“Captain Wells,” he said—­and the emphasis on the title was balm to Mayhall’s soul—­“you have protected me in time of war, an’ you air welcome to yo’ uniform an’ you air welcome to that little debt.  Yes,” he went on, reaching down into his pocket and pulling out a roll of bills, “I tender you in payment for that same protection the regular pay of a officer in the Confederate service”—­and he handed out the army pay for three months in Confederate greenbacks—­“an’ five dollars in money of the United States, of which I an’, doubtless, you, suh, air true and loyal citizens.  Captain Wells, I bid you good-by an’ I wish ye well—­I wish ye well.”

From the stoop of his store Bill watched the captain ride away, drooping at the shoulders, and with his hands folded on the pommel of his saddle—­his dim blue eyes misty, the jaunty forage cap a mockery of his iron-gray hair, and the flaps of his coat fanning either side like mournful wings.

And Flitter Bill muttered to himself: 

“Atter he’s gone long enough fer these things to blow over, I’m going to bring him back and give him another chance—­yes, damme if I don’t git him back.”

And Bill dropped his remorseful eye to the order in his hand.  Like the handwriting of the order that lifted Mayhall like magic into power, the handwriting of this order, that dropped him like a stone—­was Flitter Bill’s own.

THE PARDON OF BECKY DAY

The missionary was young and she was from the North.  Her brows were straight, her nose was rather high, and her eyes were clear and gray.  The upper lip of her little mouth was so short that the teeth just under it were never quite concealed.  It was the mouth of a child and it gave the face, with all its strength and high purpose, a peculiar pathos that no soul in that little mountain town had the power to see or feel.  A yellow mule was hitched to the rickety fence in front of her and she stood on the stoop of a little white frame-house with an elm switch between her teeth and gloves on her hands, which were white and looked strong.  The mule wore a man’s saddle, but no matter—­the streets were full of yellow pools, the mud was ankle-deep, and she was on her way to the sick-bed of Becky Day.

There was a flood that morning.  All the preceding day the rains had drenched the high slopes unceasingly.  That night, the rain-clear forks of the Kentucky got yellow and rose high, and now they crashed together around the town and, after a heaving conflict, started the river on one quivering, majestic sweep to the sea.