was actually reached, and Grayson let
half go. The boom fell, and Grayson
took the tumble with a jest. It would
come again in the autumn, he said, and
he went off to meet the girl at White
Sulphur.

I worked right hard that summer, but
I missed him, and I surely was glad
when he came back. Something was
wrong; I saw it at once. He did not
mention her name, and for a while he
avoided even me. I sought him then,
and gradually I got him into our old
habit of walking up into the Gap and of
sitting out after supper on a big rock in
the valley, listening to the run of the
river and watching the afterglow over
the Cumberland, the moon rise over
Wallen's Ridge and the stars come out.
Waiting for him to speak, I learned for
the first time then another secret of his
wretched melancholy. It was the hopelessness
of that time, perhaps, that disclosed
it. Grayson had lost the faith
of his childhood. Most men do that at
some time or other, but Grayson had
no business, no profession, no art in
which to find relief. Indeed, there was
but one substitute possible, and that