silently.

"Don't you be a fool, Rome. The gal comes and goes in that boat,
'n' she couldn't see a soul without my knowin' it. She seed ye ridin'
by one day, 'n' she looked mighty cur'us when I tole her who ye
was."

Old Gabe stopped his teasing, Rome's face was so troubled, and
himself grew serious.

"Rome," he said, earnestly, "I wish to the good Lord ye wasn't in
sech doin's. Ef that had been young Jas 'stid o' Marthy, I reckon ye
would 'a' killed him right thar."

"I wasn't going to let him kill me," was the sullen answer.

The two had stopped at a rickety gate swinging open on the road.
The young mountaineer was pushing a stone about with the toe of
his boot. He had never before listened to remonstrance with such
patience, and old Gabe grew bold.

"You've been drinkin' ag'in, Rome," he said, sharply, " 'n' I know it.
Hit's been moonshine that's whooped you Stetsons, not the
Lewallens, long as I kin rickollect, 'n' it ull be moonshine ag'in ef
ye don't let it alone."

Rome made no denial, no defence. "Uncle Gabe," he said slowly,
still busied with the stone, " hev that gal been over hyeh sence y'u
tol' her who I was?"