“I don’t know as anybody’s a hound dog,” said Ransie, in a martyr’s voice, “fur to not want to say good-bye—­’less you air so anxious to git away that you don’t want me to say it.”

Ariela was silent.  She folded the five-dollar bill and her decree carefully, and placed them in the bosom of her dress.  Benaja Widdup watched the money disappear with mournful eyes behind his spectacles.

And then with his next words he achieved rank (as his thoughts ran) with either the great crowd of the world’s sympathizers or the little crowd of its great financiers.

“Be kind o’ lonesome in the old cabin to-night, Ranse,” he said.

Ransie Bilbro stared out at the Cumberlands, clear blue now in the sunlight.  He did not look at Ariela.

“I ’low it might be lonesome,” he said; “but when folks gits mad and wants a divo’ce, you can’t make folks stay.”

“There’s others wanted a divo’ce,” said Ariela, speaking to the wooden stool.  “Besides, nobody don’t want nobody to stay.”

“Nobody never said they didn’t.”

“Nobody never said they did.  I reckon I better start on now to brother Ed’s.”

“Nobody can’t wind that old clock.”

“Want me to go back along ’ith you in the cart and wind it fur you, Ranse?”

The mountaineer’s countenance was proof against emotion.  But he reached out a big hand and enclosed Ariela’s thin brown one.  Her soul peeped out once through her impassive face, hallowing it.

“Them hounds shan’t pester you no more,” said Ransie.  “I reckon I been mean and low down.  You wind that clock, Ariela.”

“My heart hit’s in that cabin, Ranse,” she whispered, “along ’ith you.  I ai’nt a-goin’ to git mad no more.  Le’s be startin’, Ranse, so’s we kin git home by sundown.”

Justice-of-the-peace Benaja Widdup interposed as they started for the door, forgetting his presence.

“In the name of the State of Tennessee,” he said, “I forbid you-all to be a-defyin’ of its laws and statutes.  This co’t is mo’ than willin’ and full of joy to see the clouds of discord and misunderstandin’ rollin’ away from two lovin’ hearts, but it air the duty of the co’t to p’eserve the morals and integrity of the State.  The co’t reminds you that you air no longer man and wife, but air divo’ced by regular decree, and as such air not entitled to the benefits and ’purtenances of the mattermonal estate.”

Ariela caught Ransie’s arm.  Did those words mean that she must lose him now when they had just learned the lesson of life?

“But the co’t air prepared,” went on the Justice, “fur to remove the disabilities set up by the decree of divo’ce.  The co’t air on hand to perform the solemn ceremony of marri’ge, thus fixin’ things up and enablin’ the parties in the case to resume the honour’ble and elevatin’ state of mattermony which they desires.  The fee fur performin’ said ceremony will be, in this case, to wit, five dollars.”