Your sincere friend,
    ELINORE RUPERT STEWART.

XI

ZEBBIE’S STORY

     September 1, 1910.

DEAR MRS. CONEY,—­

It was just a few days after the birthday party and Mrs. O’Shaughnessy was with me again.  We were down at the barn looking at some new pigs, when we heard the big corral gates swing shut, so we hastened out to see who it could be so late in the day.

It was Zebbie.  He had come on the stage to Burnt Fork and the driver had brought him on here....  There was so much to tell, and he whispered he had something to tell me privately, but that he was too tired then; so after supper I hustled him off to bed....

Next morning ... the men went off to their work and Zebbie and I were left to tell secrets.  When he was sure we were alone he took from his trunk a long, flat box.  Inside was the most wonderful shirt I have ever seen; it looked like a cross between a nightshirt and a shirt-waist.  It was of homespun linen.  The bosom was ruffled and tucked, all done by hand,—­such tiny stitches, such patience and skill.  Then he handed me an old daguerreotype.  I unfastened the little golden hook and inside was a face good to see and to remember.  It was dim, yet clear in outline, just as if she were looking out from the mellow twilight of long ago.  The sweet, elusive smile,—­I couldn’t tell where it was, whether it was the mouth or the beautiful eyes that were smiling.  All that was visible of her dress was the Dutch collar, just like what is being worn now.  It was pinned with an ugly old brooch which Zebbie said was a “breast-pin” he had given her.  Under the glass on the other side was a strand of faded hair and a slip of paper.  The writing on the paper was so faded it was scarcely readable, but it said:  “Pauline Gorley, age 22, 1860.”

Next he showed me a note written by Pauline, simply worded, but it held a world of meaning for Zebbie.  It said, “I spun and wove this cloth at Adeline’s, enough for me a dress and you a shirt, which I made.  It is for the wedding, else to be buried in.  Yours, Pauline.”  The shirt, the picture, and the note had waited for him all these years in Mothie’s care.  And now I will tell you the story.

Long, long ago some one did something to some one else and started a feud.  Unfortunately the Gorleys were on one side and the Parkers on the other.  That it all happened before either Zebbie or Pauline was born made no difference.  A Gorley must hate a Parker always, as also a Parker must hate a Gorley.  Pauline was the only girl, and she had a regiment of big brothers who gloried in the warfare and wanted only the slightest pretext to shoot a Parker.  So they grew up, and Zebbie often met Pauline at the quiltings and other gatherings at the homes of non-partisans.  He remembers her so perfectly and describes her so plainly that I can picture her easily.  She had brown eyes and hair.  She used to ride about on her sorrel palfrey with her “nigger” boy Caesar on behind to open and shut plantation gates.  She wore a pink calico sunbonnet, and Zebbie says “she was just like the pink hollyhocks that grew by mother’s window.”  Isn’t that a sweet picture?