 
 "I see. You must belong to the Cape Fear branch 
 of the Grahams — fine people they are." 
 
 "I am from western North Carolina, and have no 
 relations that I know of in the Cape Fear section." 
 
 "Ah !" The word was full of meaning. 
 
 Linda inferred that she must stand and deliver. If 
 not to the Augusta branch or to the Cape Fear branch, 
 in the name of genealogical decency, to what branch 
 did she belong? "]\Iy father died when I was quite 
 small, and I know nothing of his people." 
 
 "Yes, yes," and Mrs. Eubanks invited further con- 
 fidence. She settled her skirts with a splendid sweep, 
 sank back in her chair, and began waving her fan 
 with an impressive motion. Mrs. Eubanks was al- 
 ways imposing. When she began to speak, one felt 
 that here was wisdom or what passes as its equiva- 
 lent — the spirit that announces : "When we die, wis- 
 dom will die with us." Suddenly she sat erect with 
 an air of awakened vivacity. "Ah, Telfair Ledroux ! 
 I didn't know he was expected." 
 
 Two gentlemen had come in and were standing 
 near the big fireplace. The taller of the two was 
 dark, slender, distinguished-looking. When he 
 caught sight of the Savannah delegation,' he came 
 across the room toward them. Linda supposed that 
 he must be a person of consideration, if one might 
 judge from the flutter his appearance excited. He 
 greeted the ladies of the group pleasantly, and turned 
 to the young stranger when Mrs. De Jarnette called 
 her name. Linda looked up into his face. His eyes 
 were dark and penetrating. She had never seen a 
 more handsome man. 
 
 When the music of the Italian band struck up with 
 the swing of a lively waltz, Linda felt as if in a dream 
 world. The brilliancy of light and color, the ele- 
 
 60 
 
In tbt Jj5antai)ala0 
 
 gantly dressed women, the subdued sound of well- 
 bred voices, the beauty, the very fulness of life stirred 
 the depths of her soul. She felt one instant that all 
 this was for her — that some deep, inward strain of 
 blood coming down to her from a far-off, beauty- 
 loving ancestor made this richness hers. Another 
 moment and she felt herself an aHen. Her mind went 
 back to the poor home which had sheltered her so 
 long. Instead of the high-bred people about her 
 she saw the crude, unlettered folk with their defective 
 English, their slovenly dress, and their slow-moving 
 processes of thought. A sense of shame swept over 
 her — shame that she should be ashamed, shame be- 
 cause she inwardly claimed superiority over those 
 whom she ought to love. How shallow must her 
 nature be when she was so ready to turn from the 
 old life, to break the old ties, to neglect the one true 
 soul that was fighting its way up the hill of difficulty 
 for her sake ! In imagination she set her lover among 
 these men and women. She contrasted his simple 
 speech with their polished language, his unformed 
 manner with their ease and self-possession. 
 
 "Linda, I've been telHng Mr. Ledroux of you and 
 of my plan. Come here, my dear." Mrs. De Jar- 
 nette's companion drew a chair near the elder lady 
 and handed Linda to it while he stood looking down 
 on the two during a brief but animated conversation. 
 
 ]\Irs. De Jarnette was planning a Southern trip for 
 herself and Linda which should embrace the Mardi 
 Gras at New Orleans, and Mr. Ledroux was giving 
 her a deal of first-hand information. "It's well worth 
 seeing, Mrs. De Jarnette, and I only wonder that 
 you've never been in the city at that time. We South- 
 erners are becoming too much like our New England 
 friends. We are taking life too seriously. It's good 
 5 61 
 
Sn tbt s^timtahnlm 
 
 to pause and watch this big hoHday and remind our- 
 selves that there is something to Hve for besides mak- 
 ing money or reforming the world." 
 
 "Ah, there you are again with that skepticism of 
 yours ? Do you know, Linda, Mr. Ledroux claims that 
 we ladies are all playing at being good when we go 
 'slumming' or when we take up serious matters in our 
 clubs. He seems to think that we never really mean 
 these things." 
 
 "Mrs. De Jarnette never pretends anything, Miss 
 Graham. She is always in earnest, even when play- 
 ing whist." 
 
 "And that reminds me; do you know the game, 
 Linda ?" 
 
 "I don't know anything of cards." 
 
 "We will teach you this very evening, Miss Graham. 
 You remember Mrs. Battle in Lamb's delightful 
 essay? It was her business in life to play whist. Mrs. 
 De Jarnette is another such devotee of the old game." 
 
 "Yes, indeed ! Give me a 'clear fire, a clean hearth, 
 and the rigor of the game' ; but I have no patience with 
 the modern bridge and the spirit of gambling that 
 drives out all the friendliness of play." 
 
 After the supper was over the party of guests fell 
 into groups to amuse themselves as each liked best. 
 With an elderly gentleman as fourth, Linda was soon 
 being initiated into the mysteries of whist. Opposite 
 her and watching her with keen interest was Mr. Le- 
 droux, her partner for the evening. And as he 
 watched the young girl there came to him a breath 
 of that fragrant youth of his wherein faith in womanly 
 purity and worshipful reverence for woman's nobility 
 had been as life to him. The years slipped away from 
 this blase man of the world, and again for the mo- 
 ment he stood at life's threshold full of hope and 
 
 62 
 
Kn tbt Ii3amal)ala0 
 
 kindly affection and love of truth and all true things. 
 Looking into the girl's clear eyes, life once more held 
 out a promise of higher and worthier things. When 
 they were breaking up for the night, he made oppor- 
 tunity to say to Linda, unheard of others : "Thank you, 
 Miss Graham, for this evening, I have not had such 
 a pleasant one in many a long day." 
 
 She looked into his eyes and knew that he spoke 
 truth. Late she fell asleep with her young heart 
 deeply stirred, and for the first night since Mrs. 
 Eccles had repeated the line she forgot the words 
 which had served to wing her thoughts heavenward: 
 "I will build me a nest on the greatness of God." 
 
 63 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A RIFT IN THE LUTE. 
 
 Companionship with this man stirred Linda's brain 
 to unwonted activity. The knowledge of the world 
 that he possessed, his acquaintance with literature, 
 his brilliant intellect gave charm and color to his 
 conversation. He had traveled in the old countries ; 
 and to the school-girl his familiar talk of Ayrshire 
 and of Abbotsford, the Alps, the Rhine gave a 
 glamour of romance to the days as they swiftly passed. 
 
 There were long talks on the wide porches while 
 the misty moonlight touched mountain and valley 
 with solemn beauty. There were long walks in the 
 woods while the afternoon sun shone glimmeringly 
 through the leafage. And always for Linda there 
 was the stir of her intellect awakening to a wider 
 world, while for the man was the renewing of a half- 
 dead spiritual nature. Without any conscious effort 
 on his part, the cynic view began to soften. His talk 
 took on a more earnest note. He wished to stand 
 well in those young eyes that looked out on life in 
 trustful innocence. It was worth something to him to 
 feel that the young girl was drawn to him without 
 any thought of the material advantages wdiich had 
 caused so many women to throw themselves in his 
 way and to try every allurement to win him. 
 
 Mrs. De Jarnette looked on in silence. If she was 
 aware that Mr. Ledroux was marking her protege 
 
 64 
 
3n tfje laantabalast 
 
 by any special attention, she gave no sign. Mean- 
 while she was keenly alert. She liked the son of her 
 old-time friend, and yet — he must be careful. She 
 would allow no trifling. She realized how delicate 
 the situation was. A wrong word, and Linda might 
 be driven from her with a wounded spirit. A tact- 
 less move, and Ledroux might turn that quiet scorn 
 of his, that ready cynicism against her weak defenses. 
 She must wait and watch till the right moment. 
 
 One afternoon Linda read Mrs. De Jarnette to 
 sleep, softened the light for her, then took a new 
 magazine and sought one of her resorts — a hammock 
 at a corner of the veranda overlooking the Richland 
 Valley. It was the usual rest hour for the ladies of 
 the hotel, and she was not likely to have any inter- 
 ruption. She lay resting for a few moments, her 
 arm thrown above her head and her eyes looking out 
 along the wide sweep of the valley. She was think- 
 ing, thinking — always of the one man. His dominant 
 power asserted itself in absence. What must she 
 do? To crowd him back she opened the magazine, 
 but the leaves fell apart just where his hand had rested 
 that morning. He had cut the leaves for her, and, 
 glancing along its pages, had read two or three lines 
 of verse, then turned on with a half-contemptuous 
 remark about present-day poetry. She found the verse 
 and read: 
 
 "Two Loves. 
 
 "A storm-driven flower falls torn at her feet, 
 A flower blood-red, by torrid suns burned. 
 
 The maiden bends not — ah ! loving is sweet, 
 But woe to the love that is spurned ! 
 
 65 
 
Sn tbt iaantai)ala0 
 
 "A wind-blown flower falls light at her feet, 
 A flower cool-white, by heaven's airs fanned. 
 
 The maiden bends low — two flowers that meet, 
 A rose and a lily-like hand." 
 
 She saw nothing in the lines to arouse the scoffing 
 spirit; and again, as many times before, she deter- 
 mined to overcome the feeling — this fascination that 
 held in bond the highest and best of her nature. Girl 
 as she was, and untutored in the world's ways, she 
 knew that something true within her was rebelling 
 against this man's power. Finally, as she lay with 
 her face turned toward the mountains, a great peace 
 came over her ; the dear and oft-repeated line soothed 
 her as of old, the thought of her boy lover stirred 
 her better nature to high appreciation, and in such 
 mood sleep fell upon her. 
 
 A little later a light step sounded along the ve- 
 randa and Telfair Ledroux stood looking down on 
 the sleeping girl. The magazine lay open at the bit 
 of verse, and he read the lines again. Gently dropping 
 a flower in Lir^la's lap and taking one long look 
 at the beauty of her, he turned and left the porch. 
 As he struck into the woods on the mountain side, 
 he looked himself in the face and questioned his 
 heart. Almost he cursed the conventions that allow 
 a man to waste the innocence and moral health of his 
 youth and still be sought after as something worthy 
 to be won. He had looked into the eyes of women 
 who knew his record, and, finding no condemnation 
 there, had learned to value lightly the smiles of all 
 women. But now — ah, if he could stand before this 
 white-souled girl and feel himself worthy of her love, 
 the world might go its way! What matter to him 
 that she was poor and of lowly origin? He could lift 
 
 66 
 
In the Bantafjalas! 
 
 her to his own social level — he could, but did he wish 
 to? 
 
 Linda's first sensation on awakening was one of in- 
 describable pleasure. The flower that lay in her lap 
 had its message. During their walks he had shown 
 her this flower and that, giving her interesting bits of 
 information about them. Lately they had spoken of 
 a certain orchid. This must be the one. She could 
 not be indifferent to his delicately shown thought of 
 her. O, surely he was good and true and noble! 
 She at least had the right to value his friendship. 
 It was vanity in her that took warning and fancied 
 anything else. As she lay there, with the flower in 
 her hand, the sound of low voices forced itself into 
 her consciousness. 
 
 "There is no mistaking the fact. He is fooHshly, 
 absurdly in love with her, and I can't imagine what 
 the outcome will be." 
 
 "I don't understand it. How can a man of his 
 social position do such an outre thing? We know 
 there is no bluer blood in the South than Telfair 
 Ledroux has, and the women of his family have 
 always been so fine, so beautiful in manner." 
 
 Linda recognized the voice of Mrs. Eubanks. 
 
 "O, as to that, I think the girl has really nice 
 manners. She certainly is bright and has a good 
 deal of self-possession." 
 
 ".You mean mountain brass." Mrs. Eubanks spoke 
 in a way that suggested personal spite. 
 
 "I don't agree with you. I think the girl is a lady ; 
 and it would be a pity for her to waste herself, her 
 youth, and her innocence on such a man as Telfair 
 Ledroux." 
 
 In Linda's soul a storm was raging. They were 
 speaking of her — the "mountain brass" fixed that be- 
 
 67 
 
In tfje il^antatalasi 
 
 yond a doubt. The cruelty of it! that she should be 
 so hardly dealt with because she could stand squarely 
 with her fellow-beings in the belief that inward 
 strength counts for more than outer circumstances ! 
 The deep-seated pride of the mountain character 
 pricked her to the core. With no effort at silence 
 she gathered her belongings and left the corner of the 
 veranda. No dame of the Ledroux race could have 
 passed with a more queenly air than this young girl as 
 she swept by the open window near which the two 
 ladies sat, 
 
 "Ah!" And Miss Moring looked at Mrs. Eubanks 
 with a quizzical smile. 
 
 "Dear me! I didn't mean — this is most unfortu- 
 nate !" murmured the dowager. 
 
 After this, Linda's manner toward Mrs. Eubanks 
 was noticeable for its ultra politeness. The older 
 lady was nonplused. She could not apologize. The 
 subject seemed a closed one. At times she made 
 effort to overcome this barrier that stood between the 
 girl and herself, and it was with inward wrath that 
 she saw how slight an impression her own unbending 
 made. Even if Mrs. Eubanks failed to realize the 
 fact that real ladyhood is that fine essence which 
 emanates from a woman's spirit, she was all the more 
 anxious to hold to the outward act, and she felt 
 ashamed because a careless moment had betrayed her 
 into inexcusable rudeness of speech. 
 
 Unconsciously Linda threw into her intercourse 
 with Mr. Ledroux a new touch of dignity — almost of 
 hauteur, it seemed to the man — but as the girl with- 
 drew herself from him he followed. Just when mat- 
 ters were at this stage, a letter from Fannie Everett 
 came, announcing the fact that she and her uncle, 
 Dr. Montague, would follow soon for a few days' 
 
 68 
 
In tht Bmtabala^ 
 
 visit, especially for the sake of being with Linda 
 again before Fannie's school year should open. 
 
 "All the world loves a lover," and he is a rare 
 person who will not turn aside to watch the byplay 
 that goes on where the world-old story is being told. 
 The arrival of Linda's two friends caused a stir of 
 interest in the hotel. 
 
 "It's better than a good play on the boards," 
 drawled a Freshman who was out for his first trip. 
 "Stage-setting is all that's needed. Enter leading 
 lady, gentleman madly in love. Things run smoothly, 
 then friction, lady offish, queenly air, and all that. 
 Enter second lover, psychological moment. Jealous 
 lover precipitates things. Don't you see ?" 
 
 "You don't suppose Miss Graham is capable of 
 planning a thing like this, Mr. Burrell. O, no, she is 
 too young, too much of an ingenue," Mrs. Eubanks 
 spoke with marked emphasis. 
 
 "Miss Graham plan? I never thought of such a 
 thing," and the young fellow forgot to drawl. "She 
 seems to me the proudest girl I ever saw. I don't 
 believe there's a man living she'd lift a finger to bring 
 to her. She doesn't have to plan. The Lord did 
 all that eighteen or twenty years ago." 
 
 "I don't think there's any symptom of a love affair 
 between Dr. Montague and Miss Graham. Miss 
 Everett is devoted to her friend, and naturally the 
 whole family would be interested in the young lady." 
 The speaker was one of those happily constituted 
 women whose very voice serves as a lubricant for 
 social machinery. 
 
 "Well, I don't know so much about that, but I do 
 know your handsome Georgian seems hard hit. A 
 man can't blame him. What a beauty she is, and she 
 has sense besides !" 
 
 69 
 
3n tfte iaanta|)ala0 
 
 "How interesting! A triple rivalry, is it?" Mrs. 
 Eubanks waved her fan with calm dignity. 
 
 "You don't think a youngster like myself could 
 stand a ghost of a chance when such a man as Le- 
 droux is concerned? He and Miss Graham make the 
 handsomest couple I ever saw." 
 
 The two girls were together constantly. Fannie had 
 only a few days to spend with her friend, and they 
 were making much of the time. Mrs. De Jarnette 
 insisted that she could take absolute care of herself 
 during the girl's visit, and this left Linda free. They 
 had not been together long before Fannie discerned 
 that her friend was undergoing some kind of strain. 
 Beneath the bright, loving talk there was an under- 
 current that broke the perfect sympathy of their in- 
 tercourse. 
 
 Long ago Linda had told Fannie of the half-prom- 
 ise she had given her boy lover, but the matter had 
 been little discussed between them. The older girl's 
 natural reticence was not broken into by any show 
 of curiosity on the part of her sympathetic friend. 
 During the days in the Nest Linda had mentioned the 
 matter only by saying that Harry was planning a year 
 at the university. 
 
 One morning the two wandered down the moun- 
 tain side and stopped to rest at a spring that flows 
 from underneath a splendid growth of trees. Here 
 they sat long, resting and talking. The lonely girl, 
 orphaned, homeless except for the charity of one poor 
 relative, felt that she must open her heart to this dear 
 friend. And yet she knew not how to confide in her. 
 Many things disturbed her young heart. Somehow 
 the outer world did not seem so bright as from the 
 little farm-house back in the Nantahalas. 
 
 Finally there came a moment of silence between the 
 
 70 
 
3n tht Ji5anta!)ala0 
 
 girls. Fannie laid her hand gently on her friend's : 
 "Linda, Linda, something troubles you. Can I help 
 you, dear? You know how I love you." 
 
 Linda lifted the girl's hand and kissed it. "I 
 have wanted to talk to you, but it is hard. There's 
 so much and I can say so little. I cannot put it into 
 words." 
 
 Fannie waited. "Is it Harry?" at length she said. 
 
 "Yes, Harry, and — and — O, I can't talk of these 
 things." 
 
 "There, there, darling! You needn't say a word. 
 You know I love you with all my heart, and I sym- 
 pathize with you whatever the trouble is." 
 
 "Fd like to tell you— much, but " 
 
 "Would it be impertinent for me to ask if Mr. Le- 
 droux has anything to do with your trouble? You 
 know I have been hearing the gossip of the hotel, 
 and they say he seems very much in love with you." 
 
 "I don't think so. Perhaps I am something of 
 a novelty to him with my country ways and ignorance 
 of his world." 
 
 "You shall not talk that way, dear girl. Any man 
 ought to love you ; but, Linda, I don't like him. 
 He is quite the handsomest man I ever saw, and his 
 talk is charming, but there's something — I don't know 
 what — that repels me. You know the old lines: 
 
 " 'I do not like you. Dr. Fell, 
 The reason why I cannot tell, 
 But this I know full well : 
 I do not like you, Dr. Fell.' " 
 
 "Yes — yes," Linda caught a quick breath. "But do 
 you see the hack? There in the bend of the road?" 
 "Yes, what of it?" 
 
 71 
 
In tU Ii5antaf)ala0 
 
 "I believe — O, Fannie, it must be Harry ! I never 
 guessed he'd come here." 
 
 The driveway passes by the spring. The girls were 
 clearly visible to the occupants of the hack, and as it 
 came nearer a young man sprang out, and in a moment 
 was shaking hands with Linda. "This is my friend 
 Fannie Everett, Harry. You will be good friends, I 
 am sure." 
 
 "I'm on my way to the university, and found that I 
 could come up for a few hours without putting things 
 out. I couldn't resist the temptation," he looked a 
 little wistfully at Linda. 
 
 "The trip up from town is well worth making," 
 volunteered Fannie. 
 
 The walk from the spring was made pleasant by 
 friendly talk. The young man had hesitated to set 
 himself in comparison with the city-bred people of 
 the hotel, but as relf-reliance and manliness had grown 
 apace in his nature he had realized that success would 
 be his if he could but take hold of things wnth an iron 
 grip. To win Linda he must show himself every inch 
 a man, and who but a weakling would be kept from 
 the sight of his loved one by the cowardly fear that 
 he might appear awkward or country-bred? He was 
 going into debt for a part of the year's schooling, but 
 the old father on the farm had denied himself of 
 certain needed things in order that the boy should 
 have his chance. Thus Harry was not going in any 
 mendicant style or spirit. 
 
 On the crest of Junaluska. just before you reach 
 the hotel, there's a bit of greensward with trees flank- 
 ing it, and underneath these rustic seats had been 
 placed. Here one might rest and look out on the 
 far sweep of mountains, peak after peak, with the 
 
 72 
 
Sn tbt il^anta!)a!a0 
 
 valley lying between, and imagine the spot a fit tryst- 
 ing place for beauty-loving lovers of old Greece. 
 
 "Let us rest here awhile, shall we not?" asked 
 Fannie, and in a few moments made excuse and left 
 the two. 
 
 Harry turned to Linda, and all his soul shone 
 through his honest eyes. "Have I done wrong, a 
 foolish thing, in coming, Linda?" 
 
 "O, no, Harry." Inwardly she felt a wave of repul- 
 sion against herself. She looked at his strong, sun- 
 tanned face with its square jaw and firm mouth, and 
 marveled that she could so often doubt herself where 
 Harry was concerned. Here was the promise of a real 
 and potent manhood, here was the steadfast loyalty of 
 an earnest and sincere nature, one ready to keep step 
 with her in every effort to live a life of truth, of right- 
 doing, of God-serving. And her heart was being 
 tossed this way and that because a pair of dark and 
 brilliant eyes had looked love at her, because an elo- 
 quent tongue had charmed her quickened brain, be- 
 cause a worldly man, all body and intellect, had singled 
 her out among other women for passing notice. 
 
 "I am glad you came." 
 
 He looked into her tender eyes and his heart beat 
 with proud, tumultuous joy. 
 
 73 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MISS MCGREGOR, GENEALXDGIST. 
 
 As the season waned a new arrival became an ob- 
 ject of special interest to the guests in Eagle's Nest. 
 One afternoon in late August the hack brought in a 
 lady who wrote boldly across the register : "Miss 
 McGregor, Genealogist." Later the clerk commented 
 on it to the group of men gathered near the big fire- 
 place. 
 
 "I suppose we are the greatest race of snobs on the 
 face of the earth," remarked one of the gentlemen. 
 
 "But isn't this craze for family a passing mood in 
 our democracy? After the Daughters and Dames get 
 things adjusted, I guess we'll settle down quietly." 
 
 "Not while there's a Scotchman alive or a South- 
 erner left to tell the tale." 
 
 The listeners smiled. 
 
 "We ought to get Mrs. Eubanks and the genealogist 
 together ; the result might be interesting," suggested 
 the first speaker. 
 
 Miss McGregor proved expansive. That evening 
 a company of ladies gathered in front of the blazing 
 fire which is so necessary to the comfort of the South- 
 ern guests who are unaccustomed to the chill of the 
 mountain night. 
 
 "I would think your work is very interesting, Miss 
 McGregor." The dowager's deep voice filled the 
 parlor. 
 
 74 
 
In the J]^antal)a!a0 
 
 "It is fascinating, Mrs. Eubanks. When it became 
 necessary for me to make my living, I cast about some 
 time before thinking of this. I consider it a lucky 
 hit that my mind was turned to the work." 
 
 "And are you a native of Baltimore?" 
 
 "O, no ! I am a Carolinian, but found it necessary 
 to live in a large city, where I could have access to 
 fuller records. Baltimore has proved a happy hunt- 
 ing ground." The genealogist beamed on her 
 listeners. 
 
 "Your patrons are — from what class largely?" 
 
 "The D. A. R.'s have brought me in some fine cases. 
 Of course the different organizations among the 
 women of America have furnished patrons, but you 
 would be surprised at the number of men who are 
 searching for a coat of arms." 
 
 "I thought it was the ladies who care for that sort 
 of thing," ventured one of the guests. 
 
 "Ah, don't deceive yourself ! You know the peasant 
 Carlyle claims that back of every great man there's 
 another great man, even though it be a silent one; 
 and I assure you that my most generous fees have 
 been from men — the new rich, who found some an- 
 cestor of whom they could be proud." 
 
 Just at this point two ladies came in and drew 
 within the radius of the group. 
 
 "Mrs. De Jarnette, Miss Graham, Miss McGregor," 
 volunteered a lady. 
 
 The genealogist responded pleasantly, then turned 
 to the young lady: "Miss Graham? A fine Scotch 
 
 name." 
 
 Linda bowed slightly. 
 
 "I am Scotch, you know, and, like Rob Roy, am on 
 my native heath when the genealogy of a clan is 
 under discussion. Are you a native of this State?" 
 
 75 
 
Iln tbt Bantaljalas 
 
 "Yes, a native of western Carolina. I know little 
 of my genealogy," the girl answered with a quiet dig- 
 nity. 
 
 "I assure you it's a fine name, my dear young 
 lady. Much of the poetry and romance of 'Auld 
 Scotia' clusters round the name of Graham ; and in 
 America, as I have learned by close inquiry, the clan 
 has held its own. I congratulate you on belonging 
 to it." 
 
 "If I have read Scotch history aright, the Grahams 
 could be very cruel," answered Linda. 
 
 "Cruel, but never weak; and the cruelty was a 
 result of the times, not so much a matter of tempera- 
 ment, I dare say." 
 
 "I can hardly understand the clannishness of the 
 Scotch nature." 
 
 "It arose at first from the fact that each family 
 had to fight for its own existence ; then later it be- 
 came a second nature. But whatever the cause, this 
 clannishness, this pride of birth has been a great 
 factor in the making of the Scotch. It has stood 
 them in good stead through many a strain. You know 
 the lines: 
 
 " 'Our bootless host of high-born beggars, 
 Macleans, Mackenzies, and Macgregors.' 
 
 We do not bend to the power of money." 
 
 The next morning Linda was at her favorite corner 
 on the veranda when Miss McGregor came and sat 
 down beside her. "Miss Graham, will you think me 
 impertinent if I ask you a few questions touching 
 your father's family? You know that's in my line 
 of business." Miss McGregor spoke apologetically. 
 Linda looked her full in the face. In the girl's 
 
 76 
 
In tbt ii^antaf)ala0 
 
 deep eyes was proud questioning. She seemed to be 
 searching the depths of the woman's soul. 
 
 "It is not idle curiosity," Miss McGregor answered 
 the look. "I have had occasion to inquire into the 
 Grahams of the South, and I have a special reason 
 for my interest." 
 
 "I do not remember my father or mother. My aunt 
 has told me very little. I think she never knew my 
 father's family, and my mother died at my birth." 
 
 "Is there no one to whom I could write? Do 
 you object to giving me your aunt's address?" 
 
 "My aunt is not accustomed to letter writing. She 
 may not feel free to write to a stranger." 
 
 "There may be something in the matter important 
 enough to convince both of you. Let me try her." 
 
 For some time there had rested over Linda's heart 
 a sickening shadow — a fear that made her draw back 
 from any inquiries about her father. Her aunt was 
 naturally reticent, and seldom mentioned the girl's 
 mother. Once in childhood Linda had asked some 
 question that brought a look from her aunt more 
 expressive than words could have been. The sensi- 
 tive child never repeated the attempt to enter her 
 mother's past, and as the years went by there had 
 grown up the fear that some shame belonged to that 
 past. 
 
 She longed yet dreaded to know. If this woman 
 could bring light and cheer into that dark corner of 
 her soul, how thankful, how deeply grateful she would 
 be ! And yet good men and women had borne the 
 shame before. How could she reconcile this proud 
 soreness with her belief that character is the golden 
 test? "I will build me a nest on the greatness of 
 God," not on the blood of father or mother. But 
 if Ah, there could be no wrong in referring Miss 
 
 6 77 
 
In tht Il5antaf)ala0 
 
 McGregor to her aunt; and she gave the desired 
 address. 
 
 A week later the genealogist came to Linda's bed- 
 room door. There was about her an air of suppressed 
 excitement as she asked Linda to follow her. 
 
 In Miss McGregor's room the bed was strewn with 
 papers. The genealogist turned them about, talking 
 rapidly the while : "Since speaking to you I have had 
 this matter sent me from home. Moreover, I've been 
 busy getting material from other sources. Here is a 
 letter from your aunt, in which she tells me of your 
 mother's marriage. Let me read." 
 
 In simple, direct words the writer told of her sis- 
 ter's going to Atlanta as waitress in a boarding house 
 kept by a lady who had met the young girl during a 
 summer spent in western North Carolina. Her sister 
 had come home sick, heart-broken ; had lived only a 
 few months, dying at her baby's birth. "I know my 
 sister told me the truth. She had been married ; but 
 it all sounded like it couldn't be so, an' I never did tell 
 folks. If it's any good to Lindy, I don't mind writing 
 it, though. Her husband was in a school studying to 
 be a dentist, an' they were married in secret. Then 
 John Graham was taken sick all at once, an' when 
 they telegraphed to his father the boy was raving 
 and never did know anything more. Mary went 
 to the other Mr. Graham an' told him about their 
 bein' married, but he got mad an' wouldn't believe a 
 word, and there was no way of proving it. The 
 preacher that married them in South Carolina had 
 gone out o' the country, and she didn't know how to 
 do, anyway, and so she come home to me. I did the 
 best I could for her, but it was not much. She died 
 with her heart broken. Somehow Lindy got the no- 
 
 78 
 
In tbt Il5antal)alas 
 
 tion in her head that her father died when she was 
 a baby, and I didn't have the face to tell her it 
 was before she was born. I knew so little and could 
 prove nothing, so I just let it go and did not talk 
 about it." 
 
 "Now here. IMiss Graham, is a family record of the 
 Georgia Grahams showing a break at the name of 
 James^ Graham's oldest son. Last year I had occasion 
 to visit Augusta in the interest of a Graham client, 
 and there met the man who, I take it, is your grand- 
 father." There was silence for a space. "Do you 
 grasp that. Miss Graham ? I have a letter here from 
 the gentleman, now an old man, in which he says 
 that he would be glad to find it true that his son 
 left a child." 
 
 "How can I reconcile that with the treatment he 
 gave my mother? I refuse to believe in him — in his 
 goodness." 
 
 "But, my dear young lady, you must yield some- 
 thing to the father's pride. It must have been a blow 
 to him to have his son accused of doing a treacherous 
 thing, deceiving him in so vital a matter. Perhaps 
 the father had high ambitions for him. The Grahams 
 usually stand at the very front, remember." 
 
 "He must be cruel. I can't see it any other way. 
 And my mother so young and ignorant of the world ! 
 I could not bear to meet him, even if he should 
 prove to be my grandfather." There was nothing 
 melodramatic about the girl's manner — only a quiet, 
 self-restrained forcefulness that carried conviction 
 with it. 
 
 "You know what this might mean to you? He is 
 very wealthy, an aristocrat of the aristocrats. Your 
 whole life would be affected by this fact. If I am 
 
 79 
 
In t!)e i^antabalag 
 
 mistaken, of course outsiders need know nothing of 
 these researches ; if I am right, you will share in 
 Mr. Graham's fortune, no doubt." 
 
 Linda's mind had gone swiftly back through the 
 shadowed years. "If it will clear my mother's mem- 
 ory, I agree for you to push the matter, for this rea- 
 son only, I assure you ; and I do not want him to 
 think that I am giving my sanction to your plans. 
 There shall be no pretense of afifection. What do 
 I owe him? I tell you, there are things more cruel 
 than death." 
 
 The genealogist looked at the girl, whose face had 
 whitened under the stress of feeling. "I admire your 
 spirit. Miss Linda. One could hardly blame you if 
 you should never forgive him, but you owe it to your 
 own good name to clear up the shadow on your 
 mother's past." 
 
 80 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE CUP OF PLEASURE. 
 
 Much of the autumn was spent flitting among the 
 CaroHna mountains. During the cool days of Sep- 
 tember the Eagle's Nest was abandoned, and Mrs. De 
 Jarnette with her young companion journeyed lei- 
 surely from point to point in the "land of the sky." 
 The last of October found them at home in Savannah. 
 
 When moments of introspection had come Linda 
 was restless and unhappy. Half consciously she had 
 been going through struggles that were changing the 
 very warp and woof of her character. At times she 
 looked into her heart with the feeling that a stranger 
 had taken up abode there. 
 
 In that simple farmhouse which had been her only 
 home there had been little of what is called good 
 breeding. There was antiquated English, there were 
 crude manners. Looking back on the bare life, the 
 cramped social surroundings, the meager intellectual 
 sympathy, she believed that never again could she 
 take up that life and find peace or joy in it. 
 
 At first there had been a sense of uneasiness as she 
 joined in the dance and the game of cards. She 
 soon learned to quiet her conscience by arguing with- 
 in herself that the old life was one of narrowness — 
 that a girl thus trained might feel a sense of wrong- 
 doing from the mere novelty of the amusements. She 
 saw that men and women brought up in that larger 
 
 81 
 
%n tbe Banta!)aIa0 
 
 outside world thought of these things as matters of 
 course. She succeeded in salving her spirit's wound 
 by such fine words as "provincialism," yet always 
 there was the tendency to avoid moments of inlook- 
 ing, of rigid self-examination. 
 
 There had been evenings of gayety when the flushed 
 cheek and sparkling eye spoke of unhealthy excite- 
 ment. Later, when the quiet of her own room brought 
 poise to her soul, she would look out upon the awe- 
 inspiring mountains, swathed as they were in the 
 moonlight's heavenly radiance, and a mighty yearn- 
 ing for divine things would lift her spirit into a 
 purer atmosphere. At such times she would remember 
 with a sickening sense of depression that first night 
 away from home — that long-to-be-remembered night 
 when the sweet voice of a noble woman had sung into 
 her soul the music of Lanier's lines : "I will build 
 me a nest on the greatness of God." How far afield 
 had she gone since then ! Was she building that nest 
 wisely and well? Was this life best for her? Back of 
 all the novelty and excitement was there a growth in 
 character that tokened well for her future ? Ah, it was 
 all too complex ! Why not "take the goods the gods 
 provide" without this morbid quibbling, this unhappy 
 self-questioning? Did not God mean that his chil- 
 dren should be happy ? The waves dance in merri- 
 ment; flowers quiver as though alive with joy — 
 
 "Ten thousand saw I in a glance, 
 Ten thousand in one sprightly dance." 
 
 the birds of heaven sing in pure abandon of happi- 
 ness. And shall one of his very own be miserable 
 because she has dared to join in innocent pleasure? 
 It is all wrong, this morbidness, this moody introspec- 
 
 82 
 
Hn tU il3amai)ala$ 
 
 tion which is shutting oft' the sunhght for one who has 
 had so little of sunlight in her life. 
 
 The Savannah home in which Linda found herself 
 settled was in a residence quarter not too fashionable 
 for gentility. The street was one of old homes, where 
 old memories gave charm and distinction to the sur- 
 roundings. 
 
 Within a few days after Mrs. De Jarnette's arrival 
 the services of tutors were secured and Linda began 
 a course of lessons calculated to supplement the teach- 
 ing she had received in the schools. With her light 
 duties as companion to Mrs. De Jarnette, her studies, 
 and the social life naturally falling to her as friend 
 of the older lady, Linda's time passed rapidly — hap- 
 pily, she told herself in her brighter moods. But 
 always there was the spirit of unrest, of half satisfac- 
 tion that served as an undercurrent through the ebb 
 and flow of feeling. As she went deeper into the 
 life of Mrs. De Jarnette and her set, she found many 
 things that disturbed her and threw her mind back 
 for a balancing point to that quiet time in the moun- 
 tain solitudes, when, as she thought, her heart was 
 eating itself out for want of action, of outlet. Now, 
 in the thick of activity, with life surging about her, 
 its mysteries stirring her soul, its high motives calling 
 to her, its temptations beating against her, she began to 
 see that the years of formation had lasted none too 
 long. 
 
 She wanted to keep a clear vision, to see the real 
 things, the worthy things about her; but there was 
 confusion, often, instead of clarity as she looked upon 
 the life around her. The game of cards which had 
 caused her httle uneasiness in its beginnings grew 
 into large proportions in its bearing on her char- 
 acter. She found that her acquaintances were among 
 
 83 
 
in tbt BmtaMn^ 
 
 the ladies whose round of social pleasures included 
 card parties. The custom of giving- prizes added zest 
 to the game, but it was with a shock that she learned 
 that many ladies in that set staked money. As she 
 became more accustomed to these things her view of 
 them changed— not in a few days, but slowly, as char- 
 acter processes always act. 
 
 Mrs. De Jarnette was a woman of consideration in 
 the best social circles of the city, and many of the 
 younger women who deferred to her were on guard 
 in her presence. Linda found that the quiet games 
 in her friend's home were conducted very differently 
 from the card parties given by many others in the 
 same social strata. There were elegant homes in which 
 money was spent with reckless extravagance — homes 
 wherein barriers were somehow broken down and 
 ladies gave to themselves a freedom which in Mrs. 
 De Jarnette's eyes would have seemed license. 
 
 At first Linda accepted invitations to these homes 
 because the ladies were acquaintances of Mrs. De 
 Jarnette, and perhaps the young girl felt flattered 
 by the notice given her. Later she came to the point 
 at which this glow of life, this swiftly moving pro- 
 cession was delightful to her. The first time wine 
 was served at one of these card parties she refused 
 the glass. Her nearest neighbor, a well-bred, beau- 
 tifully dressed woman, leaned toward her: "Don't 
 you care for wine, my dear? This is the finest 
 Madeira." 
 
 "Yes, I like it ; but I had not thought it quite right 
 to drink it." 
 
 "Ah!" and the lady's brows were lightly lifted. 
 
 Linda was aware that she had said an outre thing, 
 and a flush came to her face. 
 
 Among her friends in Brevard there had been a 
 
 84 
 
In tbt iaantaf)ala0 
 
 deep and sincere recognition of the fact that the 
 great things of Hfe bear on the question of right 
 and wrong. Among these new friends there seemed 
 to be a code forbidding discussion of anything on so 
 high a plane. To amuse themselves for the passing 
 hour, to drink of pleasure's cup unmindful that dregs 
 might be below, appeared to be the chief aims of the 
 younger set of women who composed the world in 
 which Linda now found herself. Yet this grosser 
 life was so hedged about with external beauty, so 
 softened by a fine and easy grace of manner, a cour- 
 teous consideration for others that the girl was de- 
 ceived into believing that such life is the one really 
 worth while ; and as the weeks passed she found her- 
 self more and more ready to leave her books and 
 quiet her thoughts and join the passing show. 
 
 One afternoon, at a card party given by a wealthy 
 young matron of her acquaintance, there seemed to 
 be a spirit of unusual excitement astir when Linda 
 went in, accompanied by another young lady. 
 
 "We were just saying. Miss Graham, that we fear 
 you girls will be shocked if Airs. Herkener is in her 
 gayest humor this afternoon." 
 
 "O, don't prejudice the young ladies! I think Mrs. 
 Herkener is such fun, and she is certainly a warm- 
 hearted woman." 
 
 "I admit that, but you know she doesn't draw the 
 lines very closely." 
 
 Later a tall, elegantly dressed woman came in with 
 a married lady whom Linda had met, though never 
 in Mrs. De Jarnette's home. The whole room was 
 visibly affected. Every one who had no acquaintance 
 with Mrs. Herkener seemed to have heard of her. 
 
 Soon the game was made up, and Linda found 
 herself at the same table with the late arrival. 
 
 85 
 
Un tbt jaanta!)ala0 
 
 The playing was desultory at first. Mrs. Herkener 
 talked a great deal in a soft, rich voice, and held the 
 attention of those near her. Her home was in an- 
 other State ; but her young ladyhood had been spent 
 in Savannah, and there was much discussion of the 
 whilom members of their set. 
 
 "They tell me Nell Talbot has quit flirting. I didn't 
 think it possible. She must have married a Tartar." 
 
 Then an oath fell lightly from her red lips. Linda 
 looked in amazement at the woman, then at her lis- 
 teners. The faces about her showed varying emotions. 
 On some was absolute astonishment or disgust, on 
 others open or half-concealed amusement. 
 
 "O, I beg pardon. Miss Graham ! I see by your 
 looks that you are not accustomed to vigorous terms. 
 There was a time in my 'green and salad days' when 
 these things jarred on me, but such innocence can't 
 last." 
 
 Linda was mute. How could a woman of educa- 
 tion, wide opportunities for culture so cheapen the 
 fineness that belongs to woman nature? 
 
 Mrs. Herkener went on : "Now, my husband wishes 
 me to have a good time. I don't believe it's possible 
 for him to be jealous, and I am so glad. It is such 
 fun to break in a lot of youngsters, doing the Pla- 
 tonic and all that, you know. Of course Dick's aw- 
 fully busy, and it's tiresome to him to go about; 
 so I really think he's grateful to the dear boys. By 
 the way, Flora, you remember Tom Elson, of Talla- 
 hassee, the kid you met up in the mountains two years 
 ago? He has grown to be the swellest young fel- 
 low. Two years of college life have brought him out 
 wonderfully. Really, it almost makes me serious to 
 hear him discourse about woman. He worships the 
 eternal feminine, and just now he fancies I am the 
 
 86 
 
Kn tfje jaantai)ala0 
 
 one — the onliest one. He is so splendid looking-, in 
 a demigod style, that I feel like it's almost worth while 
 to be good in order to hold his worship. Another 
 glass, please ; I adore sherry." 
 
 Linda's face showed continued wonder. 
 
 "You blessed innocent !" the rich, musical voice 
 flowed on. "You don't know what to think of me? 
 Don't let your maiden dreams be disturbed. I am not 
 altogether horrid. Life is an awful bore at times, 
 and one must do something or go daft. I am not 
 sly, and that constitutes the great difference between 
 myself and many other ladies of my acquaintance. 
 Sly, did I say? Let me correct that, for I've taken 
 to cigarettes without Dick's knowing it. One simply 
 must season the stale days with something, and Tom 
 had just gone back to college." The beautiful eyes 
 turned calmly from one to another and again rested 
 on Linda's perturbed face. "My dear, you have 
 trumped your partner's trick. Do I confuse you with 
 my talk? Forgive me, and Lll be good." She grew 
 quiet and bent her attention to the game, playing 
 rapidly and with evident mastery of the cards. 
 
 Linda was fascinated by the woman's beauty and 
 grace. Her white hands moved deftly, her soft, dark 
 eyes shone, her ripe lips closed firmly as she grew 
 more intent on the play. 
 
 For a while the game moved swiftly on. The faces 
 of the other ladies grew more interested. Mrs. Her- 
 kener played as if her whole soul was staked on the 
 result, and success came at her touch. No one in the 
 game had such mastery of cards. 
 
 At last her luck turned, and Mrs. Herkener's face 
 grew tense and white. She flashed her brilliant eyes 
 as if taking in the whole sweep of the game. Evi- 
 dently she was watching her opponents with suspicion. 
 
 87 
 
Un tfte 5i^antaf)ala0 
 
 Linda's partner was a comparative stranger to the 
 girl, and it was only by slow forcing that the truth 
 was made plain to her. Mrs. Douglas, her partner, 
 was trying to hold the game by surreptitious signs. 
 To them Linda gave no heed, but played as if she saw 
 nothing. Finally the woman put out her foot and 
 touched Linda's lightly. 
 
 Mrs. Herkener leaned forward: "If this occurs 
 again, I'll throw up my hand." The face was wide 
 awake now, all the gambler's passion alive in it ; the 
 white hand gripped the cards till the muscles strained, 
 the eyes gleamed unnaturally. 
 
 ]\rrs. Douglas looked at her. "If you care that 
 much for cards, you'd better quit altogether. It's 
 byplay to me. I was only in fun." 
 
 "You were trying to cheat, and it is a shame !" 
 
 "Ladies, ladies !" The hostess hurried to the table, 
 and Linda rose from her place. 
 
 "I beg your pardon, Mrs. Lane, but won't you find 
 another partner for Mrs. Douglas?" 
 
 "Pray keep your seat. Miss Graham ; I am sure 
 no harm was intended." 
 
 "I am sorry to seem rude, but I am more ashamed 
 of my part in the game. Mrs. Herkener, allow me 
 to thank you for opening my eyes to the folly and 
 danger of cards." 
 
 As she stood by the table, her face aglow with ex- 
 citement and indignation, Mrs. Herkener looked up 
 at her : "You are right, girl. Give it up. I would 
 fall down and thank God if it were possible for me to 
 go back to my innocent girlhood and find some friend 
 who would save my womanhood for me." 
 
 88 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 MOUNTAIN PRIDE. 
 
 For Linda there were days of exaltation after the 
 events of the card party — days in which Lanier's Hne 
 was to her one of the most vital things in life. She 
 seemed to have cut loose from the influences that had 
 been sweeping her onward. During this time she 
 could not speak of these things to Mrs. De Jarnette. 
 To put her thoughts into words would have seemed 
 a desecration. 
 
 After a morning call from a friend Mrs. De Jar- 
 nette sent for Linda. 
 
 "Sit down, dear," the elder lady spoke kindly. "Mrs. 
 Eubanks has been telling me of a little incident that 
 occurred the other evening at Mrs. Lane's card party." 
 She waited. 
 
 "Yes?" The name of Mrs. Eubanks stirred a feel- 
 ing of resentment in Linda's heart. She was aware 
 that the imposing dowager disapproved of her. 
 
 "Of course, Linda, I like for you to be conscientious, 
 but is it not wise to guard against extremes?" Mrs. 
 De Jarnette's manner was perfect, gentle, self-re- 
 strained, motherly. 
 
 Linda's face flushed hotly. 
 
 "Did Mrs. Eubanks tell you that the woman with 
 whom I was playing used an oath, and that another 
 one in the game tried to cheat?" 
 
 "O, my dear, don't use such plain terms. She did 
 not say so much. I inferred that you disapproved of 
 
 89 
 
In tbt i^anta!)ala0 
 
 the game — for some reason, she did not specify — and 
 that you were a Httle too impulsive in showing your 
 disapproval." 
 
 "In other words, that I made a scene? I have hesi- 
 tated to speak of it to you, not because of any fear, 
 but because the matter was one of such importance to 
 me, I could not trust myself to talk calmly of it." 
 
 "Won't you give me your version of it, dear? I 
 am aware that our social life is not so quiet and 
 dignified as it used to be. We older people seem 
 out-of-date, but in my girlhood we tried not to make 
 ourselves conspicuous. I stand in the place of your 
 mother, as well as your friend, and I feel that you 
 should trust me entirely." 
 
 With vivid words Linda pictured the evening to her, 
 the beautiful woman with the charm of graceful man- 
 ners, and an air of distinction, but with the poison of 
 a tongue unscrupulous in its choice of words, and the 
 spirit of one on fire with the passion of gambling. 
 
 "Ah, where will we stop? I believe, Linda, you 
 have done right ; you have not followed the traditions 
 by which we have always lived, but there sometimes 
 comes an hour when one must do a positive thing 
 even if it is unconventional. It may prove a little 
 awkward for us, for you and for me, but I shall not 
 scold you. Now kiss me and run along." 
 
 Thus encouraged, Linda felt that she could easily 
 stand for all that she considered right and worthy, 
 but as the days passed found herself again drawn this 
 way and that. One victory does not always end a 
 war. 
 
 The young ladies of her acquaintance seemed ill 
 at ease when with her. They hardly knew where to 
 place her. She had set herself apart by her conduct 
 on the evening of the card party. 
 
 90 
 
in tht Bantafjalag 
 
 Just at this point Telfair Ledroux returned to Sa- 
 vannah from an extended business trip. It was with 
 a perturbed spirit that Linda thought of his coming 
 into her hfe again. Separated from him she had 
 succeeded in crowding him into the background of 
 thought and emotion, but near him, with him, how 
 would it be? She dare not let him get back his old 
 ascendancy. Her letters to Harry and their answers 
 had grown to have a profounder meaning for her. 
 She saw through the terse lines the steady formation 
 of manliness that was going on in the boy's nature. 
 He never assumed too much. His letters were such 
 as any sturdy friend might write to a girl who had 
 helped and encouraged him to a larger life. He told 
 her of his books, his teachers, his comrades. Finally 
 a new note struck in and changed the tenor of his 
 letters. One of the professors had been awfully good 
 to him. "The fellows seem to wonder. They say 
 he has never been known as anything but a machine 
 for turning out math. work. I don't understand his 
 liking me ; but I reckon he does. We walk through 
 the woods here sometimes, and I can't get out of 
 my head for days the talk he has. You never heard 
 anything like it — fine, fine, beauty there, and sweet- 
 ness — but under it all and back of it all, a note of 
 sadness. So sad, I can't tell you just how it impresses 
 me. 
 
 In a later letter: "The fellows still guy me about 
 old 'Math.', as they call him, and I love him. What 
 a man he is ! What a brain and heart. He seems to 
 me to have sounded every depth of thought. He is 
 not simply a math, machine. All knowledge appeals to 
 him. He has the soul of a poet. Idealism, all the 
 finer isms that are supposed to be foreign to the mathe- 
 matical temperament, find sympathy in his nature. I 
 
 91 
 
In tbe 3l5anta!)alag 
 
 can't imagine what gives him that undertone of sad- 
 
 ness." 
 
 Linda saw that Harry was making rapid strides 
 intellectually; perhaps his older friend had much to 
 do with this. The girl herself had found there is 
 no awakener of the intellect like contact with a rare 
 personality. 
 
 Soon after ]\Ir. Ledroux's arrival he came to the 
 De Jarnette home in his usual informal way, as a 
 friend of the family. He was ushered into the room 
 where the ladies were sitting. After the customary 
 greeting and interchange of light talk he turned to 
 the young girl. "I'm glad, ]\liss Graham, to find you 
 in our city, and I hope to have the pleasure of renew- 
 ing the acquaintance so pleasantly begun at Eagle's 
 Nest. I do not forget the evening we had our first 
 game of whist. I trust we will have many more." 
 
 A silence fell. At last Mrs. De Jarnette remarked : 
 
 " 'And thereby hangs a tale'. Linda has quit cards 
 because of conscientious scruples." 
 
 "Ah! then we will resort to other pleasures," and 
 he deftly turned the talk. 
 
 Somehow Linda felt a sense of narrowness in the 
 presence of this cosmopolite. To have any struggle 
 of conscience, any effort of prayer over so trivial a 
 thing as a game of cards must look to Mr. Ledroux 
 like spiritual childishness. She spurred her intel- 
 lect to keep pace with him and to show that not 
 always did she dwell in flats and shallows. Before 
 the evening was over this man of intellect, oi rare 
 conversational power, had resumed his place in her 
 spirit's stronghold and again the old fight with_ her 
 higher self was renewed, the old restlessness revived, 
 the old struggle for self-mastery was on. 
 
 The letters from Harry lost nothing in power. They 
 
 92 
 
Sn tbt Banta!)a!a0 
 
 registered a constant growth of heart and mind in 
 the writer, but they became a source of trouble to 
 Linda, stirring again the feeling that she was not 
 acting sincerely with the young man. 
 
 While in this restless state one of Harry's letters 
 added to her distress. "I have found out the secret 
 of 'Math.'s' sadness. It all came out from the fact 
 that J told him of you, of my great hope (mind, I 
 said there was nothing sure), and in his sympathy 
 for me he was led to tell me — much. I feel like I 
 have gone through some fair temple, and have seen 
 such wonderful sights, heard such heavenly sounds. 
 Great God ! The soul of a man like that is the final 
 answer to skepticism. He was in love in his young 
 manhood, and tlie woman failed him in a way that 
 would make some men hate the whole world. Dear 
 old Math, came out of it wath a mighty grip on God, 
 and the tenderest, most pitying love for the woman. 
 As for the other man, he hated him and planned to 
 kill him in the open, but Fate was ahead of him. The 
 scoundrel sent for Math, while he was dying. The 
 girl didn't live long. It was enough to melt a stone 
 to see the sweetness, the spiritual beauty that shines 
 like a star through such a cloud. 
 
 "I felt sorry that he had had no such woman as 
 you to reverence." 
 
 To a fine soul there is no accusing so keen as over- 
 praise. Linda gave herself no rest until she had an- 
 swered Harry's letter. "You are placing me too 
 high. If you lived close to me, if you could know 
 my inward struggle, you'd find your mistake, perhaps 
 to your own undoing and my unhappiness. Take me 
 down from the pedestal. Think of me as a plain, 
 everyday girl and not a heroine — a girl who wishes 
 to wear the 'white flower of a blameless life' but 
 
 7 93 
 
Sn tije Il5antaf)ala0 
 
 finds it hard, very hard, to do the right thing under 
 all circumstances. 
 
 "I have not been quite honest with you ; maybe 
 not with myself. You know of my uncertainty in 
 regard to my feeling for you, Harry, but you may not 
 know that I have simply been a coward of late — 
 a coward who was sure what she ought to do but failed 
 in courage because of fear that a true heart would 
 be sorely wounded. You have grown into a man- 
 hood that will help you bear the disappointment, and 
 you will see that it is unjust to you to hold you to an 
 uncertain hope. You w^ill yet see the day when you 
 can think of me as a comrade struggling upward with 
 you, a friend who loves you and rejoices in your 
 growth. I am not going to say anything about mat- 
 ters being at an end between us. I expect to hear 
 from you as usual. You will not think that I am 
 indifferent and I shall feel proud to be allowed to 
 watch the mountain boy as he takes his place, shoulder 
 to shoulder, with men who are making ready to do 
 things in this world. 
 
 "You asked me once if there was anyone else. I will 
 be frank with you, even if it be at the expense of 
 what you might think is perfect modesty. There is 
 a man who is showing me more of my own nature 
 than I have ever known. I cannot say that he loves 
 me or that I love him though he has sought me — 
 singled me out by attention when I would have pre- 
 ferred it otherwise ; but he disturbs and distresses 
 me by his influence over me. Can that be love? At 
 any rate I can be honest with you — I must be so 
 and simplify matters to that extent. If I do a wrong 
 to myself I need not extend the wrongdoing to so 
 true a friend." 
 
 Harry's answer was prompt and manly. He gave 
 
 94 
 
In tht Ji^antaftalasi 
 
 her back the shadow of a promise and begged that 
 she feel no remorse for having allowed him to hope 
 at all. It^had been his own insistence and her kind- 
 ness. If there was a man who could give her all 
 the things she deserved and might never have as the 
 wife of one who had to work his way up, he hoped 
 she would feel free to care for that other. 
 
 Not long afterward came a letter from Fannie, 
 who was in college in a North Carolina town. "I 
 am indignant. For once in your life, Linda Graham, 
 you've shown a lack of good, sound judgment. Harry 
 Turner has the making of a man in him. Did he tell 
 you he had seen me lately? A crowd of the 'Varsity 
 boys were in town the other day (it must have been 
 before you wrote him that letter). Their football 
 team met a South Carolina one here and had to spend 
 the night. In the evening some of the boys came up 
 to see girls in the college. x\mong them was Harry, 
 who asked for me. I like him. He isn't handsome, 
 but he is improving so much, and his face is just the 
 sort I like. A big mouth and a strong, determined 
 look all over him — shoulders and head and everything. 
 Of course we talked of you . . . And just to 
 think! You must have set him adrift before the 
 week was over. I'll bet that Mephistophelian Dr. 
 Fell is at the bottom of it; and I, for one, don't ap- 
 prove. You are a bit older than I am, but you haven't 
 seen so many people as your young friend. Don't 
 trust that handsome man with the French name and 
 high and mighty air. He completely squelches me. 
 I wilt in his presence as promptly as an anemone 
 in the air of a hot-house. (I like that and propose 
 to use it in the 'Message'!) By the way, I must tell 
 you of the literary honors being showered upon me. 
 I am editor-in-chief of our college paper, 'The Mes- 
 
 95 
 
In t!)e i^amaftalasi 
 
 sage,' am appointed to write a play for the expression 
 class to use at our mid-winter entertainment, be- 
 sides which I am running a little private business 
 with my gifted pen, to wit: One essay for Marion 
 Reid, my room-mate, who bargains, in payment there- 
 of, to make my bed and do sundry other household 
 duties during the space of one month. 
 
 "Item 2. A short essay, weekly, for Maude Adding- 
 ton, who agrees to do my darning as payment. 
 
 "Item 3. Work as associate-editor of 'Message' 
 for Isabel Willis, who agrees to embroider sundry 
 center-pieces therefor, to be presented to my mother 
 at Christmas. 
 
 "The expression teacher criticises my play, what 
 I've written thus far, by saying it's too scrappy, that 
 I quote too much and use trite phrases till it's patch- 
 worky. I talk just that way and I 'low to keep at it. 
 It's a crime — literarily — to use any two words ever 
 before put together in the same way, so I shall just 
 take the bit in my mouth and use all the idioms and 
 localisms and slang phrases and quotations that I 
 please. 
 
 "But to hark back to your own affairs. Tell me 
 —is it Dr. Fell?" 
 
 ^ ^ 9}: 
 
 "Yes, your Dr. Fell has had something to do with 
 it, but, if it will please you to hear it, I have refused 
 to marry that same Dr. Fell. 
 
 "As to Harry: I see the good that is in him. I 
 can stand by and watch his development with the 
 pride that one comrade might have for another. It 
 pleases me to see the mountain boy growing into 
 the strong, self-reliant man whose brain is quicken- 
 ing by contact with new forces. I feel a glow as I 
 realize how surely the power dormant in my people 
 
 96 
 
In tf)e iaantaf)ala0 
 
 flowers into greatness. You speak of his manners. 
 He is wonderfully quick to catch on to the little things 
 that we girls notice. I saw the difference last sum- 
 mer. Part of it is due to the fact that his father is a 
 gentleman by nature, if he does use 'liolp' instead of 
 helped, and if he Jias been brought up in a community 
 where it is not considered 'bad form' for women to 
 drop corn. ]\Irs. Turner says she has never heard her 
 husband use what she called a 'vulgar word.' When 
 I have had to listen to insinuations that came from 
 fashionably dressed women who veiled their coarse- 
 ness, I have thought of my own aunt, of Harry's 
 father and mother, of others whose minds seem to 
 me to square with their lives in being clean and up- 
 right. 
 
 "O, I know these things, but I cannot help this 
 reaching out of my heart for the man who meets your 
 disapproval. He masters me. When with him my 
 whole nature is astir to please him. Away from him 
 I doubt it all. I fear that his is not the best, the 
 highest influence. 
 
 "I have refused to marry him because of my pride, 
 
 perhaps. I would not want my husband to be ashamed 
 
 of me or of my family. He is so far above me in 
 
 intellect and in social position — what do I have to 
 
 balance things? Nothing whatever, and I cannot 
 
 bear to feel myself inferior at every point." 
 
 * * * 
 
 "My Dear Tragedy-Queen : You need me, beloved. 
 I am back home for Christmas. (Will go to Marian's 
 later for a few days before school opens.) You ought 
 to be here to-night with a big, warm kimona on, your 
 hair all down around your shoulders, a plate of 
 mother's Christmas cake nearby, and your friend giv- 
 ing you the distilled v/isdom of the ages as it per- 
 
 97 
 
In tfte i^antal)ala$ 
 
 colates through her brain. You are something of a 
 problem with all your loveableness, and you do not 
 quite know yourself. 
 
 "If you love that man, go on and marry him. I 
 will be pushing no more ghosts into your banquet. 
 Don't talk nonsense about inferiority. Of course he 
 has brains, money, position, but you have what is 
 infinitely superior — greatness of soul. I am sure he 
 isn't worthy of you, but so much of a paradox am I, 
 the thing I've feared I now desire because you wish 
 it. Let me hear from you soon and tell me you are 
 happy." 
 
 98 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE TIE OF BLOOD. 
 
 As the days passed it was clear to Mrs. De Jar- 
 nette that Ledroux was being drawn again to Linda. 
 So strong are the conventions this woman of the 
 world wondered if the man really intended to marry 
 the girl, or was he simply whiling the time away 
 because of her beauty and charm ? There were hours 
 when the woman-heart rose in rebellion against the 
 sacrifice of youth and innocence. At such times Mrs. 
 De Jarnette was tempted to warn Linda, to open 
 Ledroux's unlovely past to her, and to break up the 
 growing intimacy. But always the law of her world 
 closed her lips. At last she decided to let matters 
 drift. There seemed to be no harm in allowing Le- 
 droux the freedom of a house which had always been 
 open to him as the son of an intimate friend. If he 
 chose to marry the girl there was no one to gainsay 
 him. Save for one sister he stood alone in the world 
 so far as close family ties were concerned. That 
 sister's residence in a distant city precluded any seri- 
 ous interference on her part. If the past with its 
 aristocratic tendencies, the memories of high-bred men 
 and women, should not forbid his allying himself to a 
 girl of the people, who would have any right to dis- 
 approve? To be sure the girl was all that an exact- 
 ing man might ask, but back of this was the unde- 
 niable fact that she belonged to obscurity and poverty. 
 
 99 
 
In tbt Jl5anta6ala0 
 
 Possibly there was not one of her family of whom 
 she would not be ashamed in the old Ledroux home, 
 where everything spoke of wealth and refinement. 
 
 In Mrs. De Jarnette's eyes Linda's manner was 
 perfect. She accepted Ledroux's friendly attention 
 with quiet dignity. There was no flutter, no em- 
 barrassed self-consciousness about her. Much of their 
 association was in Mrs. De Jarnette's parlor where 
 books were read and discussed, the two younger peo- 
 ple taking the more active part. Ledroux's wide 
 knowledge of the world, his travel and experience 
 gave him the advantage of leadership, yet the woman 
 listening often noticed that the girl's mind added color 
 and distinction to the talk. Linda seemed intellec- 
 tually fearless and never hesitated to differ from the 
 man's view even when that view was backed by the 
 authority of the ages. This very independence seemed 
 to be a pleasure to Ledroux and led him into wide 
 fields of argument, when he would close the book 
 and draw Linda's eager mind along, deferring to her, 
 or, with swift logic, driving her to woman's conclu- 
 sive word, "It is, because it is." 
 
 One afternoon just before the Christmas holidays 
 Linda was out when a caller inquired for her. The 
 servant who announced the gentleman came back to 
 Mrs. De Jarnette with the message that he was espe- 
 cially anxious to see the young lady. Would she be 
 back soon? 
 
 Thinking it might be an old friend or some relative 
 of the girl Mrs. De Jarnette had him invited to the 
 parlor where she was sitting. The tall, old gentleman 
 with the clear-cut features, the high-bred air, the 
 courtly bow, could not belong to Linda's mountain 
 home. 
 
 The two stood, for an instant, looking into each 
 
 100 
 
3n tfje iaanta!)ala0 
 
 other's eyes, mentally gauging the man and woman ly- 
 ing below the protecting sheath that custom forms. 
 
 ''My name is James Graham, madam. I did not 
 send in my card because I thought it possible the 
 very name might prejudice the family against me." 
 
 "James Graham? Of Augusta?" 
 
 "The same, madam." 
 
 "Be seated, sir. You wish to see Linda, my com- 
 panion?" 
 
 "I must see her. There are imperative reasons " 
 
 He seemed about to go on, then paused. 
 
 "I am expecting her every moment. She is out 
 for a short while only." 
 
 The man looked into the patrician face before him 
 and recognized the fact that this lady belonged to 
 his own world. She might be able to understand his 
 motives, the influences that had molded him, had im- 
 pelled his past and now constrained him at every step. 
 
 He motioned her to a seat and, drawing a chair 
 near her, began: 
 
 "If you will allow me, I will tell you a little story, 
 hoping, believing, that you will prove my ally when 
 you hear me out." 
 
 "I suppose it is about Linda. I am all interest, 
 for I love the girl, and feel that she's under my care 
 in no ordinary sense." 
 
 "Certainly, and I believe your friendship for her 
 will help to adjust matters." Then briefly he sketched 
 the story of his son's illness in i^tlanta, his own dis- 
 tress and disbelief when confronted by the young 
 woman with her absurd claim. "Perhaps I was 
 harsh. It was altogether unbelievable to me, that my 
 boy, for whom I had such great hopes and plans, 
 should so disappoint me. When she offered no proof 
 except her own word, and had to acknowledge that 
 
 101 
 
Hn tfte Banta!)ala0 
 
 she could not find the minister who married them, 
 that letters to him had come back to her unopened, 
 I believed that she was false, wholly bad, and was 
 simply trying to extort money from me. However, 
 when I asked her how much money she expected, the 
 heart-breaking look on the girl's face did stir a doubt 
 in my mind. If my boy had lived longer I would 
 have tried harder to find her, but inquiries at the 
 boarding-house, where she was a waitress, developed 
 the fact that she had gone — no one knew where — pre- 
 sumably back to the mountains. Then my son's death 
 somewhat crowded the matter out of my mind. 
 
 "Later, in the quiet of our home, weeks, then 
 months, passed without any further word of her, until 
 I became convinced that she was truly an adventuress, 
 but one of a weak sort and had been frightened away 
 by my attitude. You are aware of the manner in 
 which the matter was brought to my mind again. 
 Miss McGregor has been to Augusta lately. I have 
 spared no pains to verify her belief that your friend 
 is my son's daughter. After many disappointments 
 we found the South Carolina minister who performed 
 the marriage ceremony for the young people. He 
 was traveling in Europe at the time the wife was 
 trying to obtain proof of her marriage. I am sorry 
 — with a great sorrow — and I stand ready to make 
 every possible restitution." 
 
 Mrs. De Jarnette had listened sympathetically : 
 "Linda is exceedingly proud." 
 
 "Yes, and resents my treatment of her mother. 
 But surely she will listen to me. She will forgive." 
 
 "I hope so. I wish it. Understand, it would cost 
 me a good deal to give her up. Her strength, her 
 dependableness have become very necessary to me, 
 and I love the girl for her fine qualities. Besides it 
 
 102 
 
In ti)e j{3antaf)ala0 
 
 is not improbable that she will marry one of the 
 partis of the city. I feel sure the gentleman is very 
 much in love with her. and now that her ancestry is 
 proven to be desirable I see nothing in the way." 
 
 "Would it be any consideration if I propose to give 
 her a dower?" 
 
 Mrs. De Jarnette smiled. "It might please the man, 
 but I can imagine Linda's resenting such an offer. 
 You will have to see her before you decide what 
 method to pursue with her." 
 
 Their talk drifted away from the great topic into 
 other channels. A common interest in the old South 
 with its fine civilization, a recognition of the vital dif- 
 ference between yesterday and to-day, gave them mat- 
 ter for discussion. In the midst of their talk the 
 door opened and a sweet, cheery voice broke upon 
 them. 
 
 "But didn't I tarry? There were so many pretty 
 things to look at. The city is full of Christmas al- 
 ready. O, I beg pardon. I didn't know you had 
 company." 
 
 "Linda, come here, child. This is Mr. James Gra- 
 ham, of Augusta." 
 
 The girl caught her breath quickly. Mrs. De Jar- 
 nette took her hand and drew her gently forward, 
 
 Mr. Graham was on his feet. He moved a step 
 nearer and held out his hand, while his eyes hungrily 
 searched the beautiful face lifted to him. 
 
 The bright look faded from Linda's eyes. The 
 lines of the whole face fell into statuesque coldness. 
 Her hand touched lightly the one held out to her. 
 
 "Mr. Graham?" she spoke with cool self-possession, 
 "an acquaintance of yours, ]\Irs. De Jarnette?" 
 
 The latter lady turned helplessly and looked at the 
 gentleman. 
 
 103 
 
Sn tfje I13antaf)ala0 
 
 "What beauty! What an air," mentally exclaimed 
 the old man. 
 
 "Linda," Mrs. De Jarnette spoke a little sharply; 
 "you must know who this is, and I shall leave you to 
 listen to him. Remember I expect you to be reason- 
 able." 
 
 "Will you sit down and hear me?" 
 
 The girl seated herself. 
 
 He began his story in a quiet manner, but as he 
 went on his emotion showed in gesture, in look, in 
 pathetic tremor of voice. He told his tale much as 
 Mrs. De Jarnette had heard, perhaps emphasizing less 
 his high ambition for his son. He did not spare him- 
 self in telling of his meeting with Linda's mother. 
 When he came to his oflfer of money the girl lifted her 
 head quickly : 
 
 "O, my mother!" 
 
 "Yes, yes, it was a cruel thing to do. I am sorry — 
 God only knows how sorry." After finishing the tale 
 there was silence between them for a space. 
 
 Again the old man broke the stillness : "I am alone 
 in the world, except for an invalid son who has lived 
 in his chair for years. My wife long since died, my 
 
 daughter died childless I had thought — hoped — 
 
 can you find it in your heart to come and live with an 
 old man whose heart is nigh broken, whose life is 
 lonely with the loneliness of age and bereavement?" 
 
 Linda's face softened. Its cold look changed to 
 one of sympathy, but she felt no impulse of love, no 
 tenderness that might prompt her to sacrifice herself 
 for him. Her mind flew outward, fancying long days 
 in his home with always the shadow of her wronged 
 mother between them. He watched her keenly. The 
 silence was again broken by the man : 
 
 "I see. It is too much to expect of you. At least 
 
 104 
 
Sn tfje j^anta})ala0 
 
 you will allow me to make life easy for you with the 
 money that would have been your father's?" 
 
 "If I cannot give you my life, myself, it seems 
 wrong to use your money." 
 
 "I do not see it that way. It is really your 
 money, and if you have no need for it yourself you 
 might use a part for the benefit of your aunt's fam- 
 ily. I believe she has several children." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then you do not refuse to allow me to send your 
 aunt money? Remember she took care of my son's 
 wife and child when there was no one else to do it." 
 
 "I have no right to refuse if she is willing to ac- 
 cept." 
 
 He bowled and moved toward the door. As he 
 passed Linda noted the pathetic droop of the tall fig- 
 ure, the whiteness of the bent head. Of a sudden 
 her pride fell away as a useless thing. The woman 
 heart within her rose tumultuously. A quick step 
 and she was by his side. The fountains were broken 
 up. As he looked down in her face he saw the tears, 
 the pity, the divine love shining there, and he gath- 
 ered her to him, murmuring sweet, endearing words 
 the while. 
 
 105 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 ALL FOR LOVE. 
 
 After the reconciliation with her grandfather Linda 
 could do no less than give to him a part of the Christ- 
 mas time, reserving to herself the right to return to 
 Mrs. De Jarnette when the New Year opened. 
 
 Her heart was deeply touched by the welcome given 
 her in the stately home of her father. At first the 
 loneliness of the house, the stillness pervading the 
 spacious rooms, struck a chill to her sensitive nature, 
 but as the old man led her to his invalid son and she 
 looked down on the drawn figure, the white pain- 
 lined face, the sense of isolation forsook her. The 
 younger man's pathetic eyes looked searchingly into 
 hers. All the woman in her nature responded, and 
 she knelt by the chair smoothing the graying hair 
 and murmuring gentle words of sympathy. 
 
 "O, my dear, my dear ; you don't know how sweet 
 it is to feel the touch of a woman's hand. Since my 
 mother died there has been no woman to show love 
 for me." The thin hands clasped hers and all the 
 man's heart-hunger showed in his eager look and 
 movement. 
 
 There were tears in the father's eyes as he watched 
 the scene. 
 
 A little later as the young girl sat by the big chair 
 talking brightly to the sick man he seemed to hang 
 on every word and follow, with happy interest, every 
 
 106 
 
Un tfje Jl^antafieilas 
 
 gesture, every change of expression in the beautiful 
 face. 
 
 A while then her grandfather bade her come with 
 him to her own room. 
 
 As they climbed the broad stairway there came 
 over Linda that strange feeling which sometimes over- 
 powers us with a sense of life's unreality. She seemed, 
 in the depths of her consciousness, to be fully aware 
 that somewhere, sometime, she had lived through this 
 very scene, had passed along a magnificent hall and 
 up a stairway into a beautifully appointed room with 
 an old man by her side, — an old man whose pride had 
 been broken, whose domineering spirit had been 
 quieted by life's sorrows and who now offered her 
 in humblest fashion, the best of himself, a love purified 
 as by fire. 
 
 A warm fire brightened the hearth, soft lights 
 showed the perfect taste of the room's fittings. 
 
 "The maid has done her part, but I preferred to 
 help. This is your room. These are your belongings 
 if you will accept them. Your grandmother used 
 the room when she was a bride and to the day of 
 her death. 
 
 "She believed I was too harsh in my dealings with 
 
 your mother, so you need not hesitate to if you 
 
 could only feel at home here." 
 
 Linda laid her hand gently on the tremulous lips. 
 "I thought the past was to be forgotten entirely. You 
 shall not make yourself unhappy to-night, this Christ- 
 mas Eve, and my first night in your home." 
 
 "Can't you think of it as your home, Linda? We 
 need you so much ; oh, so much." 
 
 "I have intended nothing else since I looked on 
 Uncle Cam's face. If you want me you shall have 
 me," 
 
 107 
 
M tbt jeanta6ala0 
 
 "God bless you, dear." He took her hands in his 
 and, holding them tenderly, talked to her of his sor- 
 rows, his keen disappointments as he had slowly 
 watched the death of all his ambitions. How he had 
 rebelled at the early death of his boy. And when 
 the younger began to show signs of physical decay a 
 storm of doubt submerged all his being. He had 
 seemed to be in the clutches of a loveless, most cruel, 
 Fate. The spirit of the Covenanters rose fierce within 
 him, not the spirit that chose death rather than yield 
 an inch of one's hold on God, but the stubbornness 
 that could bear without flinching. Far off seemed 
 the God who took no loving care of suffering hu- 
 manity. 
 
 "For years I have seemed to live absolutely with- 
 out God. I thought the very name had lost its mean- 
 ing for me. No minister has dared to talk to me of 
 Him. Even Cameron has feared to mention such 
 things, and I know he has tried to hide his suffer- 
 ing because the sight of it hardened me toward that 
 Being who allows such misery. 
 
 "But of late somehow a change has forced its 
 way through me, my heart, my conscience. I speak it 
 reverently — I believe God has been drawing me to 
 Him before that great change toward which we 
 all are tending. And oh, my child, if you had failed 
 me it would have been a sad thing for my slowly 
 growing faith in Him. 
 
 "Come to me. Help me to find Him." 
 
 Again, as often before, there came to Linda the 
 vision of a noble woman kneeling by the side of a 
 girl and pleading for God's love and protecting care 
 to be around that girl. Again the rare music of the 
 voice sang into the young soul the line: "I will build 
 me a nest on the greatness of God." Now and here 
 
 108 
 
In tf)e ii5anta!)ala0 
 
 in her father's home, might it not come to pass that 
 the inspiration of those words and of that great per- 
 sonahty should prove a Godsend to another life? 
 Might not the torch then lighted be carried on to an- 
 other and from him still again to others who are 
 speeding the final race? 
 
 The greatness of the thought humbled her. Before 
 its significance all consciousness of money's power 
 faded out of her mind. The luxury around her be- 
 came a trivial thing, of kin to her life's early poverty, 
 when looked at in the light of this mighty struggle 
 after God — a struggle which is and will be the su- 
 preme thing in existence. 
 
 Linda's presence in the home brought a change to 
 the whole household. Even the servants went about 
 their duties with a pleased look. For the two lonely 
 men the days took on a wonderful brightness. To 
 have some one to love, to plan for, to wait a meal 
 for her coming, and have her presiding over the 
 table, to hear her fresh young voice about the house, 
 to watch her when some gift was offered her, — these 
 things seemed miraculous to the men so long unused 
 to woman's presence. They took delight in showing 
 her whatever was of interest to her in the home, — 
 the family portraits, a few jewels coming down from 
 a former generation, old china that had belonged to 
 her grandmother, and — what interested her as greatly 
 — the library which had accumulated during the years. 
 Linda could hardly be blamed for feeling a throb of 
 satisfied pride to know that all this which stood for 
 good blood and breeding, belonged to her and allied 
 her to an honorable past. 
 
 One evening, toward the latter part of Christmas 
 week, the three were sitting in the library where much 
 of their time was spent, when a gentleman asking 
 8 109 
 
In tbt laamaftalas 
 
 for Mr, Graham was announced. In a few moments 
 the latter returned with an inscrutable look on his 
 face : "My visitor wishes to see you, Linda." 
 
 The girl's face flushed painfully. "Is it ?" 
 
 Her grandfather smiled. "Yes, it is Mr. Ledroux." 
 
 Linda rose and stood by her uncle's chair. 
 
 "I can tell you what he wishes, dear ; but I gave him 
 to understand it would be almost impossible for us to 
 give you up — now, just as we have found you and 
 are learning how much happiness you can bring into 
 our lonely home." 
 
 The younger man looked up wistfully. "It hasn't 
 come to that — already, has it, Linda?" 
 
 "I think not, Uncle." 
 
 She stooped and kissed his forehead. He held 
 her hand in a loving clasp. "Don't let us keep you 
 out of happiness, dear. If it is love, we have no right 
 to interfere." 
 
 When she had gone the two looked at each other. 
 
 The father spoke: "It would be hard to do without 
 
 her — hard for both of us — but I'm afraid it will end 
 
 in that." 
 
 * * * 
 
 She went toward him, slowly, as if reluctant to re- 
 new the struggle. He was standing expectant. 
 
 "Linda, Linda, I cannot do without you. Come to 
 me." He held her hands, drawing her to him, com- 
 pelling her by physical mastery, by the glow in his 
 dark eyes, the passionate thrill of voice, the half- 
 restrained excitement of his whole being. "I love 
 you, Linda ; I love you." 
 
 She looked up. Something in that handsome face 
 drove the blood backward and Linda drew away from 
 him, her face white, her whole air forcing him to pause. 
 Again he came close. "You do love me. You know 
 
 110 
 
In tbt Ji3antai)ala0 
 
 you are not indifferent. I defy you to say it." He 
 spoke softly, tenderly, 
 
 "Are you afraid of me, sweetheart? O, I would 
 be so good to you you'd learn to love me in spite of 
 yourself. I am not worthy of you. What man is 
 worthy of a good woman? But my love shall make 
 up to you for everything." 
 
 He waited a moment. "If you did not care for me 
 at all you would have sent me away without hope 
 before ; but I knew — I knew, and now that your pride 
 is satisfied there is no reason, is there?" 
 
 Again he took her hands, and gently drawing her 
 to him, looked into her eyes, watching the yielding 
 there and letting the conqueror's light flame into his 
 own eyes. 
 
 "You do love me, Linda." 
 
 "Yes, yes." His arms were about her and, for the 
 moment, all doubts and fears were forgotten as she 
 
 yielded to the sweetness of his mastery. 
 
 * * * 
 
 A few days later she wrote to Fannie : "It has 
 come. I have promised to marry Mr. Ledroux, and 
 may God help me if I am doing wrong. My grand- 
 father and uncle are very good about it. I am sure 
 they wish me perfect happiness, but I am equally sure 
 they hate to think of my marrying soon, and it shall 
 not be for a while, anyway, though Mr. Ledroux in- 
 sists on an early date. I suppose that's the regulation 
 thing for lovers to do. . . . I am happy and yet 
 I am miserable. To have wounded so true a heart as 
 Harry's, to have come under the condemnation of 
 so true a friend as yourself, makes me altogether un- 
 happy ; but when I think of having won the love of this 
 man for whom my heart — oh ! don't tell me that I have 
 no right to this happiness." 
 
 Ill 
 
In tbt J^antaf)ala0 
 
 "My Darlingest Dear:— You are equal to a three- 
 volume edition of the old romances — Alonzo and Me- 
 lissa, for instance. Positively, I begin to feel a thrill 
 dov;n my spinal column when I start to open one of 
 your letters. I had just begun to touch terra firma 
 after the excitement brought on by your grandfather's 
 renaissance, and now, here am I, floating in mid-air 
 again, with visions before me, around me, above me, 
 — visions of dark-browed heroes and golden-haired 
 maidens on whom the veil and orange wreath have 
 descended as if from the highest empyrean. Really, 
 my precious friend, I wish for you all true and lovely 
 things. Go on and enjoy your happiness and don't 
 fancy that I, of all persons, grudge you this joy. 
 If a girl doesn't have the right to the supreme thing 
 when she is engaged, pray when is she to have it? 
 As for Harry, of course he will trouble because he 
 is made of stuff that lasts ; but I believe he will come 
 out all right. Bless you ! He doesn't blame you one 
 bit. He's taking his medicine like a man. He and 
 I sat an evening out just before I left Marian's. I 
 felt like laying my hand on his head and blessing him 
 for a saint on earth. If a man ever loves me with the 
 sort of love Harry Turner gives you I devoutly pray 
 that the church visible will canonize him. Such beau- 
 tiful devotion ought to be rewarded on this old earth 
 as an example to would-be lovers while time lasts. 
 A knight he is— of the old sort, if he does have a plain 
 English, everyday name, and is a trifle awkward in 
 getting out of a room. 'I owe her everything. She 
 has given me my manhood and I will never forget.' 
 Whereupon your poor little friend felt like saying 
 some lofty thing suited to so extraordinary an occa- 
 sion ; but, as my custom is, I succeeded in getting off 
 a little flighty speech with a tiny bit of slang in 
 
 112 
 
In tbe laantaftalas! 
 
 it. He laughed and that broke up the seriousness 
 of our talk. Oh ! dear ; oh ! dear ; the heroic sentiments 
 will never cling around me. People think of me as 
 something to laugh with, to pass idle hours with — but 
 enough of this ! To go back to yourself, Linda. You 
 shall not doubt my love. I will stand by you, dear 
 heart, trusting and believing that all will be well with 
 you, and that God will bless this marriage, will give 
 you the happiness you so richly deserve." 
 
 113 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 UNREST. 
 
 "We are to be married in the autumn. My grand- 
 father insists that I take a month's rest in the moun- 
 tains. Uncle Cam has not been so well this spring- 
 time and we have stayed in with him pretty closely. 
 This, with what study I have undertaken, gives my 
 grandfather uneasiness. He claims that I am on the 
 brink of a breakdown and offers to get a nurse for 
 Uncle during July and let me have a whiff of the 
 mountain air once more. Can't you come to Aunt 
 Sarah's with me for that month? I do not care 
 to go where there is a crowd. It seems to me the 
 blessed quiet of our woods and fields would restore 
 my mental poise, would give me back my girlhood. 
 You need not hesitate to accept our invitation, — 
 Aunt Sarah's and my own. Some of the money that 
 would have been my father's is being turned into chan- 
 nels where it will do good, we hope. My aunt's 
 house is being enlarged. Her oldest daughter is to 
 go to school in the fall. 
 
 "You think I ought to be happy, that everything 
 seems to lend itself to enrich my life. You may be 
 right, but somehow these things have failed to give 
 me the happiness that one has a right to expect. Surely 
 I am not physically at par. There are days in which 
 life to me appears so unreal, so elusive, just as if 
 
 114 
 
In fbt Jl3antaf)ala0 
 
 you reach out to touch a beloved friend and wake 
 to feel the emptiness of a dream. 
 
 "I love Mr. Ledroux, but it is just as it was before 
 our engagement. When away from him a sense of 
 uneasiness oppresses me. I remember how differently 
 we look at life. It comes out at every point. Some 
 stern old Covenanter, according to grandfather, has 
 sent down to me a conscience that takes the brightness 
 out of life by making me over-sensitive about little 
 things. I see that Mr. Ledroux thinks of my beliefs 
 as he might of a child's whims — a child who is too 
 young and immature to judge between great and 
 small. I need your help, you dear girl. 
 
 "Mrs. De Jarnette has another companion, but she 
 is so good as to say that no one can take my place. 
 I cannot quite understand her attitude toward Mr. 
 Ledroux and myself. I know she is fond of him. 
 He has always been intimate in her home, but some- 
 how she has taken our engagement in a way that 
 distresses me. If I were not sure of her love I would 
 think she considers it a mistake, socially. Yet with 
 her love for me and her recognition of my grand- 
 father's position I do not believe she is reluctant for 
 that reason. She certainly is not overjoyed. You are 
 not a bit glad. I cannot expect Harry to be. See? 
 Here am I with all my best friends out of sympathy 
 with me at a time when I am so hungry for their per- 
 fect fellowship. But enough ! I must be growing 
 self-centered. Tell me of yourself, your new friends, 
 your studies." 
 
 "Dearly Beloved : — I am so glad of that precious 
 month-to-be. Yes, thank you, I expect to come and 
 be happy with you once more. You write as if you 
 had tasted the sweets of life only to find them holding 
 
 115 
 
Sn tbt Ii3antai)ala0 
 
 a bitter tang at the last. Chirk up! Do you re- 
 member that classic bit from the all-around big Wil- 
 liam? The bit I love to quote? 
 
 " 'Jog^o"' jog" on- the footpath way, and merrily hent 
 style-a.' If a girl can't be happy with a golden spoon 
 in her mouth, her hand possessed of the Midas-touch, 
 her face with all the charm of the enchanted Beauty, 
 pray what will make her happy? 
 
 "I want the time to hurry and bring the two of us 
 together. You should get some good, old-fashioned 
 doctor to prescribe for you. Not the modern sort that 
 jerks out his scant words, peeks clean through you, 
 then whips out a knife and prescribes a trained nurse. 
 I suggest that your grandfather go out into the coun- 
 try ,^ if necessary, and hunt up the kind that's so nearly 
 extinct, one who will set his saddle-bags down in a 
 leisurely fashion, look over the top of his spectacles 
 and call you 'Daughter' while he is mixing a mighty 
 dose of rhubarb, aloes and jalap, to be preceded by 
 eight grains of bichloride of mercury stirred in mo- 
 lasses. Oh, you'd forget to keep your finger-tip on 
 your conscience if you had my kind of doctor. Don't 
 you believe it? 
 
 "Heigh ho ! Did you know that I have seen Harry 
 again? Marian makes fond pretension if she isn't 
 sincere. Really I believe she loves me, and in my heart 
 she comes next — a far next — to you. (Remember that 
 you dwell in my heart of hearts.) Since my last 
 letter to you I have been down to spend Easter with 
 Marian. You know the University is so much nearer 
 our school than my own home is. The Pater and 
 Mater are awfully good to give me such a lovely time, 
 but I am trying to study and hope to repay them by 
 making a woman of myself. But to go back to my 
 visit. Harry came to see me and I feel quite proud 
 
 116 
 
In tf)e Bantabalag 
 
 of him. He continues to grow. There's nothing 
 
 little or weak about him. Some of the other young 
 
 men called and they were full of praise for him. 
 
 "Of course we talked of you again. Harry takes 
 
 your engagement like a man. He has no blame for 
 
 you. Indeed you must not think so for a moment. 
 
 He is ready to believe the best things of Mr. Ledroux. 
 
 He, I, all of us, wish you the greatest happiness. If 
 
 your sweetheart fails in goodness I do not think your 
 
 husband will do so. He will 'grow in moral height' 
 
 to keep step with you." 
 
 * * * 
 
 As the train comes up from Georgia it brings the 
 traveler into a country that gradually grows in beauty. 
 Before the North Carolina line is reached the ridges 
 begin to limn themselves against the distant sky. Later 
 Tallulah Falls booms in your ear, then the hills sweep 
 upward in loftier lines and soon you find yourself 
 among the mountains, the air bracing every nerve 
 and fibre of you, the beauty about you stirring your 
 soul. 
 
 It was with a heart profoundly moved that Linda 
 came in sight of her native mountains again. Within 
 the year the railway from upper Georgia had been 
 completed to the charming little town of Franklin. 
 This gave her a more direct route to her aunt's home. 
 
 When she alighted from the train she found her 
 cousin with his conveyance ready to take her out the 
 remaining miles of her journey. 
 
 "Say. Lindy, we are too po' an' common for you 
 now, I reckon?" Bob remarked as he slapped the 
 lines and started his horse in the homeward direc- 
 tion. Linda felt a sudden pang of guilt. She had 
 noticed the shabbiness of the outfit, an old buggy, 
 a horse not too young and spirited for safety, and a 
 
 117 
 
In tbt s\^mtaMm 
 
 set of pieced-out harness. The young fellow's dress, 
 too, had come in for a moment's half-conscious criti- 
 cism. His store clothes imperfectly fitted, his air of 
 partial bravado as if he meant to declare himself as 
 good as anybody, — these things struck unpleasantly 
 on her quickened sense of propriety. The men among 
 whom she had moved these later months had been al- 
 ways at ease ; never conscious of their apparel ; never, 
 apparently, thinking of their standing with their fel- 
 lows. Her grandfather was one who would quietly 
 stand with kings and be unabashed, yet never bold. 
 Mr. Ledroux Avith, perhaps, a touch of haughtiness, 
 was always outwardly perfect in manner. The girl 
 felt ashamed that these thoughts should flash through 
 her brain. Could she never be straightforward? 
 
 "Don't say those things. Bob. I shall never be 
 able to repay your mother — all of you — for the kind- 
 ness you have always shown me, and I would be basely 
 ungrateful if I allowed the accident of money to make 
 a difference with me. Really, do you believe that 
 money makes anybody better than you are?" 
 
 The young fellow squared his shoulders, set his face 
 in firmer lines and answered with an air of positive- 
 ness : 
 
 "Nary bit." 
 
 Linda noticed the lapse into sixteenth century Eng- 
 lish, and thought of her lover with his polished speech, 
 his conversational charm, his air of high breeding. Her 
 heart sank within her. Would she feel ashamed, be- 
 fore Mr. Ledroux. of the homely ways of her people? 
 Hey people ! Pride rose in rebellion. Were not her 
 people really the ones with whom she had lived of 
 late — men of her father's blood, knit to her by closest 
 ties, by heredity, by sympathy, by fineness of soul? 
 
 118 
 
In tbt Bantaj)ala0 
 
 Need she be forever reproaching herself because she 
 could not overcome the shrinking nerve when one of 
 her mother's race showed the crudeness of an unlet- 
 tered boor. 
 
 She looked at the lad's face and again an over- 
 whelming sense of littleness swept over her as she re- 
 membered that here, as so often before, her judg- 
 ment dealt only with the surface and did not plumb 
 the depths. With an effort she shook herself loose 
 from such thought and began talking brightly and 
 kindly to the boy. 
 
 After many questions in regard to Aunt Sarah and 
 the rest of the family she came around to the subject 
 of the new house which she supposed was nearing 
 completion. 
 
 "Miss Wells looked after it a whole lot. It seems 
 like she knew exactly what the men ought to do, 
 but I've been afeard it might be too plain to suit 
 you, long as you're used to such fine doin's, but Miss 
 Wells said you didn't want no banjo-work anywhere 
 about the house. It jus' suits us to a T, Ma' 'n' Pa 
 both say it looks so home-like an' ever' day — not too 
 good and fine to use. They've got big fireplaces jus' 
 like you said, an' big rooms an' wide porches. Miss 
 Wells says it'll suit you too, an' we all talk a heap 
 about you bein' so good to us. The girls say you al- 
 ways wus better to Ma than they wus." 
 
 "Oh, no, I was thoughtful because I was older. 
 That was all," then Linda turned the conversation in 
 other directions. 
 
 As they drove through the lovely country, along 
 the limpid creeks, now skirting the wooded hillsides, 
 now passing through the fragrant forest, the girl gave 
 herself up to the beauty, the infinite peace of it all. 
 
 119 
 
Un tJ)e Il3antai)ala0 
 
 The sight of the Bald brought the tears to her eyes. 
 Like some great calm eternal Presence the soothing 
 power of it sank into her spirit and quieted the tumult 
 there. 
 
 120 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 HOME AGAIN. 
 
 Two weeks had passed since Linda's home-coming. 
 During the time Miss Wells had been much with 
 her. The girl turned to the older woman for that 
 quiet, unspoken sympathy which is the finest fruitage 
 of friendship. Miss Wells saw that Linda was pass- 
 ing through a crucial stage in her development. To 
 her knowledge of the world's ways the missionary 
 joined a deeply sympathetic insight. She recognized 
 the struggle going on in the girl's nature as she strove 
 to adjust herself to the changed conditions of her life. 
 
 Within the two weeks the last touches had been 
 given the new house. Some new furnishings, simple 
 but good, had been brought from Franklin and Miss 
 Wells had moved in as a regular boarder, a state of 
 things delightful to the whole family. 
 
 "She is a good un," declared the youngest boy 
 to Linda. "Co'se she preaches a little in the prayer 
 meetings an' sech as that, but she's got a way that 
 makes a fellow like her anyhow. Pa didn't take to 
 her for a long time. Said he didn't believe in a woman 
 tryin' to be a man, but he's plum took up with her 
 now." 
 
 Linda smiled in repeating this to Miss Wells later. 
 "I am sure you appreciate the force of his expres- 
 sion, but how is one to put it into good English for 
 him?" and the girl sighed. 
 
 121 
 
In tht J^antabalasi 
 
 The two had gone down to the spring to carry 
 milk and butter, for Linda insisted on taking a share 
 in the household work. Tempted by the cool shade, 
 the soft lapping of the water, the breath of the wood- 
 land, they had seated themselves near the spring to 
 rest. 
 
 Miss Wells laid her hand gently on Linda's. "Don't 
 distress yourself over these little things, dear. Jack 
 has the making of a man in him and you will yet 
 be proud of him." 
 
 The girl looked mutely in her friend's face. 
 
 "I know, I know. You have not opened your 
 heart to me, Linda, but I see the brave fight you are 
 making. You are young and all these things are 
 terribly real to you. Youth does not have the perspec- 
 tive that later years bring one. The sorrows of life 
 help to change our views, and when you are as old 
 as I am and have buried as many hopes, a lapse in 
 grammar will not seem so vital to you." 
 
 "I am ashamed of this foolish sensitiveness." 
 
 "Yes, but it will all pass away. Besides, your 
 aunt's family improve steadily in many ways. I have 
 been struck with the adaptability of your mountain 
 people. They have strength of character that gives 
 them individuality, and yet, when they wdsh, they can 
 catch on to the little niceties of life in a wonderfully 
 short time. I say 'they' in speaking to you because you 
 have always been exceptional. But you see how your 
 cousins — the two girls — are developing?" 
 
 "Yes, oh, yes, and there is so much that is true 
 and good in all of them, I am ashamed that I should 
 let other things crowd out my appreciation of that 
 fact." 
 
 "It will be all right. You are taking life a little 
 tragically just now. Going through your 'storm and 
 
 122 
 
3Jn tlje Ii5anta!)a!a0 
 
 stress' period, perhaps. I saw Harry yesterday." 
 There was a pause. Linda made no answer. 
 
 "We spoke of you. He tells me that Of 
 
 course I knew, long ago, that matters were at an end 
 with you and Harry. He wrote me that before the 
 holidays. And now " ; another pause. 
 
 "He tells you of my engagement?" 
 
 "Yes ; he supposed I knew of it, and was afraid he 
 had done wrong in mentioning it to me." 
 
 "I have wanted to talk to you, to open all my heart, 
 but it has been hard to begin. Aunt Sarah knows. 
 The girls do not." 
 
 "Don't tell me if you had rather not. You know 
 I am always interested in whatever concerns you, but 
 I do not wish to force your confidence. There are 
 some things too tender to be put into words." 
 
 "I think the doubts make it hard for me to talk 
 to you. With you my better self is uppermost. In 
 your presence when I think of Mr. Ledroux it seems 
 no great matter that he is a cultured man, aristocratic 
 to the very heart, that he has money and high social 
 position. The greatest question, as I think of him in 
 the light of your eyes, is whether or not he is a 
 good man," 
 
 "You could pay me no higher compliment, Linda. 
 Would you like to tell me all about him?" 
 
 Beginning with their first meeting in Eagle's Nest, 
 a year before, Linda told of her acquaintance with her 
 lover, how the intellectual charm of the man had first 
 drawn her, how she had been flattered by his attention, 
 and later had withdrawn herself from him because 
 of her wounded pride. She talked of her own in- 
 ward struggle, the fight with that part of her nature 
 which yielded to the compelling power of his brain, 
 his vivid personality ; how part of her seemed to rise 
 
 123 
 
M tht J^antabalas 
 
 in rebellion against his dominance while the other half 
 clamored for the sweetness of his presence. "And 
 when I had gone to my grandfather's he followed me, 
 claiming my love, refusing to hear any objection, 
 forcing from me the truth, that I could not be indiffer- 
 ent to him. Before he left me I surrendered. I gave 
 myself up to happiness and for a while did not stop 
 to think of duty, of anything but the fact that a won- 
 derful joy had come into my life. But I am not made 
 for happiness. No sooner had he gone than all my 
 questioning began again. And now that I am at 
 home with those who have done so much for me and 
 for whom I ought to have all gratitude and loyal 
 love, it shames me to feel that I might be ashamed of 
 them before him. Don't you see? Is it weak of 
 me to be confused? If it were necessary for me to 
 choose between him and them I would let him go, 
 and yet my pride rebels when I think of his possible 
 attitude toward them." 
 
 "I think you distress yourself unnecessarily, Linda. 
 If ]\Ir. Ledroux is the man he should be, you will 
 have no need to be ashamed of your family before 
 him. He will recognize their true worth and honor 
 you for your devotion to them." 
 
 "Perhaps it would have been better for all of us 
 if I had cared for Harry as he deserved." 
 
 "Oh, I don't know. The heart is not to be driven, 
 and you did right in being frank with Harry. It 
 would have been unjust to the boy to give him a half- 
 love." 
 
 "And still I recognize the fact that he is better 
 than Mr, Ledroux — a better man." 
 
 "You feel that way, Linda? But I think few young 
 people fall in love with goodness." 
 
 124 
 
In tfte n^antafjalasf 
 
 "It's not a question of being religious at all. It's 
 so many things — the way he judges men and women. 
 Harry's faith in others gives one a stronger desire 
 to do the right thing. It doesn't seem to occur to 
 him that people are going to do wrong." 
 
 "That's youth. If he should have a few shocks 
 given him he might be different when he reaches Mr. 
 Ledroux's age." 
 
 "At any rate it has comforted me to talk to you, 
 and you're good to bear with me like you do. If I 
 stay with you and Fannie a month I'll get to be a 
 natural, happy-hearted girl, maybe." 
 
 The next day Bob and Linda met Fannie at Nanta- 
 hala depot, the station from which Linda had taken 
 flight into the outer world two years before. Bob 
 was driving a wagon in which to bring Fannie's trunk 
 while Linda drove a strongly built buggy, a present 
 of her own to Aunt Sarah since her arrival. 
 
 To the girl's surprise she had found hesitancy 
 among the members of her aunt's family when the 
 question of money was brought up. 
 
 "Your uncle says the house has paid for all we've 
 done for you, Lindy; an' I think so, too, because 
 you've been such a help to me 'most all yo' life. An' 
 he says 'twon't be good for the children to think we 
 can always be gittin' money from you, or presents. 
 So I thought I'd speak to you about it so's you'll be 
 keerful an' not give too many things to the girls. 
 But we think it's pow'ful nice for you to want to give 
 us all so much. Your uncle says them Yankees that 
 keep sendin' boxes an' barrels down to the Dell settle- 
 ment means well, but they are makin' paupers out of 
 the whole neighborhood. The folks are plum no 
 'count now. Nary girl among 'em will hire out to do 
 
 9 125 
 
Sn tfte jaantal)alas 
 
 a day's work, an' even Miss Bowles wear clo'es 
 made out of goods they send, an' you know the 
 Bowleses are good livers." 
 
 Bearing this in mind Linda had gone to her uncle 
 and had a talk with him. As a result of their con- 
 versation he went to Franklin and selected a buggy 
 suited to the mountain roads. "She's a fine girl es 
 ever I seen, Sarah. It seemed lak it would 'most 
 break her heart when I sorter shut down on this here 
 doin' so much for us. To be sure, we did take keer 
 of her when she was a little fixin', but she paid for 
 that long ago, besides the house. An' pretty ! Shucks, 
 there's nary girl in the settlement can hold a candle 
 to her. An' so fur as I've seen the summer bo'ders 
 don't look no nicer than she does." 
 
 * * * 
 
 "It's glorious to be with you once more, Linda, 
 and I mean to make the most of these weeks. 
 
 "If I'm to lose you soon let me have all of you for 
 this one while. I expect to be selfish, exacting, ab- 
 sorbing — all the disagreeable adjectives you can think 
 of. 
 
 "It is like a page from a fairy story book, sure 
 enough. To think that you should find your father's 
 people after these years, and that they should turn 
 out to be so fine toward you. That grandfather is a 
 genuine trump, and I give three cheers for him right 
 here upon the top of this mountain. 
 
 "Ah, well ! it's a pretty good old world, after all, 
 and I propose to get a lot of fun out of it. The Mater 
 did herself proud when she went to buy my summer 
 outfit. I have conceived a violent passion for em- 
 broidered waists. You ought to see what beautiful 
 ones I have. She did most of the work herself, and 
 they are heavenly. 
 
 126 
 
In tht Bantaijalag 
 
 "I see you are shocked at the way I run on. Of 
 course I ought to forswear slang, and a waist can't 
 be quite heavenly, but one needn't always be splitting 
 hairs. A queenly waist, how does that strike you? 
 If the Bible can speak of a 'lordly dish' why can't I 
 discourse about a queenly waist ? O-o-oh ! how di- 
 vine !" They had reached the crest of a ridge. Before 
 them lay a valley through which flowed a stream, 
 while the flanking hillsides were backed by far-stretch- 
 ing lines of mountains, peak after peak, the nearer 
 ones blue as azure skies, the further ones soft in 
 tender amethystine haze. 
 
 "I don't wonder that you are so intense, my be- 
 loved. If I had lived alone with all this beauty I'd 
 be quieter, myself, but you see I've always been sur- 
 rounded by people and things till I didn't have time 
 for high thoughts." 
 
 Linda smiled and kept silent while Fannie ran on 
 giving vent to her spirits, 
 
 "Rouse up, my dear. Does this enchanted stream 
 have a name? Or is it all some mirage of my over- 
 heated imagination?" 
 
 "This? Why I believe it's the upper waters of 
 Cartoogechaye. An Indian name, you see." 
 
 "Certainly. How disappointed I would have been 
 if you had told me it was Pick-Shin or some such 
 plebeian name." 
 
 "We are not very far from the old Selden home. 
 It is considered one of the prettiest old places in 
 the county." 
 
 "Do we pass the house?" 
 
 "In sight of the grove, though it is across the creek 
 and high up on the hill," and Linda pointed to a 
 mountain ridge in front of them and on the right of 
 the valley. 
 
 127 
 
In t!)e iaantaf)ala0 
 
 "The Selden family is a large one. They have 
 married and intermarried until they are related to 
 so many of the county's best people. Every year 
 they have a family reunion with some member of 
 the 'clan.' I have been told their meetings are in- 
 teresting even to outsiders." 
 
 "Perhaps they are the family meetings Elise Wil- 
 liams used to talk of. You never knew Elise. She 
 was in school the year before you came. A nice 
 girl and a good student. She must be related to the 
 Seldens. I don't remember the name, but her mother's 
 people lived over this way, west of Asheville." 
 
 "She may be in the old Selden home now. A Mr. 
 Williams, from Transylvania, has recently bought the 
 farm and moved to it. He has a young lady daughter, 
 I hear. Her mother was a Miss Selden." 
 
 "It must be the same girl. I hope we will see 
 her. Really she was a fine girl, two or three years 
 older than myself, but we were very good friends." 
 
 "I have never known the family. We live sev- 
 eral miles from any of them except these newcomers. 
 The old home has been rented for several years." 
 
 "I believe it will be quite the thing for me to let 
 Elise know that I am in the neighborhood. How 
 far is the place from your aunt's?" 
 
 "Six miles. The way is rough, of course, but we 
 don't think so much of the roads in the mountains 
 if they are passable in summer time. My uncle speaks 
 often of the different men in the Selden connection. 
 They form a large part of the leaders in county affairs, 
 in business and politics. And while they have had 
 better advantages than many of the mountain people 
 they are absolutely loyal to their native section, I 
 believe." 
 
 The two were driving slowly now, waiting a little, 
 
 128 
 
In tje laantafjalag 
 
 at intervals, to see Bob's wagon in the far distance 
 back of them. 
 
 At an abrupt curve in the road they met a surrey 
 with two ladies on the back seat and a young man 
 driving. 
 
 "Ah, I believe this is Elise Williams. I'm not quite 
 sure," Fannie spoke in an undertone. 
 
 The road was narrow, the bluff shelving down pre- 
 cipitately in a dangerous-looking fashion to which the 
 mountaineers seem calmly indifferent. 
 
 "Horrors ! you don't intend to drive by that convey- 
 ance, Linda. We'll certainly be killed." 
 
 "One might think you'd been brought up in the 
 sand hills, Fannie. There is no danger." 
 
 "If the young lady is frightened I'll lead your 
 horse," the young man gave the lines to one of the 
 ladies in his surrey, alighted and, lifting his hat, took 
 Linda's horse by the bridle, and led him carefully past 
 his own conveyance keeping on the inside while the 
 surrey passed slowly by on the other side. 
 
 "Thank you so much." 
 
 He bowed and smiled, went back to the surrey and 
 interchanged a few words with its occupants, then 
 hurried around and stopped Linda's horse again. 
 
 "I beg pardon, but my sister thinks she knows this 
 young lady. Is it Miss Everett, of Brevard?" 
 
 "Yes, and your sister is Miss Elise WilHams? I 
 was sure of it. I am delighted. My friend, Miss 
 Graham, Mr. Williams." 
 
 Fannie's voice was the signal for the young lady 
 in the surrey to get out and come forward. Then 
 followed a lively conversation in hearty school-girl 
 style. 
 
 There were promises of an early call and insistence 
 from Elise that a part of the coming month be spent 
 
 129 
 
In tht J!3antal)alast 
 
 by Fannie and Linda as guests in her home. Mrs. 
 Williams seconded the invitation warmly and, after 
 a few moments of happy, if not coherent talk, the par- 
 ties drove on their separate ways, the surrey making 
 room for Bob's wagon as he came up. 
 
 "I am glad of this, especially for your sake, Fannie. 
 There is promise of some social pleasure for you now. 
 I had nothing to offer you unless, indeed, I felt free 
 to call Harry in." 
 
 "But I came to see you, beloved." 
 
 130 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FANNIE. 
 
 If Linda had felt any uneasiness as to the manner 
 in which Fannie would fit into her aunt's home her 
 mind was soon set at rest. The girl captured them all 
 by her happy nature, her free-and-easy fellowship. 
 She won the mother's heart by her camaraderie with 
 Jack, her kindness to the girls and her gentle consid- 
 eration for herself. 
 
 "I dreaded her just a little bit, Linda. Seems 
 like we've been raised so different from folks in town 
 or below the mountains, but she's just as common as 
 any of us. There ain't any 'put on' about her. 'N' 
 she 'pyears to be bavin' a plum good time. It's funny 
 to see her and Jack an' that little contrary pony. Don't 
 you think he throwed her clean off this mornin' 'n' she 
 gets right up *n' mounts him again while Jack holds 
 him for her?" 
 
 "Yes, she told me. She is full of talk about Jack ; 
 thinks he is such a bright boy below that dry way he 
 has of talking." 
 
 It did Linda good to see her aunt brighten under 
 the new surroundings. With the comforts of the new 
 house, the hardest drudgery done by a woman who 
 came to help three days out of the week, the tired 
 mother's life took on fresh hope and vigor. She 
 was anxious to have her young daughters follow in 
 the ways of those who were bringing the outer world 
 
 131 
 
3ln t6e Jf^antaftalas 
 
 among them, the big world with its finer speech, its 
 greater ease of manner, — all those countless little 
 things that emphasize the difference between crudity 
 and culture. Yet deep within the unlettered woman's 
 heart was the mountaineer's pride, keeping her free 
 from cringeing imitation, and giving to her a touch 
 of dignity that won the respect of those around her. 
 
 In all her life she had never known the happiness 
 of this time. Miss Wells, with her tact and deep 
 spiritual nature, had long been a source of comfort 
 to her. From the missionary the mountain woman had 
 imbibed a calmer, more cheerful view of religion and 
 its bearing on one's daily life. And if she had lost 
 somewhat of that tense emotionalism which once char- 
 acterized her religious experience she had gained a 
 surer hold on the larger truths of the Christian life. 
 
 These things conspired to brighten the woman and 
 bring new cheer into the home. 
 
 Harry Turner had become a frequent visitor since 
 Fannie's arrival. Elise Williams and her brother 
 called within a few days after her coming. Then 
 began a series of visits, picnics and little excursions 
 to points of interest in the mountains. In making 
 up these the young people turned to Miss Wells, not 
 so much as chaperone in the usual sense, but because 
 her presence brightened the whole party. She went 
 into such things with the zest of unconquerable youth, 
 and if her influence was always directed toward posi- 
 tive right it was in a way so quiet and unobtrusive she 
 never repelled. 
 
 During this time Mr. Ledroux had written letters to 
 Linda that kept the girl in a state of unrest. They 
 were influenced by the mood of the hour, and at 
 times would be filled with protestations of love and 
 
 132 
 
In tf)e ii5amaf)ala0 
 
 earnest talk of her influence over him, how life was 
 taking on a different coloring for him under the power 
 of this mighty passion. 
 
 "I wasted the emotions of my youth. Long ago I 
 gave up any thought of being dominated by one su- 
 preme love. It seemed to me that men and women 
 were like cogs in the wheels of complicated machin- 
 ery. They fit, — then a sudden break displaces the 
 cogs. When the machinery starts again the work- 
 ing may be as smooth as it was before the displace- 
 ment. Of course this belief does away with all fanci- 
 ful notions about matches being made in heaven, about 
 Providence having anything to do with the matter at 
 all. But when I think of you I am ready to believe 
 that some mighty creative force made you for my 
 mate, kept you, and gave you to me while your heart 
 is fresh and pure and all untarnished by the world. 
 But, great God ! that God in whom you believe so 
 strongly, — what right have I to claim your purity, to 
 fancy that you were intended for me who have only 
 imperfectness to match with your completeness?" 
 Again his letters would betray the old cynic mood 
 wherein the scoffer spared little that came upon his 
 notice. After receiving one of these Linda would 
 move more quietly among her friends, and Fannie 
 would redouble her efforts to bring the smile, the 
 happy light to the girl's eyes. 
 
 "I don't one bit like it. Miss Wells. Whenever the 
 time comes that I am engaged you'll see one happy 
 little silly, for I shall love with my whole being before 
 I make any promises. Of course Linda loves the 
 man, and, indeed, he is handsome enough and fasci- 
 nating enough, for any use, but he has never made her 
 happy. She was all upset when they were at Eagle's 
 
 133 
 
3n the J3antai)alag 
 
 Nest together last summer and you see how his let- 
 ters affect her now. Has she talked much to you 
 about him?" 
 
 "Not since she first told me of him. She is a bit 
 shy about the whole matter, but I would be surprised 
 if she were otherwise." 
 
 "Certainly I don't expect her to be demonstrative 
 over anything, but she is so restless, so unsettled. 
 You'd look for a girl of her sort to be quietly happy, 
 in a deep, still way, you know, like a mountain lake 
 that reflects all the beauty and light around it. Now 
 don't you think that's a bloomin' fine metaphor, simile 
 or whatever? Acknowledge that your new friend 
 has more profundity than you had imagined," and 
 Fannie snatched the little woman around the waist, 
 swung her in a giddy whirl down the length of the 
 side porch and fetched up with a sudden jerk just as 
 a door opened nearby. 
 
 "Sh — sh ! Odds bodykins ! Some one appears and 
 will behold the missionary in the act of waltzing 
 with one of the worldly-minded. 
 
 "Ah, it's only Miss Graham who sometimes hath a 
 worldly mind herself. Behold! She hath news to 
 communicate. I know it by the flush upon her face 
 and the fire within those orbs of light," and Fannie 
 struck a theatrical attitude in front of Linda while 
 Miss Wells smoothed her own ruflled hair and ad- 
 justed her collar. 
 
 "Indeed I do have news," Linda looked from one 
 to the other, "This is a letter from " 
 
 "The conquering hero comes, I'm sure of it. Is it 
 the caitiff, Ledroux? And he comes? Then " 
 
 "Mr. Ledroux is at Eagle's Nest and proposes to 
 come on here in a few days, if I am willing." 
 
 134 
 
In tbt Ji5anta!)ala0 
 
 "My reign is ended. 'Hail to the chief who in tri- 
 umph advances.' Let me subdue my feelings and meet 
 him with becoming fortitude, though I shall forever 
 cherish dire animosity against him." 
 
 "Seriously, shall I let him come? What do you 
 think, Miss Wells ?" _ 
 
 "Why not, if it suits your aunt?" 
 
 "She doesn't object. I've just spoken to her." 
 
 "Yes, let him come on and see if Jack and I can't 
 play some prank on him to get him out of that sixteenth 
 century grand manner of his — that heirloom manner." 
 
 "He will probably be here then at the time of the 
 Selden reunion, I'd hate to miss that. It was so good 
 of the Williams family to invite us." 
 
 "Take him along," said Fannie, "and let him see 
 more than a hundred 'Hill Billies' together at one time, 
 in all their native wildness and benightedness. 
 
 "I'd enjoy seeing the impression a regular 'grand 
 seignieur' would make on some of those bush-men." 
 
 "Fannie, you are incorrigible. I'm afraid you'll be 
 scoring me for coming down to teach the 'mountain 
 whites' !" 
 
 "No, you precious little creature, I forgive you for 
 all mistakes you ever made since the time you used 
 to put the baby Hindus to bed with a prayer and then 
 go out and call them 'rectangular parallelopipedons' to 
 ease your lacerated feelings — or temper, if you prefer 
 plain English." 
 
 "Really I sometimes fear my time is being wasted," 
 sighed Miss Wells. "I have found things so different 
 from what I expected, and often I feel that the people 
 may consider my very presence an insult. Since 
 knowing the town of Franklin I am more than ever 
 in doubt about the wisdom of working here." 
 
 135 
 
In ttie jeanta!)ala0 
 
 "You shall not feel that way," said Linda. "Re- 
 member what you have been to us. The world is a 
 different place for me because of you." 
 
 "Yes, and Harry says you've helped him more than 
 he can tell. You don't know how he honors you. But 
 you never came among the mountain people with what 
 Lawyer McEachern, of Asheville, calls 'damned super- 
 cilious airs'." 
 
 "Oh! Fannie, don't! That's too horrible — to quote 
 an oath is almost as bad as, as " 
 
 "As improvising one? I do beg your pardon, you 
 dear little preacher, and I promise you to be more care- 
 ful in the future. Now kiss me. Reverend Wells, and 
 tell me that I am a superior young woman in spite of 
 my failings." 
 
 "Indeed you are, Fannie. All your nonsense does 
 not hide the real girl whose heart is gold." 
 
 "Thank you for the words. They will help to make 
 me better," and Fannie's eyes filled with tears. 
 
 "You don't need to be better," Linda spoke with 
 emphasis. "You never hesitate where the right is con- 
 cerned, if you do have an original way of doing 
 things." 
 
 "And this in spite of my tendency to slang? My 
 general silliness? A fine deliverance for you, O, 
 Queen of Hearts. I shall grow good in spite of my- 
 self if you continue to praise me. 'Thy gentleness hath 
 made me great'," and Fannie made a profound bow 
 to her friend. 
 
 "You referred to the town of Franklin a while 
 ago. What special thing in connection with that place 
 has put you into mourning over your having come 
 'down like a wolf on the fold' to compel these poor 
 mountaineers to be good ?" Fannie turned again toward 
 Miss Wells. 
 
 136 
 
Kn tht BmmWafi 
 
 "Franklin is such an exceptional village, that's all. 
 I have never seen so much real culture — not showiness, 
 understand — as there is in that bit of a town. Of 
 course I mean such a percentage of cultured people. 
 It's all so genuine, so unpretending, so thoroughly de- 
 lightful. Here I've been lending my little collection 
 of books to boys and girls, any one who cared for 
 them, and over there is a good library absolutely free 
 to every citizen of the county." 
 
 "Yes," said Linda ; "but if you had not been among 
 us, directing our reading and helping us to love books, 
 a library at that distance could have done us little 
 good." 
 
 "Perhaps," Miss Wells spoke doubtfully; "but the 
 whole county is bound to be influenced by the town. 
 It's a leaven that works from within too, not an effort 
 from the outside. And your county has had a compul- 
 sory educational law for several years ; besides you 
 anticipated state prohibition." 
 
 "All this doesn't mean that your work is not needed 
 among us. While we don't have the feuds and ven- 
 dettas and other romantic embellishments that Mr. 
 Fox's or Miss Murfree's mountaineers have, there are 
 plenty of hiding places for moonshiners and sometimes 
 a murder strikes home to us all. Remember how the 
 preacher's wife laughed over the calm way the little 
 Jap addressed her that Sunday afternoon ? When she 
 started to shake hands he casually remarked: 'Will 
 you excuse me while I wash my hands ? There was a 
 murder down there in the road and I got bloody.' 
 And that, mind you, his first appointment to preach 
 in our county — a heathen Jap studying for the minis- 
 try in this Christian land. Oh ! we need you, and you 
 are doing a world of good among us. Just think of 
 
 137 
 
3n t6e j^antaijalas; 
 
 what a difference there is in Coon Bletcher and hii, 
 wife since you've been a friend to them." 
 
 "But you know Harry did more for Coon that I 
 have done." 
 
 Fannie laid a firm hand over Miss Wells's mouth. 
 "Will you be pleased to abstain from disputation which 
 profiteth nothing, Right Reverend little woman? You 
 are the salt of the earth, and you are savoring the very 
 spot in the universe that needs you, and you shall 
 not have any more such blue Monday discourse. Come 
 with me. Susan went down to the spring to churn an 
 hour ago, I pine, I thirst, I hone for buttermilk. 
 Come." 
 
 138 
 
CHAPTER XVIL 
 
 THE lover's coming. 
 
 "I have been sick, depressed, out of love with Hfe, 
 and I need you sorely. I do not expect to stay long 
 at Eagle's Nest in any event, but if you let me come 
 to you I will hurry across from some convenient point 
 on the IMurphy road. You will let me come?" His 
 letter had run thus. The words appealed to the 
 woman-heart more than any impassioned eloquence, 
 and as the time came on for his arrival she found 
 herself anxiously expectant, longing for the sight of 
 her lover, imagining the look of him, the glad light 
 leaping to his eyes, the old compelling mastery of his 
 presence. 
 
 In the afternoon of the day he was expected Fannie 
 announced that she was going to help about the kitchen 
 and dining-room. 
 
 "I propose to make myself invisible to the gentle- 
 man till tea-time, then I shall dazzle him by my beauty 
 and culinary skill. In the meantime. Linda, suppose 
 you adorn yourself and go to meet your lord. Really, 
 I think it would be a good plan for you to take Miss 
 Wells and go for a walk in the Nantahala direction. 
 You might be gathering flowers, but that's entirely too 
 suggestive of Persephone and the infernal regions, to 
 say nothing of the dark-browed gentleman who drove 
 the chariot. Go along with you, and take care of your 
 over-burdened heart while I devise some tempting 
 
 139 
 
in tht jeantatjalag 
 
 dessert to supplement Aunt Sarah's fried chicken and 
 eggs and such." 
 
 "Shall we go, Linda?" asked Miss Wells. 
 
 "I think I should like the woods," answered Linda, 
 and later, dressed in simple white and accompanied by 
 her friend, the girl went toward the belt of trees that 
 borders the little valley beyond the house as you go 
 toward the enclosing mountains. 
 
 The sweet stillness and all the solemn beauty of 
 the scene sank into the heart of the girl. As they 
 came into the cool depths of the grove Linda mur- 
 mured ; 
 
 " 'Into the woods my Master went, 
 And he was clean forspent, forspent.' 
 
 I wish it was possible for me to tell Sidney Lanier 
 what he has been to me. That must be one of the 
 greatest rewards a writer has, the knowing that his 
 words have helped others to a better life." 
 
 "You seem to have the one high conception of 
 literature. But your great critics would tell you that's 
 a child's view, that literature is only truth in portrayal 
 of life, whatever the effect." 
 
 "Oh, I don't believe it. Doing right or wrong 
 makes up so much of life, surely whatever bears on 
 that is worth everything to us." As she said the 
 words her mind went back to the evenings when Le- 
 droux had read to her and Mrs. De Jarnette and had 
 discussed the books afterward. His views had jarred 
 on her then and now the thought of it gave her 
 poignant grief. Always there was the discordant note 
 of cynicism, the scoffing at any ethical tendency. 
 
 "Tolstoi? He has elements of greatness, I grant 
 you, and sometimes he is fine, but he continually ob- 
 scures his power by preaching. 
 
 140 
 
M tht i^antaf)ala0 
 
 "Poe is your true American poet writing for all time 
 and places. Lowell, and, perhaps, Longfellow, might 
 have written poetry if they had been able to get away 
 from the New England conscience." 
 
 How well she remembered such phrases, burned into 
 her brain at the time by the charm of the man, his per- 
 fection of manner, his dominating intellectuality. 
 
 Linda did not speak of these things to her friend. 
 
 All the tenderness of her nature had been stirred by 
 
 Ledroux's letter, and she could not bear to criticise 
 
 him. 
 
 * * * 
 
 They met him there where the road winds around 
 the rocky hillside and comes steeply down to cross a 
 ravine. He dismounted, and, leading his horse, 
 walked beside her. The glory of a mountain wood 
 was about them, the richness of green things, the fine 
 aura which is too elusive and delicate to be called an 
 odor, but suggests the breath of a hama-dryad. The 
 soft haze of approaching evening surrounded them, the 
 half-sad and wholly tender stillness that falls on the 
 woods when birds are quieting down for the night and 
 only send out a few faint notes of love, calling their 
 mates who are still a-wing. 
 
 "You seem some spirit of the wilds, some dryad 
 whose home is here. I have often fancied you just 
 this way, coming toward me in the dusk of the forest 
 — and in white, too ! Let me touch you, Linda, and 
 see that you are quite real and not a nymph who flies 
 at my approach." He laid his hand gently on hers. 
 
 They had paused for the horse to drink from the 
 crystal waters of the brook. Miss Wells had walked 
 on, leaving the lovers alone. 
 
 Linda looked up in his face. Something had 
 changed him. It was as if a blight — just the first faint 
 10 141 
 
In the laama^alag 
 
 touch of age — had dimmed the brilHance of his eyes, 
 had hung across his face a shadow, dusky, if almost 
 imperceptible. 
 
 "You are not well. I see it." 
 
 "I am not. And, you know, men are impatient with 
 that sort of thing. We need to be braced by a woman. 
 I do need you, Linda. You are my hope of salvation 
 for time and eternity." 
 
 "Don't, O don't ! No living being can be that to 
 you." 
 
 "You have unsettled me, little girl; now you must 
 do your best to fix my faith." 
 
 "I don't understand." 
 
 "Don't you see? Long ago I had pushed aside all 
 questions of a religious sort except as they were 
 forced on me. Agnosticism seemed to me the only 
 rational attitude. I cannot reason myself into any- 
 thing else, but of late, since knowing you, and espe- 
 cially since you belong to me, I do not find myself 
 able to drive these things out of my mind. Life is 
 worth more to me than ever before, yet the very full- 
 ness of it saddens me. Shall I hold you a year, ten, 
 twenty, even thirty years, simply to lose you forever? 
 The thought is maddening, and I know nowhere to 
 turn for relief unless you can help me. Can't you, 
 sweetheart? Come to me now. Marry me to-morrow 
 — to-day. Will you?" 
 
 "O, I can't, I can't." 
 
 "You mean you do not love me well enough. Is it 
 that?" 
 
 "No, no. I do love you, but there are other things 
 to think of. I will get ready soon, but not now. You 
 do not mean it?" 
 
 "Perhaps it was unreasonable of me to expect it," 
 he said quietly as they started on the homeward road. 
 
 142 
 
In tht i^antafjalas 
 
 Meeting her lover thus, his appeal to her, lifted the 
 girl to a high plane and smoothed out all difficulties 
 she might have foreseen in bringing him into her 
 aunt's family. 
 
 In the case of her grandfather the uplift of her 
 emotions had made her indifferent to the luxury of 
 his home. Now the same exaltation brought her to 
 realize the slight difference there is between the un- 
 lettered and the cultured where the vital things of 
 the heart are at issue. 
 
 When they reached the house Aliss Wells and Mrs. 
 Gentry met them on the porch, and if the latter felt 
 any fear of the city-bred man it showed itself only in 
 additional quiet of manner. 
 
 While Linda had not been over-communicative 
 toward Mr. Ledroux she had been honest. He knew 
 the intellectual barrenness of her early life and how 
 Miss Wells, with her friendship and sweet womanly 
 wisdom, had stirred the sleeping nature of the girl. 
 
 Thus forewarned, and filled, moreover, with the cus- 
 tomary notions of the mountaineer's ignorance, law- 
 lessness and skill at moonshining, there was no dan- 
 ger that Ledroux would talk above the heads of 
 his audience. 
 
 The evening passed off pleasantly, though Bob and 
 Jack refused to eat before the new guest. 
 
 "Shucks ! I can't eat without chokin' before stran- 
 gers, nohow. Miss Fannie, and I'll tend to the pony 
 an' feed his horse an' wait for the last table." 
 
 "Jack, Jack, don't murder the President's English 
 so. You mean you can't eat before strangers with- 
 out choking, and you shouldn't say 'nohow'." 
 
 "Now, Miss Fannie, don't you go to goin' back on 
 me, that way. Callie and Susan worry me mor'n a 
 little about my grammar. They air gitting pow'ful 
 
 143 
 
M the i^antal)ala0 
 
 airish, it 'pears to me. A feller hain't got time to 
 watch ever' breath he draws. He's got to have a 
 little while to grow in." 
 
 "But I want you to speak correctly. Some day you 
 may be a big lawyer or preacher, then you'll thank 
 me for trying to purify your English." 
 
 "Do you kyer what sort o' talk I have, sho' 'nough?" 
 
 "Certainly, Jack." 
 
 "Then I'll be doggoned if I don't do better." 
 
 144 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE REUNION. 
 
 To the city-worn man those days in the Nantahalas 
 were idylHc. The lure of the mountains, the old 
 primeval call back to nature, made themselves felt and 
 heard. They lived much in the open. As at Eagle's 
 Nest, the year before, he and Linda would take long 
 tramps through the woods, usually with Miss Wells 
 and Fannie or the Gentry girls accompanying them. A 
 camping party to the Wayah Bald was made up, with 
 Miss Wells as chaperone. Elise Williams and her 
 brother joined them in this trip and with Fannie in 
 good trim, as she announced, there was no lack of 
 fun for the younger, or livelier members of the party. 
 
 While on this excursion reference was made to the 
 family gathering which was to be held at the Williams' 
 home within a few days, and Elise extended an invi- 
 tation to Mr. Ledroux. 
 
 "I'm dreadfully uneasy about it, though," declared 
 Elise to Fannie later. "He seems so — he has such 
 beautiful manners." 
 
 "Beautiful ! Beau-eau-eautiful," murmured Fannie. 
 "He is such an adorable mixture of Sir Charles Gran- 
 dison and Beau Brummel you fear that Cousin Henry 
 might take large bites of pie in his presence, or Cousin 
 John might disgrace the connection by dropping a g 
 or eliding an /. It's a critical situation you are in. I 
 suggest that you send out letters except to those who 
 
 145 
 
Kn tht Ii5antai)a!a0 
 
 have 'phones, and implore them to watch their g's and 
 I's as well as mind their p's and q's!" This last was 
 delivered in a tragic whisper. 
 
 "You're as full of nonsense as ever, Fannie Ever- 
 ett," and Elise laughed. 
 
 "You mean by that, you consider me a wise, young 
 
 philosopher, who has gripped Life by the right hand 
 
 and means to make the most of her. Mr, Ledroux 
 
 does look the polished man of the world ; but, privately, 
 
 if I were you, I'd give myself no uneasiness. Real 
 
 manhood is the thing that counts after all." 
 
 * * * 
 
 The morning of the reunion found Linda, her 
 guests. Miss Wells and the two Gentry girls joining 
 the crowd that drove through the big gate and into 
 the grove that surrounds the Williams home. Bug- 
 gies, wagons, surreys, filled with happy-looking peo- 
 ple, — laughing children along with soberer age, 
 thronged the place and gave it a holiday aspect. 
 
 Elise's brother met Linda's party at the gate and 
 led the conveyance around through the grove to the 
 front of the house where the ladies of the Williams 
 family welcomed the party and introduced them to 
 various members of the connection who happened to 
 be near. 
 
 The crowd was falling into groups. Here and 
 there on the spacious lawn were young people sit- 
 ting on the grass laughing and talking, while on 
 the side porches and the big front rooms and hall the 
 older people were settling for conversation. 
 
 As Elise led them into the house she paused near 
 a group of elderly ladies who were sitting on the 
 front porch. 
 
 "Linda, Fannie ; all of you, I want you to meet 
 our Aunt Janet, Mrs. Thompson," Fannie spoke in low 
 
 146 
 
Kn tbt jfi^antai)ala0 
 
 tones. "We think she is a great woman. She is 
 certainly one of the best women I have ever known. 
 Shall I introduce you now?" 
 
 "Certainly. Yes, indeed," Linda moved onward, 
 followed by the rest of the party. 
 
 The center of the group and the oldest of its 
 members was a white-haired lady upon whose face 
 the record of beautiful years had left its mark. 
 Dressed plainly and with absolute disregard of pre- 
 vailing style, there was still something — an indescrib- 
 able something — that marked her as being superior to 
 the accident of clothes or other outside accompani- 
 ments. In youth she could not have been pretty. 
 Her features were too strong and rugged to suggest 
 feminine beauty, but a wonderful charm rested upon 
 her. That face was so full of benignity, so alight 
 with beauty of soul, everyone felt its power. She 
 shook hands with the young people as they were 
 presented to her. 
 
 "Will you sit here with the old folks or would 
 you rather be out among the younger ones? We 
 like to have our friends feel perfectly at home when 
 they attend these gatherings." 
 
 "There are others I'd like to have you meet. Later 
 you may come back to Aunt Janet." 
 
 A few moments in the house, meeting different 
 ones, mainly elderly and middle-aged ladies, then on 
 to the lawn where the party was broken up, some 
 lingering with one cluster of youngsters, while others 
 passed on with Elise. 
 
 "Ah ! I didn't know you were here, Harry, You 
 remember Mr. Ledroux, Mr. Turner?" Linda had 
 passed near two young men who were seated under 
 a tree in earnest conversation. Glancing back she 
 recognized Harry and paused. He came forward 
 
 147 
 
In tfje Ii^antal)ala0 
 
 and offered his hand. "Yes, my friend here — Mr. 
 Lytle, Miss Graham, Mr, Ledroux — was good 
 enough to ask me. He's on the inside, you know. 
 Are you a collateral, Ben?" 
 
 "No ; a direct descendant. If there's anything to 
 be made out of being a Selden here, to-day, I want to 
 claim it all. I shall expect as big a slice of the old- 
 est great-aunt's cake as any of them." 
 
 "Is a great-aunt's cake one of the features of the 
 occasion?" asked Ledroux. 
 
 "Yes ; a replica of the one made for her wedding 
 feast." 
 
 "Mr. Ledroux, I will leave you to the care of these 
 young men. I want the girls a few minutes." 
 
 A little later Elise called to young Lytle to come, 
 as he was needed in arranging the table. 
 
 "An unusual gathering this, Mr. Turner," said 
 Ledroux. "American families scatter so widely a 
 reunion of this size is out of the ordinary. I take it 
 that most of the people here are members of the 
 Selden family." 
 
 "There are only a few guests, I believe. It strikes 
 me that it is unusual in the make-up of the crowd 
 also, as well as in its size." 
 
 "I agree with you. It speaks well for your moun- 
 tains that they breed such men and women." 
 
 "I did not mean to draw from you anything in 
 praise of our mountains, — I am a native myself, sir. 
 But I had just been looking over the crowd as they 
 gathered. Some are strangers to me, but Lytle and 
 I were discussing them. He was giving me infor- 
 mation. You see over there several men — near that 
 oak?" and Harry pointed in the direction indicated. 
 
 "Yes ?" tentatively. 
 
 "The tall man, the very slender one, is in charge 
 
 148 
 
Kn tbt Bantajbalag 
 
 of the biggest church enterprise in the South. The 
 young fellow standing near him, talking to him just 
 now, is a physician in Asheville. After graduating 
 from one of our State colleges he took his degree at 
 Columbia. His brother, sitting on the grass there 
 with the young folks, graduated at the same college, 
 then spent two years at Cornell. His sister, who is 
 just back from a trip to Europe, is about here some- 
 where. A graduate of Columbia, she is. Back with 
 the tall man you see the sons of Mrs. Thompson, 
 graduates from a Georgia college — but I bore you." 
 
 "Not at all, ]\Ir. Turner ; I am interested." 
 
 "The youngster over there between those two girls 
 is one of the brightest boys at our University, while 
 his father, who is too busy to attend these meetings, 
 does brilliant surgical work, — work that would do 
 credit to any city surgeon. He is said to have one 
 of the finest private libraries in the State. You will 
 pardon me if I seem to boast of our section — our 
 little corner. But you must know we would become 
 sensitive after having our ignorance and degradation 
 exploited from one end of the Union to the other." 
 
 "I see — and understand." 
 
 "Why, sir, I find almost as much misapprehension 
 about the 'mountain whites,* down among the fellows 
 from eastern Carolina as you might be expected to 
 have, or as a Northerner would have. At first the 
 boys in the University watched us as if we were ex- 
 pected to be forever doing some outlandish thing, and 
 it was a source of wonder to them when we managed 
 to speak English that they could understand. But I 
 beg your pardon. The subject is one that sometimes 
 rouses me, and I have allowed myself to be tiresome." 
 
 "No apologies are necessary, Mr. Turner. I admire 
 your spirit, and I do not wonder that you resent the 
 
 149 
 
In tbt n^antabalag 
 
 attitude so many hold toward the mountain people. 
 It's due to misinformation. Mr. Charles Dudley War- 
 ner says in his 'Tour on Horseback' through the Caro- 
 lina mountains, that he had thought nothing in Ameri- 
 can civilization could surprise him, but that he was 
 surprised at the Worth home in Ashe County. I own 
 to being- astonished at finding so much education in 
 an isolated section." 
 
 ''Our little county seat, the home of a large part 
 of the Selden family, may be exceptional, but I have 
 thought its very isolation, its quiet, encouraged read- 
 ing and thorough culture." 
 
 "Doubtless." 
 
 In a few moments Linda and Elise returned. Not 
 long afterward "dinner" was announced. 
 
 A long temporary table was placed in the grove. 
 A knoll gently sloping toward the house offered an 
 ideal place for the meal. Here the crowd gathered 
 and, standing about the table or in groups nearby, 
 bowed their heads reverently while the minister in- 
 voked a blessing. From every home represented by 
 members of the family, except a few who were in the 
 county as guests for the occasion, hampers had been 
 brought filled with substantial food as well as the 
 most tempting delicacies. These had been emptied 
 and spread on the table. Bright-looking girls and 
 motherly women busied themselves in serving the 
 meal to the crowd, some of them scattered through- 
 out the grove. 
 
 The invited guests were made to feel that they 
 were conferring pleasure by attending, and it pleased 
 Linda to see that Mr. Ledroux was enjoying the sim- 
 plicity and informality of the occasion. 
 
 Toward the close of the meal Linda was standing 
 alone at some distance from the table when Mrs. 
 
 150 
 
In tbt ii5antal)ala0 
 
 Thompson came to her with a cup of coffee. "I hope 
 you are enjoying our gathering, Miss Graham. Of 
 course it can't mean much to outsiders, but it has al- 
 ways been one of the greatest pleasures of my life." 
 
 Linda answered pleasantly, and Mrs. Thompson 
 motioned to a seat nearby. *T am glad to have this 
 opportunity of speaking to you. There's something I 
 want to say We've all heard of your grand- 
 father. It's a very pretty romance to us, but I can 
 imagine how much it means to you. You do not re- 
 member your mother, I suppose?" 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "It was of her I wished to speak. She was in our 
 home once — an hour or so. It was during my hus- 
 band's lifetime and I like to think of his kindness to 
 her. She had come in on the hack from Georgia. 
 Someone had told her that Mr. Thompson might send 
 her on to her sister's and she came to see him about 
 
 it It was only a few months before your birth, 
 
 my dear." 
 
 There were tears in the kind eyes as she went on : 
 
 "She was so young and quite pretty, and we were 
 
 exceedingly sorry for her. I wanted to take her 
 in my arms and mother her ; but there's nothing you 
 
 can say to comfort a stranger . I made her stay 
 
 and rest awhile. She wouldn't agree to spend the 
 night with us, but we had her take a cup of coffee 
 and a bite to eat. Mr. Thompson sent her on and 
 wouldn't accept pay for it. He had known your 
 
 mother's father and he was anxious, anyway, to 
 
 befriend her. We inquired many times about her 
 and heard of her death and that you were in the home 
 of a good man. Dear, I felt that she was a good 
 woman and I just wanted to tell you so — after all 
 these years." She laid her hand on Linda's lap: "I 
 
 151 
 
M tbt Jl3antal)ala0 
 
 have made you cry when I only meant to make you 
 happier by telling you how your sweet mother im- 
 pressed two strangers. Don't cry any more now or 
 I shall not forgive myself for spoiling your day." 
 
 In a few moments others came up and the conver- 
 sation became general, but the great heart of the 
 old lady had accomplished its mission — had quickened 
 to new life the higher feelings of the girl, and given 
 her a tender sense of nearness to the personality of 
 her mother. 
 
 At a late hour the crowd again assembled in the 
 grove to attend to the business part of the meeting. 
 The exercises were opened with prayer by one of the 
 ministers present, then came readings and talks bear- 
 ing on the lives of several members of the family who 
 had died during the past year. Throughout this part 
 of the exercises Linda felt that Mr. Ledroux had lost 
 the bright mood which had possessed him much of the 
 day. The cynic was once more in the ascendant and 
 the girl was unhappy. 
 
 For a time after the more serious part of the 
 exercises were over there were short speeches from 
 different ones, a bit of wit here, a flashing repartee 
 there, and the spirit of fun ran riot without any 
 coarseness, any unseemly thrusting, one at another. 
 Ledroux looked on with interest. Turning to Linda, 
 he said : "This is better than any after-dinner speaking 
 I have ever heard." 
 
 "You notice the two men who are sparring so con- 
 stantly at each other? They are brothers and part 
 Irish," remarked Harry who was standing in the 
 group of which Ledroux formed a part. 
 
 "An explanation of their wit, you think? A bright 
 fam.ily anyway, it seems." 
 
 152 
 
in the Il5anta})ala0 
 
 Finally there was a speech from Mr. Selden, the 
 minister of the family, then a call for his wife. 
 
 When she came forward a hush fell upon the 
 crowd. A woman of striking- presence, dignified, cul- 
 tured, refined, she impressed all about her with her 
 charm as well as her power. 
 
 In words that fell like music on the ear, she talked 
 to them of their family, the meaning of these reunions, 
 how they should become an incentive to high en- 
 deavor. Those who heard forgot the passing moments 
 and listened eagerly for further words as they flowed 
 on, beautiful, thoughtful, thought-provoking. And 
 through it all rang a clear call to the Christ-life, a 
 call sweet, persuasive, insistent. When she closed 
 there was silence for a little space, then one of the old 
 men spoke softly, asking the minister to pronounce a 
 benediction. The crowd broke up quietly, some with 
 tears dimming their eyes as they bade each other good- 
 by, others leaving a friendly jest in the hearer's 
 memory. 
 
 Mrs. Selden's talk stirred Linda profoundly, but a 
 single look at Ledroux's face sent a chill to her heart. 
 
 "Will it always be so? Am I to hide the best, the 
 
 sweetest feelings from him in the fear that he will 
 think them silly or childish?" 
 
 The free spirit within her rebelled and later, when 
 Fannie and Miss Wells spoke of Mrs. Selden's talk 
 as being the one preeminent thing of the day, Linda 
 joined in with emphatic praise of it, in spite of the 
 fact that Ledroux was listening with that half smile 
 which she had learned to associate with his most 
 caustic moods. 
 
 153 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 PERCHANCE TO DREAM. 
 
 The change to the invigorating air of the moun- 
 tains, the sweet restful days there, association with the 
 woman he loved, had braced Ledroux, and, apparently, 
 had given him new life and strength. Linda's first 
 letters from him bore signs of renewed hopefulness, 
 but soon the light faded again. The girl knew he 
 was unhappy. She feared he was ill beyond what he 
 acknowdedged. She wrote him anxiously, insistently 
 — then waited. 
 
 The man dragged at his work, the heart gone out of 
 it for him. He lost again the power to sleep, again 
 resorted to the drug that numbed his faculties and 
 gave him semblance of sleep. Then driven by his 
 physical and mental distress he went to a specialist 
 
 in the city. 
 
 * * * 
 
 Was the sun still shining? Or was that dusky light 
 the fault of eyes that sometimes, of late, had played 
 him false? Men and women on the street seemed to 
 move in a soft haze. Vague shapes they were, now 
 indistinct and wavering, now looming portentous be- 
 fore him — people of a giant breed who belonged not to 
 his race or time. 
 
 He could not bear to go home, that home whose 
 beauty and hallowed memories he had violated by an 
 unholy life. Half blindly he struck out for one of 
 the parks. He longed for silence and the breath of 
 
 154 
 
In tht jeanta!)ala0 
 
 the woodland. He would feel freer, that awful grip- 
 ping at his heart might let up. What was it the man 
 had said, anyway? Incurable? But sometimes they 
 made mistakes — these big men who looked their pa- 
 tients over and asked a few questions, then sent them 
 out to face their fate. Their fate? God in heaven — 
 if there be a God ! what a mockery is life ! — a few 
 years of youth, energy, abounding vitality, then the 
 battle, long or short, to renew the wasted forces, to 
 keep going the fire that threatens to fade out at every 
 adverse breath of air. 
 
 He reached the park and found it almost deserted. 
 It must be too early for people to be out for pleas- 
 ure. He looked at his watch. Was it only an hour 
 ago that he had gone into that man's office ? It seemed 
 an age. He remembered dimly how he had looked 
 with approval on the fittings of the room into which 
 he was shown — the beauty of it, easy chairs and 
 couches, softly tinted walls with rare pictures, choice 
 books, all the things that suggest the refined use of 
 money. The man must be a connoisseur as well as a 
 famous physician, he had thought. At a later hour 
 he had passed through the same room from the doc- 
 tor's private office and mentally cursed the elegance 
 that mocked him in his misery — elegance that hinted 
 at the best things of life and reminded him what 
 one would lose when he went forth on that great final 
 quest. He might live this way for a few months — six, 
 perhaps — the end might come at any time. 
 
 "I am sorry to tell you this," the doctor had said 
 at the last ; "but it is not my custom to evade." 
 "Curse him ! he might have spared me a little," 
 thought the tortured man, then swore at himself for 
 a fool since he had been drawn to the physician by 
 his reputation for absolute truthfulness. 
 
 155 
 
Sn tSe j^nntaljalas 
 
 He went toward the most secluded part of the 
 park. How the woodland brought back the thought 
 of Linda — the look of her as she came toward him 
 from the background of greenness! Linda? Linda? 
 What about her? How long was it before they were 
 to be married? Everything had grown confused and 
 indistinct in his brain. Was it still summer time? 
 The trees, the grass, the flowers bore no mark of win- 
 ter's coming. Everything was aflush with life. Only 
 he carried about him the sign of merciless decay. In 
 the autumn they were to marry. He had plead for 
 the event to be earlier, but she would not agree. It 
 was all coming back to him. Out of his intellectual 
 numbness, this torpor of thought and feeling Linda 
 stood forth, a distinct figure. Beautiful, aye — as a 
 Greek goddess, but full of womanish notions about 
 right and wrong. Cast in a narrow mold ! Would 
 she be willing to marry him if she knew everything? 
 Did she love him well enough? His death-warrant 
 would not stop her. Duty would send her, if need be, 
 to the very foot of a gallows — but would she go on, 
 knowing his past — that past which had haunted him 
 with hellish persistence of late? 
 
 He had meant to tell her some day, after they had 
 been married, — perhaps years after. He didn't know 
 how other men managed those things. Of course 
 he had not been worse than most men, but he imagined 
 few of them had the courage to be honest with their 
 wives. But about Linda there was something — the 
 look of those clear eyes, perhaps, that made one feel 
 
 like telling all the truth. And now ah ! life was a 
 
 blur to him. If that man was right and only a short 
 time was left to him, ought he to think of allowing 
 her to join her life to his broken one? Ought he to 
 let her go through the misery of marrying a dying 
 
 156 
 
M tbc s^mtnlMm 
 
 man just to brighten his last hours? If they were mar- 
 ried would not his unhappiness be added to because of 
 the haunting dread of her feeling when she found out 
 the truth of his past ? . . . Ought ! ought ! The word 
 had given him little concern. His creed had not in- 
 cluded its sterner meanings. His view of life had 
 been the sybarite's. What right had a Creator to put 
 a man into a world of pleasures with capacity for 
 enjoyment and then bring punishment upon him for 
 grasping what was held out to him ? 
 
 He would go, yes — that's it. He would consult an 
 old physician who had retired from practice long 
 ago because of his age. Years before he had been 
 the family physician for the Ledrouxs. His mother 
 had commanded his services at the last. Great friends 
 they had been. For her sake the old man might 
 give him time and careful attention. Men still said he 
 had wonderful skill, and occasionally one of the phy- 
 sicians of the city would carry a complicated case to 
 him for consideration and advice. . . . Back into the 
 heart of the city again, slow of foot, but unwilling to 
 rest the tired body. He must go home for a moment 
 then out again to see the doctor. A short time in 
 his own house, a few directions to a servant, the 
 tramp through the crowded streets, then the man of 
 fate with his verdict. Not a word of the specialist 
 at first, but point by point, slowly, painstakingly, the 
 older physician went over the ground, sounded, tested, 
 queried, — tried the mettle of each separate organ, then 
 went back and tried again till the evening hours 
 waned and men on the streets were seeking their 
 homes. 
 
 Then the two men looked into each other's eyes 
 — long and searchingly. 
 U 157 
 
Un tfte Jl3anta6ala0 
 
 "Your mother was a brave woman and a 
 
 Christian." 
 
 "I understand. How long a time?" 
 
 "Not more than six months, I think, — a year at the 
 outside." 
 
 "About what Earlham told me." 
 
 "Earlham? Then you needn't have come to me. 
 He makes no mistakes of that sort. If your heart had 
 been the only trouble he might have put you off, but 
 when he tells you a thing, depend on its truth." 
 
 "And there is nothing — absolutely nothing? I was 
 to be married in the fall." 
 
 "Ah ! I didn't know. There is nothing to be done — 
 so far as my knowledge goes. And Earlham is up 
 with the very latest in his line." 
 
 "Yes," the man's brain was mercifully benumbed. 
 He seemed to himself to be discussing the fate of an- 
 other. 
 
 "I have heard of you during these later years, Le- 
 droux. For your mother's sake I would have been 
 glad to be your friend, but you seemed to avoid me — 
 remember? Let us pass over that point of your life 
 ... In these later years I have been hearing that you 
 were making a great success at the bar — a natural 
 thing for a Ledroux — but, now and then, a rumor 
 has reached me that . . . hurt — hurt. . . . This is no 
 time to bring up the past against you, Telfair, Is it?" 
 The old man bent forward and put his fingers lightly 
 on Ledroux's wrist, as if to count his pulse. 
 
 "How old are you? I was your mother's physician 
 at your birth, but the long years confuse my memory." 
 
 "I will soon be thirty-eight." 
 
 "A young man yet. I am old enough to be your 
 grandfather, and there are some things I'd like to 
 say to you, if I may?" 
 
 158 
 
In tbt i^antalialas; 
 
 Ledroux bowed his head and murmured assent. 
 "In our student days we men of the scalpel see 
 so much of the purely physical side of life, I think we 
 all pass through a period of doubt when we are 
 slipping loose from our old moorings and out into a 
 wide sea — a troubled sea. If we hold ourselves in 
 hand during this time, we usually get back — perhaps 
 not back into the old beliefs exactly, but back into a 
 sense of the spiritual in life. And any right-thinking 
 man in our profession will tell you that, just as surely 
 as I've been counting your pulse, so surely we find the 
 spiritual heart-beats of men and women. It's there 
 always, the soul of man, throbbing, throbbing — some- 
 times beating itself out in its struggle after God. 
 
 "There's no denying it. There's no evading it. The 
 one tremendous fact in life is God Almighty. 
 
 "We can no more get away from Him than we can 
 rid ourselves of the body's thralldom here on earth. 
 
 "I have stood by many a dying man and woman. 
 Some have gone out with no word ; but give me the 
 sight of one who faces the great change with a settled 
 faith — such faith as your mother had, Telfair." 
 
 Ledroux looked at him in wordless agony. 
 
 The doctor went on : 'T have wished often that I 
 could draw you to me in some way, but old age is 
 not attractive to young men and my life is so shut 
 in there was slight chance of our meeting unless you 
 had sought me out. Let me be your friend now. 
 Come to me sometimes, will you not? An old man 
 who has watched the shadows lengthen these years 
 might help you." 
 
 "Thank you." 
 
 The doctor waited for further answer, then went 
 on : "They told me that you had discarded what I 
 would call your mother's religion, that you claim the 
 
 159 
 
In tU jeantai)ala0 
 
 only reasonable attitude toward these disputed things 
 is that of the agnostic. Would you mind talking to 
 me? I, too, passed through my age of doubt. There 
 was a time when it seemed to me I must lose my grip 
 on God because miracles were unthinkable, the resur- 
 rection of the body past belief — everything at chaos 
 in my mind. 
 
 " 'There's more faith in honest doubt, believe me, 
 than in half your creeds!' If you have fought hon- 
 estly for your faith the time will come when you will 
 find peace." Again there was silence. "Do I talk 
 platitudes? There are still many things about which 
 I do not think as in my early youth. I concede that 
 we have gone to extremes in trying to hold to the 
 letter of the Bible, but . . . ah, I am talking like one 
 of the foolish. Am skimming the surface at a time 
 when I would go down into the very deeps and plumb 
 the still waters. Telfair, there's truth in the heart 
 of God's universe, and truth in the soul of man to 
 respond to the Larger Truth." The doctor sank back 
 in his chair. 
 
 Ledroux got up as with an effort and began walking 
 slowly up and down the room, talking in a low voice : 
 "I was a mere boy when I found it impossible to be- 
 lieve — as my mother did and as most church people of 
 my acquaintance seemed to believe. If there is an Al- 
 mighty God — thus I reasoned — if He is the one 
 Creator, then He is the origin of sin and allows the 
 suffering of the world. . . . The old Calvinist's God 
 seemed to me an awful monstrosity, the unlovable 
 creation of unloving minds. As I grew older and the 
 world of books opened out before me I read eagerly 
 many things that drove me further from the old 
 beliefs. I was young and, perhaps, there was a touch 
 of pride in my dealings with these questions. Looking 
 
 160 
 
3n tlje laantaljalas 
 
 back I can see that much of my reading must have 
 been done in the search for something to bolster up 
 my own convictions. 
 
 "Every act of a man's Hfe, if not obedient to the 
 hide-bound laws of your modern Pharisaism brings 
 upon the sinner condemnation that embitters him. I 
 did not care to worship so stern a Master nor to fel- 
 lowship with such rigid Puritans. Thus it happened 
 that after my mother's death the very fact that she 
 had been a religious woman drove me the other way. 
 I could see that people looked askance at me for not 
 following in her footsteps and the unreasonableness 
 of it all sent me adrift. 
 
 "As I grew older and saw deeper into life many 
 things stirred me to a feeling of contempt for the 
 smug-conventionally religious, those who are in the 
 church for the respectability they get out of it. Long 
 ago I made up my mind that money and good social 
 position would hide one's sins in the eyes of ambitious 
 mothers if they found the sinner looking with favor 
 on their marriageable daughters. . . . But at last I 
 met a girl of rare beauty — a fair, untarnished soul, 
 absolutely without the ambitions that I had watched 
 with scorn in other women. She was poor and be- 
 longed to obscurity, but as she found me drawn toward 
 her she receded. . . . After all my heart was hers, the 
 very best that's in me roused to meet the good that 
 reigns throughout her being, I found that she, too, 
 cared — in some degree, not with the abandon that some 
 women might have in loving — but she agreed to marry 
 me. . . . There have been times that I could almost 
 believe in your God, in her God, since she gave me 
 her promise. . . . Now," Ledroux stopped in front of 
 the older man, "how do you suppose I feel? Just 
 when there's a chance of real life for me — with love 
 
 161 
 
In the iaantaf)ala0 
 
 and trust and purity joined to my broken life, bracing 
 me for better things, leading me to a knowledge of 
 the highest, — just when this happens, the old malevo- 
 lence gets in its work. If I marry her it is only to 
 bring misery upon her, to add constantly to my own 
 unhappiness. What is there left for me?" 
 
 "Always there's the hope of a larger life, Telfair." 
 
 "Conditioned on what ? That I believe things which 
 my mind cannot grasp? I cannot go over the old 
 ground again. I am too tired to thresh out the old 
 straw. It has yielded chafif always, why should I look 
 for grain now?" 
 
 "It's a thing difficult to argue about, my boy, but 
 you must see it — this great truth that we are intended 
 for something more than a short existence here, 
 trammelled by the body and its imperious demands." 
 
 "Then if I accept a belief in a Creator who is all- 
 wise, all-loving, I shall claim that no child of his crea- 
 tion is 'lost,' to use your phrase. It would be malevo- 
 lence indeed that would condemn a man to endless 
 suflfering for the quality of his brain. Oh ! it's all 
 dark to me," and Ledroux passed his hand across his 
 forehead. "The sadness of life outweighs its pleasure 
 — always. Surely the Father you tell me of would do 
 somewhat in another life to make up for the sorrow 
 of this. I cannot believe as you do, as Linda does. If 
 I accept the idea of God, of Heaven, then I will hold 
 to the faith that every child of His, faulty, frail, 
 however he may be, will somewhere find peace and 
 pardon. Now I must go. You look tired. I beg your 
 pardon for having kept you so long. Good night," 
 and he held out his hand. 
 
 "Good night, and God bless you. Come to me 
 
 soon." 
 
 The old man walked to the door and watched Le- 
 
 162 
 
In tlje iaanta!ja!a0 
 
 droux go out into the night, then turned and going 
 back sat long in his lonehness, his heart aching for 
 the sorrows of the world. 
 
 The house was quiet when Ledroux let himself in. 
 He had given orders that no one should stay up for 
 him. He went directly to his bedroom and sat down 
 at a desk that he sometimes used. It had been his 
 mother's, and for a number of years after her death 
 he did not allow it in his room, but since his en- 
 gagement he had moved it in himself and invariably 
 used it when writing to Linda. 
 
 He wrote rapidly for a few minutes on legal cap, 
 folded the paper and pigeonholed it, then drew a sheet 
 of note paper toward him and began writing slowly. 
 A few lines and he tried another sheet as if dissatis- 
 fied, another and still another. Finally he laid his 
 pen down, got up and paced the floor with firm steps, 
 and again seating himself wrote a few lines, then 
 folded the paper, enclosed it in an envelope, sealed 
 and addressed it. Going quietly out of the house 
 he dropped the letter in the nearest box and again 
 sought his room. After undressing he went to a 
 little cupboard set deep in the wall, took out a small 
 bottle and poured a draught. His hand shook as 
 he held the glass up. "How easy to end it all," he 
 thought. "If one but dared. 
 
 "The ages have honored Socrates for his fortitude 
 when drinking the hemlock — why execrate the man of 
 to-day who rids himself of a graceless gift?" 
 
 He walked to the table on which lay a few books, 
 picked up his mother's Bible and slowly turned the 
 leaves, catching the words here and there : "I have 
 fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I 
 have kept the faith." "What a man he was — Paul ! 
 
 163 
 
an tU il5anta!)ala$ 
 
 A fighter to the core, and such a brain ! A few 
 more like him and the world would be taken for 
 Christ. 
 
 "What if it's all true — this mystical story that has 
 influenced the world so wonderfully? The immaculate 
 conception, the resurrection of the body, and the 
 rest?" 
 
 He shivered slightly and turned again to the Book: 
 " 'There is thenceforth laid up for me a crown of 
 righteousness . . . and not to me only but unto 
 all them also that love his appearing.' 'Love His ap- 
 pearing', Ah !" and he closed the Book, turned 
 
 away and went toward the bed, a weakness possessing 
 him, the sense of weight overpowering him. "Let me 
 sleep — sleep," he murmured brokenly, as he threw 
 himself across the bed. 
 
 164 
 
CHAPTER XX. 
 "as in a dream when one awaketh." 
 
 Before Fannie's visit was ended there came a letter 
 from Mrs. De Jarnette urging Linda to come to her 
 at Eagle's Nest, for a few days at any rate. 
 
 "The very thing," declared Fannie. "I will go 
 with you and stop a bit in the Nest. My time will 
 soon be up. I'm sure the Pater is suffering for the 
 sight of me, but I'll stay two days anyway. Do 
 about, beloved, and freshen up your wardrobe and 
 let's get ready. I don't want to leave this blessed 
 spot, but when would I wish to do so? Everybody 
 has been so good to me, and I weep at the thought of 
 going away. 'All the night make I my bed to swim.' 
 But never you mind, Elizabeth Wells, I am going 
 to have you in my home yet as a star guest, and 
 Aunt Sarah, the girls, Jack and all — oh ! I shall never 
 give them up, bless 'em !" 
 
 The whole family showed their regret at losing 
 Fannie. Without any parade of words they made 
 her feel that she had won a sure place in their 
 hearts. The day before her departure the younger 
 members of the Williams family came over and spent 
 the night, while Harry took tea and stayed till a late 
 hour the same evening. 
 
 That night, long after Elise was asleep. Fannie 
 stood in front of the mirror and mentally took her- 
 self to task: "Fannie Montague Everett, I have long 
 
 165 
 
In tf)e jaamabalag 
 
 thought you are feeble of mind, and now I know it. 
 Consider yourself ! a would-be philosopher, taking the 
 good things offered you and proposing to do no 
 whining after the unattainable. Some spirit you have, 
 what might well be called a fair share of real grit. 
 Do you recall the fact that you extracted your own 
 teeth in your childhood, even going so far as to tie 
 one tooth to a doorknob, then giving a wild leap? 
 Remember ? It gave you the shivers to go through the 
 preparation, but you were plucky enough to keep on. 
 And nozv! — Now! — Do you hear? / say Now! See 
 how you are behaving! Of course you told him she 
 does not love that Ledroux man. Deep down in your 
 heart you've been knowing for some time that you 
 would tell him, but what a coward you were in doing 
 it! Putting it off just as long as ever you could, 
 then half-way praying that it wouldn't rouse the old 
 love in his heart. It ought to make you sick to think 
 of it! You see that survigorous fist?" A small hand 
 was firmly doubled up and held out for inspection. 
 "You are a child, a rampageous child. If you were 
 only a boy child, this is what you'd need — well laid 
 on by another boy. 
 
 "As it is, you must be taught some sense, some- 
 how. If he still loves her you don't want what's left. 
 Think of it ! You trying to fill a heart that Linda 
 had once fitted into. Besides, you have no earthly 
 reason for believing he could ever care for you, chit 
 that you are. 
 
 "Why should you keep thinking of him? Of his 
 manliness, his goodness, the power that's in him? You 
 simply know that Linda does not love Telfair Le- 
 droux, and you believe that she will find it out in 
 time and her heart will naturally turn to the man who 
 is a man. What then? Ought vou not to be happy 
 
 166 
 
Hn tbe Il^iinta})ala0 
 
 over the thought that the two people whom you hold 
 so dear might at last find happiness? 
 
 "And what of you, Fannie Everett ? Goosey-goose ! 
 
 Fancying yourself in oh no, no. You honor 
 
 him but you have too strong a will to allow any 
 
 foolishness on your part. Crowd it out, that weak- 
 ness. Stamp on it. Leave no sign behind. 
 
 "Didn't you try to make Harry see the lighter 
 side of these things last winter when he was in deep 
 waters? 
 
 "You foolishly quoted : 'Men have died and worms 
 have eaten them, but not for love,' then begged his 
 pardon for your own folly. 
 
 "Now fit that to yourself — pretended wiseacre, and 
 end this tomfoolery." Whereupon she went to bed 
 and quietly cried herself to sleep. 
 
 The next day there were no traces of the night's 
 struggle in the girl's face or manner. As usual she 
 was the life of the party. She refused to allow a 
 sad word from anybody. Her good-by was bright, 
 with the promise that she would return next summer. 
 
 The girls found Mrs. De Jarnette without her 
 companion. 
 
 "I gave her leave to visit her family and friends 
 while I am away. Indeed I am very well and do not 
 need her in the least — just now. The truth of the 
 matter is, Linda, I wanted you awhile all to myself. 
 
 "You have spoiled me entirely. After having you 
 in my home, almost any other girl would seem com- 
 monplace." 
 
 After Fannie had gone away Linda gave herself 
 up to Mrs. De Jarnette, reading to her, talking with 
 her, showing her the countless little attentions that 
 youth should pay to mature age. 
 
 During these days the two were drawn closer to- 
 
 167 
 
in ti}t j^antaf)alas; 
 
 gether than ever before. Always a lovable woman 
 Mrs. De Jarnette seemed to Linda to have added a 
 finer grace to her character. The conventions of the 
 world had Hmited her range of thought as well as 
 controlled her actions. Somehow she was outgrow- 
 ing these limitations. It was as if the spirit found 
 itself struggling, chrysalis-Hke, to get into a freer 
 world, one of purer air and wider sweep of vision. 
 Her manner toward the young girl was tenderer, 
 more motherly than its wont. Linda felt the differ- 
 ence and her heart went out in gratitude to her. 
 
 One evening when the two were alone in Mrs. De 
 Jarnette's room and all their part of the house quiet, 
 the older lady asked Linda to put down her book. 
 
 "There is something I must say to you, Linda. It 
 isn't worth while to postpone it longer." 
 
 The girl read distress in every look and tone. 
 "What is it, Mrs. De Jarnette? You need not hesi- 
 tate to talk freely to me. Please go on." 
 
 "I have a confession, an apology to make, and it's 
 hard to put it into words." There was a long pause. 
 Linda left her seat under the light, and, drawing a 
 chair near Mrs. De Jarnette, she sat down and gently 
 stroked her hair, murmuring softly to her as one 
 might to a frightened child. 
 
 "Oh ! it's this — all your goodness to me, your cheer- 
 ful service, your sweetness, that forces me to tell you 
 .... If I hurt you, forgive me. It may be better 
 to have the heartache now instead of suffering for 
 long years." Then, with such a look as one might 
 have who had made up his mind to plunge into deep 
 waters with no hope of salvation, she went on: 
 "When Telfair began to show such marked preference 
 for you, here last summer, I was disturbed, troubled. 
 At first it seemed to me unreasonable that he intended 
 
 168 
 
M tU jeantaf)ala0 
 
 more than simply to amuse himself for the time. Yet 
 that was not like him. With all his faults he has 
 shown no tendency to flirt. Still I supposed that he 
 would be too ambitious, or worldly, to marry a woman 
 who did not have money or high social position. Any- 
 way I was on guard. He should not trifle with you — 
 with a young girl who was under my care. That is the 
 way the matter stood in my mind for awhile. Even 
 after he sought you out so pointedly in Savannah I 
 believed he did not mean to make a misalliance. But 
 as I lived longer with you and found you to be gold, 
 my dear girl, I began to be ashamed that I was al- 
 lowing an intimacy that might be your ruin, might 
 bring you nothing but unhappiness. I watched you 
 closely last fall, Linda, and at no time could I say 
 that you showed love for Telfair. So I temporized, 
 letting things drift, believing that you have so much 
 strength of character you were able to take care of 
 yourself. Then when you came back after Christ- 
 mas and told me that you were engaged I knew 
 that I had done wrong, that you should not have been 
 allowed to go so far without knowing — the whole 
 truth." 
 
 Linda sat motionless, her face white, her eyes, 
 wide and bright, looking into Mrs. De Jarnette's. 
 
 "Shall I go on? It's hard to tell an innocent girl 
 these things." 
 
 "Go on." 
 
 "Telfair Ledroux has been what the French call 
 a roue. Perhaps that is not the word, for he was 
 more restrained than some men, but he seemed ab- 
 solutely open, — shameless, his enemies might say. 
 There was one woman for a long time. . . . She died 
 and he took her child into his home. That caused a 
 break with his sister and many of his old friends, . . . 
 
 169 
 
In tbt ii5anta!)ala0 
 
 It was a dreadful time. He never talked to me about 
 it, but his sister did. She blamed him for having the 
 boy in the old home, bringing shame upon the mem- 
 ory of her mother, and he talked of the hypocritical 
 conventions by which her social world was ruled, of 
 how little consequence wrongdoing was if it was de- 
 cently hidden. He kept the child in his home for 
 three or four years, then sent him away to school. 
 The boy was never in Savannah again, I think. 
 Knowing Telfair as I do, I felt sure that it was done 
 for the child's sake. The boy had grown old enough 
 to understand something of the situation, and, per- 
 haps, was sensitive about it. Gradually people talked 
 less, and for the past few years the man has had all 
 the attention one could ask. There are few mothers 
 in Savannah who would hesitate if Telfair Ledroux 
 wished to marry one of their daughters. But I have 
 felt that you are different. And I did not believe that 
 he has led a pure life, even of late. Oh, of course 
 he has done so since your engagement. And if you 
 can forgive him . . . and trust him, you may be 
 happy together yet." 
 
 Mrs. De Jarnette looked at Linda. The still, white 
 face was inscrutable. There was a painful pause, 
 
 "Forgive me, Linda, if I have hurt you. I have 
 only meant to do right by you, child." 
 
 "I know, I know. Let me go to my room now." 
 The girl bent over and kissed her friend tenderly. 
 
 The next morning before Mrs. De Jarnette was out 
 of her room Linda came in with her usual look and 
 manner. The older lady was deeply anxious, yet 
 hesitated to question the girl in any way. She would 
 wait and let Linda confide in her. Advice was super- 
 
 170 
 
Kn tfte iaantai)ala0 
 
 fluou3. Openly expressed sympathy might be un- 
 welcome. 
 
 After the usual casual talk there was constraint. 
 Mrs. De Jarnette felt it and hastened to make talk, 
 keeping away from the one great subject. She wished 
 Linda would be a bit more impulsive, more like other 
 girls. She might tell her plans at any rate. Most 
 girls would have been in tears or hysterics — but here 
 — Oh ! dear, dear ! — such quiet, such absolute mastery 
 of one's emotions. Was Linda cold, feelingless after 
 all? Or did. . . . ? The undercurrent that was surg- 
 ing beneath the flow of small talk came to a sudden 
 stop. Linda was saying — only saying that someone 
 was knocking. "Shall I go to the door?" 
 
 "Thank you, yes. A 'phone message for me ? Tell 
 them I'll be down there immediately, Linda. A mes- 
 sage from Waynesville? I can't imagine from whom. 
 Will you go down with me, dear, or do you prefer 
 waiting here? It is almost breakfast time, anyway, 
 isn't it? You will wait till the bell rings? Very 
 well ; I'll hurry on to answer that call." 
 
 After Mrs. De Jarnette had gone Linda threw open 
 a window and stood by it looking down upon the 
 valley. The fog had not yet scattered and the moun- 
 tains seemed to be Hfting their heads from opalescent 
 seas. Ofif to the right Piatt's Balsam stood with the 
 mists bathing his side while the first victorious rays 
 of the sun crowned his crest. 
 
 Nature's appeal was never in vain for the girl. The 
 loneliness of the hills, the calm beauty of them, had 
 gone into her soul and become a part of it. No alien 
 looking upon the scene could realize the mighty love, 
 the deep yearning, that filled the heart of the girl. 
 Through long hours of the night she had wrestled with 
 
 171 
 
In tfte jaamaijalas 
 
 herself and had sent her spirit out on its earnest quest 
 for God, if so He might be found, might speak to her 
 in those high words that point the path of Duty. 
 
 She had turned in sickening loathing from Le- 
 droux's past. Surely it was impossible for her to face 
 a future in which, day after day, every hour, every 
 moment, the ghost of that past should stand beside 
 her. This morning as she looked out on these beloved 
 hills the restless soul became calm. The fret of every- 
 day life seemed a slight thing in the face of these 
 sentinels of God, keeping watch on the peoples below, 
 and bearing watness to the Infinite and Eternal 
 Presence. 
 
 She was scarcely conscious of the passing time and 
 failed to notice the fact that the guests were going 
 down to breakfast. At last the door opened and Mrs. 
 De Jarnette walked slowly across the room. Linda 
 turned. 
 
 "What is it? O! Mrs. De Jarnette, what is it?" 
 The girl was frightened out of her usual composure. 
 She threw her arms around her friend and drew her 
 to a chair, then knelt beside her, murmuring soft 
 words of love, kissing the trembling hands, stroking 
 cheek and hair — in tenderest ways, showing sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 "Can't you tell me now. dear Mrs. De Jarnette? Let 
 me help you bear it — whatever it is, my dear, dear 
 friend." 
 
 "I can't tell you— I can't, I can't," the stricken 
 look on the face, the appealing agony of the eyes 
 touched Linda more than words. 
 
 "Yes, you can, dear heart. Remember how I love 
 you. Anything that troubles you — oh ! it will help you 
 to share your trouble with me." 
 
 172 
 
Un tbt iaamaf)ala0 
 
 "Telfair Ledroux is ... . he — died — last — night. 
 They found him this morning" dead." 
 
 The message had been telegraphed to Waynesville 
 and from there 'phoned up to Eagle's Nest. The serv- 
 ants in the Ledroux home had spoken of IMrs. De 
 Jarnette as being the most intimate friend of the un- 
 fortunate man. Hers was the only house in which he 
 made himself at home. A telegram had been sent 
 to his sister notifying her of his death. Both mes- 
 sages simply stated the facts without details. 
 
 Mrs. De Jarnette did not oppose Linda when the 
 latter quietly announced her intention of accompany- 
 ing her friend to Savannah. There need be no pub- 
 licity about the matter. The young girl would be 
 known as a former companion who was showing 
 friendship for the older lady in a trying hour. 
 
 Through the long day Linda was full of thought for 
 Mrs. De Jarnette — not once forgetful of any little 
 comfort, apparently setting herself aside in her effort 
 to care for the frail woman who was inwardly blam- 
 ing herself for the revelations that must add to the 
 girl's unhappiness. 
 
 It was well into the night when they neared Sa- 
 vannah, At one of the stations not far from the city 
 a gentleman carne in and apparently recognizing an 
 acquaintance not far from Linda, seated himself and 
 began a conversation. 
 
 After a while the girl's attention was attracted by 
 the name which was uppermost in her thought. 
 
 "You haven't seen the account? An afternoon paper 
 suggests suicide. The morning papers announcing his 
 death drew out the fact that the last person who saw 
 him alive is a retired physician — an old friend of 
 the family — to whom Ledroux had gone for advice 
 
 12 173 
 
Kn the jeanta!)alas 
 
 after having an examination by Dr. Earlham. Both 
 men gave him only a few months to hve. It seems 
 there was a complication of diseases, and the reporter's 
 theory is that he chose death — instantaneous — to the 
 torture of a slow one. There was a glass showing 
 that he had taken medicine. A fresh bottle of some 
 sleep-inducing drug was found partially emptied." 
 
 "I believe Ledroux would have no scruples about 
 suicide. You know he had his own views of right 
 and wrong — and they were not such as to teach him 
 reverence for life. He counted God out altogether." 
 
 "Yes, I know. What becomes of his property?" 
 
 "That's another proof, the reporter claims, of sui- 
 cidal intent — the fact that he had written a will leav- 
 ing a certain boy — you understand — well provided 
 for ; the home and belongings go to his sister, while 
 the rest of his estate is left to the support of an in- 
 stitution for homeless children." 
 
 Linda listened with a half conscious feeling that she 
 ought not to hear these things, yet hardly knowing 
 how to avoid it. 
 
 She sat perfectly calm. Throughout the day she 
 had so often felt as if the real Linda were back in 
 the quiet of her mountain home, treading its peaceful 
 ways, while the girl who was going through these spec- 
 tacular scenes was only the shadow of herself — a crea- 
 ture of fantasy. 
 
 "Linda," Mrs. De Jarnette called softly. The girl 
 bent over the seat in front of her, "What is it ? Are 
 you comfortable? Can I do anything for you?" She 
 adjusted the pillow and stood looking down on the 
 troubled face. 
 
 "Bend low, my dear. Did you hear? I caught the 
 last words. Did they speak of Telfair?" 
 
 "Yes.'' 
 
 174 
 
M tbt Il3anta|)ala)8! 
 
 "But they never mentioned your name?" 
 Ao. 
 
 "That, at least, is a thing to be thankful for — 
 that you were not dragged into publicity." 
 
 Linda made no answer. She waited for a moment 
 for further speech from Mrs. De Jarnette, then sat 
 down with the same outward calm. Inwardly she won- 
 dered dully why one should think of the world's puny 
 laws in the face of the fact that a Soul had gone forth, 
 naked, to face its Maker. 
 
 It was worth something to Ledroux's few friends to 
 have the drug clerk come forward and discredit the 
 theory of suicide. The medicine was a mixture usually 
 having chloral in it, but the clerk had noticed how fre- 
 quently the prescription was being filled, and had pur- 
 posely decreased the dangerous element in the last 
 bottles. 
 
 They took his body from the old home to its last 
 resting place beside his mother's grave. A few friends 
 followed the bier and quietly laid him away. 
 
 Soon afterward his last letter was forwarded to 
 Linda from her mountain home. She began reading 
 it in the numb, feelingless way that characterized 
 every act during those days. 
 
 There were only a few lines, but every word was 
 freighted with meaning. He told her of the doctor's 
 verdict and offered her freedom. He w^ould not sad- 
 den her youth with the care of a dying man. The end 
 might come at any moment, they had said. . . . 
 There was money he would have been glad to leave 
 for her to use in noble ways, but she would prefer 
 it otherwise, and to spare her from the world's curious 
 eye he had put much of his money where it might do 
 the good she would have him do. "You are young. 
 
 175 
 
3n tht iaantai)alas 
 
 Time will heal your wounds, but you will not forget 
 me? Still, I want you to be happy. 
 
 "Good night, good night." 
 
 Before she had finished reading the letter tears had 
 come to relieve Linda's overburdened heart. Ah ! if 
 only she could grieve for him as for one whom she 
 had loved with supreme affection. 
 
 176 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 CONCLUDING. 
 
 The months passed, bringing- mental and spiritual 
 health to Linda. She had sta^'ed a few weeks with 
 Mrs. De Jarnette, then had gone back to her grand- 
 father and taken up the life of loving service for the 
 two lonely men. As she learned to lose herself in 
 work for them she began to look back and see that 
 she had been essentially selfish. While outwardly liv- 
 ing for others she had chafed and brooded. The daily 
 round had not been one glad outflowing of love which 
 would show itself in simplest Vv-ays as in the greatest. 
 
 She was outgrowing the intense egotism of youth 
 which turns the eye inward with morbid watchfulness. 
 
 During this time the quiet sympathy of her friends 
 was very precious to her. Miss Wells and Mrs. De 
 Jarnette wrote often. Fannie was never too busy to 
 send long, bright letters full of her old, sweet "fool- 
 ery," as she termed it. Her first letter enclosed an 
 affectionate note from her mother reminding Linda 
 that the family claimed a visit from her at the very 
 first opportunity, and assuring her that all of them 
 held her in dearest love, and that any sorrow of hers 
 was inevitably theirs. 
 
 Later came a short letter from Dr. Montague. 
 
 Fannie, he wrote, had kept him informed as to her 
 friend. A matter of such vital interest as Mr. Le- 
 droux's death could not fail to touch her old friends 
 and enlist their sympathy. 
 
 177 
 
Hn tbt Bantalialas! 
 
 Harry wrote from the University, straightforward, 
 manly letters, full of consideration for her and always 
 giving news of his school life. By crowding during 
 the first two years he would finish college in another 
 year. In the Junior class at present, and making up 
 certain studies, he was healthfully busy. That eager 
 thirst for knowledge, which is natural to the unde- 
 veloped mind, was spurring him on and leaving him no 
 time to brood over the past. From that past rose the 
 thought of Linda as something, not to sadden a man 
 but to hearten him for the battle of life. "She has 
 given me my manhood. I shall not forget that ; God 
 bless her." 
 
 His letters, breathing this spirit, became a source of 
 pleasure to Linda. There was no surer proof that 
 the girl had never loved him than this fact, — she was 
 happier when his letters gave no sign that the old 
 feeling was still alive in his heart. 
 
 In the early fall she took up her music again, in- 
 tending to cultivate her voice enough to use it in the 
 home, where it might be a source of enjoyment — for 
 her uncle, especially, who loved music with that ab- 
 sorption which the physically strong cannot under- 
 stand. 
 
 Aided by her uncle she began a course in English 
 literature and found a double pleasure therein because 
 it proved to be an outlet for the invalid's pent-up 
 forces. The two went back over the ways long ago 
 traveled by the man, and the days were brightened 
 for both as they lingered over the fields of the past, 
 or paused for pleasant excursions into the present. 
 
 As time thus filled, passed fleetly away, Linda found 
 herself turning from the shadows. Youth and sound 
 health are wonderfully elastic, and the soul that has 
 
 178 
 
In tfte jeantaf)ala0 
 
 fixed its faith on God cannot always grope in darkness. 
 
 One day when she was reading a story of mountain 
 life to her uncle she laid the magazine down and spoke 
 freely of what was in her heart. She blamed herself 
 for having been blind to the good that was in her 
 people. She had chafed against the narrowness of 
 her life before she left the mountains, and had, un- 
 consciously, lost sight of the sterling qualities of her 
 countrymen, their truth and honesty, their sturdy inde- 
 pendence, their splendid reserve power. Now that 
 she had seen something of the outer world she realized 
 the good of her fellow mountaineers and wished that 
 she might do something for them, 
 
 "Not simply for my aunt's family — we are doing 
 all that's necessary for them — but for the whole com- 
 munity. Naked charity isn't at all what is needed. 
 That sort of thing destroys our best qualities, the 
 independence and self-reliance that belong to moun- 
 tain people. One girl can't do much except for the 
 individual, something like the work Miss Wells is 
 doing ; but I can't get it out of my mind. Perhaps 
 grandfather would be interested and might help estab- 
 lish a little school." 
 
 "Have you thought of just what you do want? 
 Not a straight-out mission school, I take it?" 
 
 "Not at all." 
 
 "Think about it, Linda, and let me know. I've done 
 so little in the world, it would give me great pleasure 
 to be the means of helping others to a better life. I 
 have been giving money to dififerent enterprises, but 
 there has been nothing that I could feel was my very 
 own. If I could know that money of mine had made 
 a man of one neglected boy I could bear this inactivity 
 better." 
 
 179 
 
Ktt tfte ii5anta!)alas 
 
 Linda was looking at him with happy shining eyes. 
 "Oh ! Uncle, do you really mean it ? We can do some- 
 thing. See if we don't!" 
 
 She immediately began a correspondence with Miss 
 Wells and different ones who might be of help to her 
 in formulating a plan. Her grandfather encouraged 
 her by the promise of assistance when needed, but 
 suggested that the beginning should be altogether with 
 his son's money. She wrote to Valle Crucis, North 
 Carolina, in regard to their methods, consulted an 
 architect and soon had her mind clear as to what she 
 would undertake. She wrote to Mr. Gentry offering 
 a good price for several acres of his farm, and also 
 authorized him to buy, for her, one-half of Coon 
 Bletcher's land at a price which, to the two men, 
 seemed wildly extravagant. In answer to Coon's pro- 
 test against her paying such a sum for his "onery little 
 place" Linda explained her intentions. On the acres 
 bought from her uncle she proposed erecting two cot- 
 tages and having them ready for use by summer. She 
 knew that Coon's little farm was noted for its apple 
 orchard. She wished to buy the half of this orchard 
 for experimental purposes, hoping that the young man 
 would become interested and would follow the methods 
 she expected to introduce, thus increasing the value of 
 his own property, and, at the same time, aiding her in 
 the work she was planning. She hoped to have a man 
 on the ground by spring to begin the school in a small 
 way, and she would be glad to have the cooperation 
 of her Uncle Bart and other farmers in the neighbor- 
 hood. 
 
 "You are hitting the nail squarely on the head," 
 wrote Fannie. "You have found a prescription that 
 beats my old doctor by a long shot. I bet that you 
 do something worth doing. Where are you to get a 
 
 180 
 
In tbt i^anta{)alas! 
 
 man for the place? If you need any female help, call 
 on me. I have all the executive ability needed to man- 
 age a scholastic establishment, and my education, you 
 know, is classical. I may not have the go-to-the- 
 stake spirit that prompts some women to come to 
 western Carolina in search of missionary work, but I 
 do have a profound faith in the human beings who 
 people our mountains, and I would be glad to give a 
 hand to help them uplift themselves. Really, we want 
 to do something to further your project. The Pater 
 is sympathetic, and my uncle — bless him ! — bids me say 
 that you may call on him if you run short of money. 
 
 "I think your plan of having a summer school is 
 admirable. A music teacher, art and nature-study 
 teacher already engaged ! Fine ! Imagine what it will 
 mean to so many of those boys and girls to be taught 
 to sing and to know the secret of the woods. And 
 imagine how proud we will be if Jack, for instance, 
 should discover the qualities of a great artist. 
 
 "If you need me I will be there ready for you 
 (thank you for renewing the invitation to visit you at 
 Aunt Sarah's next summer). And I am sure you 
 ought to profit by my genius for cooking. My steaks 
 are pronounced perfect and my pastries are dreams. 
 Have you decided to introduce the fine art of cooking? 
 You are to have farming, fruit-growing, hand-craft? 
 Right you are ! Those lovely old-time rag carpets, 
 those exquisite coverlets ! — may the art of making 
 them never be lost 'Till all the seas run dry,' my dear, 
 'Till all the seas run dry.' " 
 
 In the midst of Linda's planning the Christmas 
 holidays came on. Fannie, who was now in her 
 senior year at school, wrote urging her friend to 
 spend the time with her in her own home, but Linda 
 had grown considerate of others. The two men who 
 
 181 
 
Un tbt Jl5anta{)ala0 
 
 depended on her for much of their pleasure should not 
 be left alone at a season when they needed her most, 
 but the week following Christmas found the two 
 friends together in Brevard, and here, again, Linda 
 was the center of loving attention. Fannie had never 
 been more assuredly the true friend, tactful and af- 
 fectionate, while the younger children were running 
 over with happiness because the girls were with them 
 again. 
 
 Dr. Montague, also, was visiting the home. Mrs. 
 Everett alone knew the man's secret, and as she 
 watched Linda, marking the sure ripening of her 
 character, she bade her brother be patient till the 
 fulness of her young maturity should bring the girl 
 to wiser self-knowledge. 
 
 Then — why then, what woman could resist the com- 
 pelling of a strong, persistent, masterful love? A 
 love in keeping with the noble nature of such a man? 
 
 During her visit to Fannie Linda found herself 
 turning to Dr. IMontague for advice and suggestion in 
 the work she was projecting. His visits to the Ever- 
 ett family had shown him much of mountain life and 
 character. Armed with this knowledge he was able 
 to give Linda practical help, such as she had not 
 found elsewhere. Mr. Everett also took sympathetic 
 interest in her plans, restraining here, suggesting 
 there. From him she secured the address of a young 
 man, a former student of an agricultural college, who 
 was farming in Transylvania and bringing to his work 
 the practical wisdom of such new methods as were 
 suited to the mountains. Before Linda's visit was 
 ended he came to Mr. Everett's to consult with her. 
 She made him an offer that decided him to go im- 
 mediately and take charge of the little experimental 
 
 182 
 
3n tU jaantabalag 
 
 farm which Linda hoped to make an object lesson for 
 the surrounding country. 
 
 After her return to Augusta the girl's time was 
 filled with thought for her school. Soon she had the 
 cottages under way, using Miss Wells' judgment with 
 that of her teacher, in deciding the exact location for 
 the buildings. She empowered the teacher to offer 
 money to farmers in the community for the purpose of 
 setting out and caring for orchards, the proceeds from 
 which were to be divided between the owners of land 
 and the school. 
 
 In the spring she made a short trip to the old 
 home and was delighted to see the progress there. 
 The mountaineers are intensely conservative, and some 
 of them were looking askance at her experiments. 
 Others were watching with interest, saying little, but 
 preparing to profit by the success of her methods. 
 
 "Shucks!" remarked Coon Bletcher to one of the 
 skeptical. "She's got sense and her grand-daddy's got 
 money, an' I'm willin' to let her take my little ol' place 
 an' make what she can get out of it. Hit ain't ever done 
 me no good but to git me into trouble tryin' to save the 
 fruit on it." 
 
 Regular literary work was not to be undertaken till 
 the autumn. In the meantime, for the short summer 
 school, teachers were secured for sums that would 
 hardly exceed their living expenses. The art teacher, 
 practically gave her services, as she was to bring a 
 few pupils with her who wished to paint from nature. 
 
 Linda had undertaken this scheme through desire 
 to help in the development of her people, but in it she 
 was losing her old morbid self, w^as finding a new, 
 stronger, more self-reliant individuality. In a large 
 sense she was verifying the truth : "He that loseth his 
 life for my sake shall find it." 
 
 183 
 
In t6e i^antafjalas! 
 
 Again the summer time has come. The mountains 
 invite one with their beauty, their charm of flower 
 and air and wood. 
 
 Linda and Fannie are together once more in the 
 Gentry home. Here, too, is Miss Wells, happy in the 
 new outlook for the people she has learned to love ; 
 happy, moreover, because she sees the ripening fine- 
 ness of her favorite's character. Here are two of the 
 teachers, the young man who gives the year to the 
 work, and the lady who is teaching the young pupils 
 some of the wonders of the nature-world. In one of 
 the new cottages are domiciled the art and music 
 teachers with the pupils who came with them for out- 
 door study and the change of air. 
 
 There are only a few pupils who are taking advan- 
 tage of these opportunities, but Linda is patient, and 
 believes the leaven will do its work more thoroughly 
 if it be allowed to move slowly. She feels repaid, as 
 the days go by, to find that Jack is developing an 
 omnivorous appetite for knowledge the nature-teacher 
 can offer him. 
 
 "H the boy keeps on I shall have to study all winter 
 to keep ahead of him. It's wonderful. He is a born 
 naturalist, while I am just like other women who 
 take up such things — in it because it's a fad, perhaps, 
 and because it helps me to make a living." 
 
 Linda looked at the teacher intently. "Three years 
 ago I would have resented that statement. I was 
 so long fighting what seemed to me a silent acknowl- 
 edgment that women are inferior to men. Now I 
 begin to see things differently. " 
 
 "Not inferior, but different. Miss Linda. I think 
 it's just as important a fact that Susan learns to make 
 a beautiful loaf as it is that Jack has an overmastering 
 
 184 
 
Jn tfje Ii5antai)ala0 
 
 desire to learn the habits of every worm or pollywog 
 he finds." 
 
 "I see that Miss Andrews has fine notions about 
 woman's sphere," interposed Fannie. "In this day 
 of advanced ideas I am dehghted to hear anything of 
 the sort. During the few short weeks since my gradua- 
 tion my sylph-hke form has almost faded into noth- 
 ingness because I've been trying so hard to think of 
 some mighty thing I shall undertake to render my 
 name immortal. Now I am satisfied. Cooking is 
 my strong point. I shall hie me forth to the kitchen 
 and broil a steak to be converted into grey matter 
 
 for you intellectuals, especially Jack." 
 
 * * * 
 
 Harry has resumed his old intimacy in the Gentry 
 home. His open admiration of Linda and the friendly 
 preference she shows him may, sometimes, lead others 
 to believe the old footing will yet be resumed, but the 
 two understand each other, and Linda is biding her 
 time. A long while she has watched Fannie jealously, 
 fearing that some other might win a place in that 
 strong heart into which she is hoping that Harry will 
 enter and rule. She speaks of this to no one, but she 
 sees that Harry is turning to the true-hearted girl 
 as naturally as the plant bends toward the sunlight, 
 and Linda is quietly happy in the belief that these 
 two friends are treading the old, but ever new, path 
 toward a noble and self-sacrificing love — the path trod 
 by all true lovers since men and women have looked 
 into each other's eyes and seen the reflection of God's 
 love there. 
 
 As for Linda herself, no thought has yet entered 
 her mind that the man whom she has long honored is 
 waiting for the time to come when he can dare to 
 lay claim to her heart. 
 
 185 
 
3In tbt ii5anta|)a!a$ 
 
 Only the other day Fannie received a letter from 
 her uncle saymg;_J,)iat..J-ie- purposes coming- to the 
 mountains of jlVfacon County] for a week's rest — per- 
 haps longer. JM.is plan is to go down through South 
 Carolina and Georgia, then come up the Tallulah 
 Falls road to (Frankl iS? Would he be in the way if 
 he chose to come out from that point to see her and 
 watch the working of Linda's plans ? Could he find 
 entertainment near? And would Linda think it in- 
 trusion? "You are close to her. You know her as 
 no one else, perhaps. Let me be honest with you — 
 I am hungry for the sight of her. Long ago I schooled 
 myself to think of her without hope, but now that she 
 is in a position which does not forbid it, I find myself 
 turning to the thought of her — constantly, eagerly, 
 even hopefully. I am not a boy. This has gone 
 deep, Fannie, and I shall not give up readily. I am 
 willing to be patient, to wait — wait, but meanwhile my 
 heart shall not break for the sight of her." 
 
 Fannie's face was white and still. All the lightness 
 was gone from her now, the seriousness, the re- 
 ligious reverence that lies deep in her nature had 
 come to the surface. Was God's providence back of it 
 all? Where could Linda so surely find peace as in the 
 great calm of this steadfast nature? And Harry? 
 Ah! Harry . 
 
 END. 
 
 186 
 
.^"^A «jAr^ '{Wi'^ia^^