The old man was waiting for the pledge that seemed on his lips,
but he did not lose his temper.

Not till to-day," he said, quietly.

Rome turned abruptly, and the two separated with no word of
parting. For a moment the miller watched the young fellow
striding away under his rifle.

"I have been atter peace a good while," he said to himself, " but I
reckon thar's a bigger hand a-workin' now than mine." Then he
lifted his voice. "Ef Isom's too sick to come down to the mill
to-morrer, I wish you'd come 'n' holp me."

Rome nodded back over his shoulder, and went on, with head bent,
along the river road. Passing a clump of pines at the next curve, he
pulled a bottle from his pocket.

"Uncle Gabe's about right, I reckon," he said, half aloud; and he
raised it above his head to hurl it away, but checked it in mid-air.
For a moment he looked at the colorless liquid, then, with quick
nervousness, pulled the cork of sassafras leaves, gulped down the
pale moonshine, and dashed the bottle against the trunk of a beech.
The fiery stuff does its work in a hurry. He was thirsty when he
reached the mouth of a brook that tumbled down the mountain
along the pathway that would lead him home, and he stooped to
drink where the water sparkled in a rift of dim light from
overhead. Then he sat upright on a stone, with his wide hat-brim
curved in a crescent over his forehead, his hands caught about his
knees, and his eyes on the empty air.