afternoon.

Rufe was pretty busy too. When he came in sight of home Tennessee
was the first object visible in the open passage. The sunshine
slanted through it under the dusky roof, and the shadows of the
chestnut-oak, hard by, dappled the floor. Lying there was an old
Mexican saddle, for which there was no use since the horse had died.
Tennessee was mounted upon it, the reins in her hands, the headstall
and bit poised on the peaked pommel. She jounced back and forth,
and the skirts of the saddle flapped and the stirrups clanked on the
floor, and the absorbed eyes of the little mountaineer were fixed on
space.

Away and away she cantered on some splendid imaginary palfrey,
through scenes where conjecture fails to follow her: a land,
doubtless, where all the winds blow fair, and sparkling waters run,
and jeopardy delights, and fancy's license prevails--all very
different, you may be sure, from the facts, an old saddle on a
puncheon floor, and a little black-eyed mountaineer.

How far Tennessee journeyed, and how long she was gone, it is
impossible to say. She halted suddenly when her attention was
attracted to a phenomenon within one of the rooms.

The door was ajar and the solitary Rufe was visible in the dusky
vista. He stood before a large wooden chest. He had lifted the
lid, and kept it up by resting it upon his head, bent forward for
the purpose, while he rummaged the contents with vandal hands.

Tennessee stared at him, with indignant surprise gathering in her