Isom had no answer, and old Gabe was puzzled. It was always this
way. The boy longed for Rome, the miller could see. He spoke of
him sometimes with tears, and sometimes he seemed to be on the
point of going to him, but he shrank inexplicably when the time for
leaving came.

Isom started into the mill now without a word, as usual. Old Gabe
noticed that his feet were unsteady, and with quick remorse began
to question him.

" Kinder puny, hain't ye, Isom?

" Well, I hain't feelin' much peert."

" Hit was mighty keerless," old Gabe said, with kindly reproach, "
swimmin' the crick atter a fresh."

Hit wasn't the swimmin'," he protested, dropping weakly at the
threshold. "Hit was settin' out n the woods. I was in Hazlan t'other
night, Und' Gabe, to hear the new rider."

The miller looked around with quick interest. "I've been skeered
afore by riders a-tellin' 'bout the torments o' hell, but I never heerd
nothin' like his tellin' 'bout the Lord. He said the Lord was jes as
pore as anybody thar, and lived jes as rough; thet He made fences
and barns n' ox-yokes 'n' sech like, an' He couldn't write His own
name when He started out to save the worl'; an' when he come to
the p'int whar His enemies tuk hol' of Him, the rider jes crossed his
fingers up over his head 'n' axed us if we didn't know how it hurt to