know that I was a-sorrowin' fer ye when y'u was sick, 'n' a-pinin' to
see ye, 'n' a-hopin' some day y'u mought kinder git over yer hate fer
me." He had been talking with low tenderness, half to himself, and
with his face to the river, and he did not see the girl's tears falling
to the porch. Her sorrow gave way in a great sob now, and he
turned with sharp remorse, and stood quite near her.

"Don't cry, Marthy," he said. "God knows hit's hard to think I've
brought all this on ye when I'd give all these mount 'ins to save ye
from it. Whut d' ye say? Don't cry."

The girl was trying to speak at last, and Rome bent over to catch
the words.

"I hain't cryin' fer myself," she said, faintly, and then she said no
more; but the first smile that had passed over Rome's face for
many a day passed then, and he put out one big hand, and let it rest
on the heap of lustrous hair.

"Marthy, I hate to go 'way, leavin' ye hyeh with nobody to take
keer o' ye. You're all alone hyeh in the mount'ins; I'm all alone; 'n' I
reckon I'll be all alone wharever I go, ef you stay hyeh. I got a boat
down thar on the river, 'n' I'm goin' out West whar Uncle Rufe use
to live. I know I hain't good fer nothin' much "-he spoke almost
huskily; he could scarcely get the words to his lips-" but I want ye
to go with me. Won't ye?"

The girl did not answer, but her sobbing ceased slowly, while
Rome stroked her hair; and at last she lifted her face, and for a
moment looked to the other shore. Then she rose. There is a