and we both leaned over the cradle,
from either side, and I saw the pity
and affection--yes, hungry, half-shamed
affection--in Grayson's face. The
child opened its eyes, looked from
one to the other, and held out its
arms to ME. Grayson should have
known that the child forgot--that it
would forget its own mother. He
turned sharply, and his face was a
little pale. He gave something to the
woman, and not till then did I notice
that her soft black eyes never left
him while he was in the cabin. The
child got well; but Grayson never
went to the shack again, and he said
nothing when I came in one night
and told him that some mountaineer
--a long, dark fellow-had taken the
woman, the children, and the household
gods of the shack back into the
mountains.

``They don't grieve long,'' I said,
``these people.''

But long afterwards I saw the woman
again along the dusty road that
leads into the Gap. She had heard
over in the mountains that Grayson