"Yes," answered Washburn; "it's down at the store unloadin' the mail."

"I thought I heard it turn the corner. Any passengers?"

"No; Buck said a family, one woman and five children, wus ready to
start by the Cohutta road to Royleston, but the report about the
Whitecaps t'other night skeerd 'em out of it, so they went by train to
Wilks, an' through that way. This outlawin' will ruin the country ef
it hain't stopped; nobody'll want to settle heer."

"I'll be back soon," said Westerfelt, and he went out.

The November air was dry and keen as he walked briskly towards the
mountains. The road ran through groves of stunted persimmon and
sassafras bushes, across swift-bounding mountain streams, and under
natural arbors of wild grapes and muscadine vines. In a few minutes
Westerfelt reached the meeting-house on a little rise near the roadside.

It had never been painted, but age and the weather had given it the
usual grayish color. Behind it, enclosed by a rail fence, was the
graveyard. The mounds had sunk, the stones leaned earthward, and the
decaying trellises had been pulled down by the vines which clambered
over them.

It was a strange thing for Westerfelt to do, but, seeing the door open,
he went into the church. Two windows on each side let in the
moonlight. The benches were unpainted, and many of them had no backs.

Westerfelt stood before the little pulpit for a moment and then turned
away. Outside, the road gleamed in the moonlight as it stretched on to