up in bed with bewildered eyes, trying to make out where he was
and why he was there. The realization struck him with fresh pain,
and when he slowly climbed out of the bed the old hound was
whining at the door. When he opened it the fresh wind striking his
warm body aroused him sharply. He wondered why his mother had not
already been over for her things. The chickens were clustered
expectantly at the corner of the house, the calf was bawling at
the corner of the fence, and the old cow was waiting patiently at
the gate. He turned quickly to the kitchen and to a breakfast on
the scraps of his last night's supper. He did not know how to make
coffee, and for the first time in his life he went without it.
Within an hour the cow was milked and fed, bread crumbs were
scattered to the chickens, and alone in the lonely cabin he faced
the new conditions of his life. He started toward the gate, not
knowing where he should go. He drifted aimlessly down the creek
and he began to wonder about Mavis, whether she had got home and
now knew what had happened and what she thought about it all, and
about his grandfather and who it was that had shot him. There were
many things that he wanted to know, and his steps quickened with a
definite purpose. At the mouth of the creek he hailed the old
circuit rider's house, and the old man and his wife both appeared
in the doorway.

"I reckon you couldn't help doin' it?"

"No," said the old man. "Thar wasn't no reason fer me to deny
'em."

He looked confused and the old woman gulped, for both were
wondering how much the lad knew.