in the other, and he made as if he were going on to the mill without
stopping; but he yielded apparently to a temptation from within, since
none had come from without. "Whoa!" he shouted at the claybank, which the
slightest whisper would have stayed; and then he called to the old man on
the porch, "Fine mornun', Squire!"

Braile took out his pipe, and spat over the edge of the porch, before he
called back, "Won't you light and have some breakfast?"

"Well, no, thank you, Squire," the man said, and at the same time he
roused the claybank from an instant repose, and pushed her to the cabin
steps. "I'm just on my way down to Brother Hingston's mill, and I reckon
Sally don't want me to have any breakfast till I bring back the meal for
her to git it with; anyway that's what she said when I left." Braile
answered nothing, and the rider of the claybank added, with a certain
uneasiness as if for the effect of what he was going to say, "I was up
putty late last night, and I reckon I overslep'," he parleyed. Then, as
Braile remained silent, he went on briskly, "I was wonderin' if you hearn
about the curious doun's last night at the camp-meetun'."

Braile, said, without ceasing to smoke, "You're the first one I've seen
this morning, except my wife. She wasn't at the camp-meeting." His
aquiline profile, which met close at the lips from the loss of his teeth,
compressed itself further in leaving the whole burden of the affair to the
man on the claybank, and his narrowed eyes were a line of mocking under
the thick gray brows that stuck out like feathers above them.

"Well, sir, it was great doun's," the other said, wincing a little under
the old man's indifference. Braile relented so far as to ask, "Who was at
the bellows?"