“Gone—­and he told me to wait and say good-by to you—­to tell you he’d set late last night for you, till he fell asleep.  He was sleepin’ when I come, Mark.  I peeped in the window and there he was, in that chair of yours, fast asleep.  I rapped on the window and he woke up with a jump.  He was off on the early train, he said, and had just time to cover the twelve mile with that three-legged livery horse that brought him out.  He was awful put out at not findin’ you.  He thought you was in bed, but you wasn’t, and I told him mebbe you’d gone up to the Warden’s to lend a hand with Weston.”

For the first time Tip eyed me inquisitively.

“I was up the road,” I said evasively.  “But tell me about Tim—­did he leave no word?”

“He left me,” said Tip, grinning.  “He hadn’t time to leave nothin’ else.  We figgered he’d just cover that twelve mile and make the train.  That’s why I’m here.  As we was hitchin’ he told me particular to wait till you come; to tell you good-by; to tell you he’d watched all night—­waited and waited till he fell asleep.”

“And overslept in the morning so he had no time to drop me even a line—­I understand,” said I.  “And now, Tip, having performed your duty, you are going over the mountain?”

“To Happy Walley,” Tip cried, lifting the stick he always carried in these nights and pointing away toward Thunder Knob.  “I’m done with Black Log.  I’m goin’ where there is peace and quiet.”

“You lead the life of a hermit?” I suggested.

“A what?” Tip exclaimed.

“You live in a cave in the woods and eat roots and nuts and meditate,” I explained.

“You think I’m a squirrel,” snapped the fugitive.  “No, sir, I live with my cousin John Shadrack’s widder.”

“Ah!” I cried.  “It’s plain now, Tip, you deceiver.  So there’s the attraction.”

“The attraction?” Tip’s brow was furrowed.

“Mrs. John Shadrack,” I said.

The fugitive broke into a loud guffaw.  He leaned over the gate and let his pipe fall on the other side and beat the post violently with his hands.

“I allow you’ve never seen John Shadrack’s widder,” said he.

“I’d like to, Tip.  Will you take me with you to Happy Valley?”

The smile left Tip’s face, and he gazed at me, open-mouthed with astonishment.

“You would go over the mountain?” he said, drawling every word.

Over the mountain there is peace!  It is cold and gray there in the early morning, and the hills are bleak and black, but I remember days when from this same spot I’ve watched the deep, soft blue and green; I’ve sat here as the hills were glowing in the changing evening lights and our valley grew dark and cold.  What a fair country that must be where the sun sets!  And we stay here in our dim light, in our dull monotones, when, to the westward, there’s a land all capped with clouds of red and gold.  There is Tip’s Valley of Peace.