"How do they get along without him?" asked Clayton.

"Why, the gal does the work. She ploughs with that bull, and does
the plantin' herself. She kin chop wood like a man. An' as fer
shootin', well, when huntin's good 'n' thar's shootin'-matches
round-about, she don't have to buy much meat."

"It's a wonder some young fellow hasn't married her. I suppose,
though, she's too young."

The old man laughed. "Thar's been many a lively young fellow
that's tried it, but she's hard to ketch as a wildcat. She won't have
nothin' to do with other folks, 'n' she nuver comes down hyeh into
the valley, 'cept to git her corn groun' er to shoot a turkey. Sherd
Raines goes up to see her, and folks say he air tryin' to git her into
the church. But the gal won't go nigh a meetin'-house. She air a
cur'us critter," he concluded emphatically, " shy as a deer till she
air stirred up, and then she air a caution; mighty gentle sometimes,
and ag'in stubborn as a mule."

A shrill, infantile scream came from within, and the old man
paused a moment to listen.

"Ye didn't know I had a great-grandchild, did ye? That's it
a-hollerin'. Talk about Easter bein' too young to merry! Why hit's
mother air two year younger'n Easter. Jes come in hyeh a minit."
The old mountaineer rose and led the way into the cabin. Clayton
was embarrassed at first. On one bed lay a rather comely young
woman with a child by her side; on a chest close by sat another
with her lover, courting in the most open and primitive manner. In