with the swirling water below them and the
gray rock high above where another such
foolish lover lost his life, climbing to get
a flower for his sweetheart, or down the
winding dirt road into Lee, or up through
the beech woods behind Imboden Hill, or
climbing the spur of Morris's Farm to
watch the sunset over the majestic Big
Black Mountains, where the Wild Dog
lived, and back through the fragrant, cool,
moonlit woods. He was doing his best,
Marston was, and he was having trouble
--as every man should. And that trouble
I knew even better than he, for I had once
known a Southern girl who was so tender
of heart that she could refuse no man who
really loved her she accepted him and
sent him to her father, who did all of her
refusing for her. And I knew no man
would know that he had won the Blight
until he had her at the altar and the priestly
hand of benediction was above her head.

Of such kind was the Blight. Every
night when they came in I could read the
story of the day, always in his face and
sometimes in hers; and it was a series of
ups and downs that must have wrung the
boy's heart bloodless. Still I was in good
hope for him, until the crisis came on the