regarded them with a suspicion born of a pile of feathers at the door
of their shanty on the ridge, for they kept no chickens. Now the six
little Pulsifers, all with the lower halves of their faces washed and
their hair soaped down, were climbing around me, and the latest comer,
that same Cevery who arrived with Piney Martin's spring-bed, was
hoisted into kissing distance by his mother, who was thinner and more
wan than ever, but still smiling. But this was home and these were
home people. My heart was open then and warm, and I took the seven
little Pulsifers to it. I took old Mrs. Bolum to it, too, for she
tumbled the clamoring infants aside and in her joy forgot the ruffles
in the sleeves of her wonderful purple silk. At her elbow hovered the
tall, spare figure of Aaron Kallaberger. Mindful of the military
nature of the occasion he appeared in his old army overcoat, in spite
of the heat. Rare honor, this! And better still, he hailed me as
"Comrade," and enfolding my hand in his long horny fingers, cried
"All's well, Mark!"

The mill ceased its rumbling. Already the valley was rocking itself to
sleep. Out of the darkening sky rang the twanging call of a
night-hawk, and the cluck of a dozing hen sounded from the foliage
overhead. A flock of weary sheep pattered along the road, barnward
bound, heavy eyed and bleating softly. The blue gate was opened wide.
My hand was on Tim's shoulder and Tim's arm was my support.

"All's well!" I cried. For I was hobbling home.




II