the corner an old grandam dozed with her pipe, her withered face
just touched by the rim of the firelight. Near a rectangular hole in
the wall which served the purpose of a window, stood a girl whose
face, silhouetted against the darkness, had in it a curious mixture
of childishness and maturity.

"Whar's the baby? " asked Uncle Tommy.

Somebody outside was admiring it, and the young girl leaned
through the window and lifted the infant within.

Thar's a baby fer ye! " exclaimed the old mountaineer, proudly,
lifting it in the air and turning its face to the light. But the child
was peevish and fretful, and he handed it back gently. Clayton
was wondering which was the mother, when, to his amazement,
almost to his confusion, the girl lifted the child calmly to her own
breast. The child was the mother of the child. She was barely
fifteen, with the face of a girl of twelve, and her motherly manner
had struck him as an odd contrast. He felt a thrill of pity for the
young mother as he called to mind the aged young wives he had
seen who were haggard and care-worn at thirty, and who still
managed to live to an old age. He was indefinably glad that Easter
had escaped such a fate. When he left the cabin, the old man
called after him from the door:

"Thar's goin' to be a shootin'-match among the boys to-morrer, 'n' I
jedge that Easter '11 be on hand. She al'ays is."

"Is that so? " said Clayton. " Well, I'll look out for it."