didn't know hit wus any harm, and anyways hit ain't my fault, I reckon, an' I
don't see how folks can blame me. But I don' want nobody who don' want me. An'
I'm leavin' 'cause I don't want to bother you. I never bring nothing but
trouble nohow an' I'm goin' back to the mountains. Tell Miss Lucy good-by. She
was mighty good to me, but I know she didn't like me. I left the hoss for you.
If you don't have no use fer the saddle, I wish you'd give hit to Harry,
'cause he tuk up fer me at school when I was fightin', though he wouldn't
speak to me no more. I'm mighty sorry to leave you. I'm obleeged to you cause
you wus so good to me an' I'm goin' to see you agin some day, if I can.
Good-by."

"Left that damned old mare to pay for his clothes and his board and his
schooling," muttered the Major. "By the gods"--he rose suddenly and strode
away--"I beg your pardon, Lucy."

A tear was running down each of Miss Lucy's faded cheeks.

Dawn that morning found Chad springing from a bed in a haystack--ten miles
from Lexington. By dusk that day, he was on the edge of the Bluegrass and that
night he stayed at a farm-house, going in boldly, for he had learned now that
the wayfarer was as welcome in a Bluegrass farm-house as in a log-cabin in the
mountains. Higher and higher grew the green swelling slopes, until, climbing
one about noon next day, he saw the blue foothills of the Cumberland through
the clear air--and he stopped and looked long, breathing hard from pure
ecstasy. The plain-dweller never knows the fierce home hunger that the
mountain-born have for hills.

Besides, beyond those blue summits were the Turners and the school-master and
Jack, waiting for him, and he forgot hunger and weariness as he trod on
eagerly toward them. That night, he stayed in a mountain-cabin, and while the