agricultural implements. The people were seated in the shade of the
trees, some on the grass and others in their own road-wagons.

Wartrace, the storekeeper, in his shirt-sleeves, stood in the front
door. He was about thirty years of age and had only one arm. "Come up,
come up, Mr. Mostyn," he called out, cheerily. "The preacher is headed
this way. A feller passed 'im on the mountain road ten minutes ago. If
you hain't heard John Leach talk you've missed a treat."

Mostyn accepted the chair Wartrace drew from within the store, and
Webb took a seat near by on an inverted nail-keg. Wartrace was called
within, and the banker began to watch the crowd with interest. Back in
the store men were lounging on the long counters, chewing tobacco,
smoking and talking of their crops or local politics.

"I see 'im!" a woman cried, from the end of the porch, as she stood
eagerly pointing up the mountain-road. Mostyn saw a tall man of middle
age, smooth-shaven, with long yellow hair falling on his broad
shoulders, easily striding down the incline. He had blue eyes and
delicate, rather effeminate features. He wore a broad-brimmed felt
hat, dark trousers, and a black frock-coat without a vest. Reaching
the store, he took off his hat, brushed back his hair from a high pink
forehead, and with bows and smiles to the people on all sides, he
cried out cheerily:

"How are you, everybody? God bless your bones. I hope the Lord has
been with you since I saw you last fall. Hello, Brother Wartrace! You
see, old chap, I _do_ remember your name," he called out, as the
storekeeper appeared in the doorway. "Say, I wish you would have some
of those roustabouts inside roll out a dry-goods box for me to stand