Almighty, my Redeemer, you that forgive the dyin’ thief an’ begged fer help in yore own agony, let this cup pass.  Huh!  I’d ruther have ’em stick a speer through my side time an’ time agin ’an have it go on with Sally like it is.  You’d better do what I ask, fer it’s makin’ a reg’lar devil out o’ me.  I feel it comin’ on, an’ I won’t be fit fer no place but hell fire.  I jest cayn’t see no sense, jestice, nur reason in my pore little child lyin’ in her bed an’ twistin’ with sech trouble.  You, or some power above or below, tuck Jasper frum me an’ left that yaller-haired sting fer me to brood over day an’ night, but the same ur wuss mustn’t come to Sally, kase she don’t deserve it—­she’s helpless!  Oh, Lord, have mercy—­have mercy—­mercy—­mercy!”

She rose to her feet, and without undressing threw herself on the bed.  She could hear Slogan and his wife, now barefooted, thumping about in the next room.  Far away against the mountain-side she heard a hunter calling to his dogs and blowing a horn.

Chapter II

John Westerfelt lived on his own farm in the big two-storied frame house which had been built by his grandfather, and which came to him at the death of his father and mother.  The place was managed for him by a maternal uncle, whose wife and daughter kept the house in order.  But all three of them had gone away on a short visit, leaving only the old negro woman, who was the cook and servant about the house, to attend to his wants.

The morning following his meeting with Sally Dawson on the road near her house, Westerfelt arose with a general feeling of dissatisfaction with himself.  He had not slept well.  Several times through the night he awoke from unpleasant dreams, in which he always saw Sally Dawson’s eyes raised to his through the darkness, and heard her spiritless voice as she bade him good-bye, and with bowed head moved away, after promising to return his letters the next day.

He was a handsome specimen of physical manhood.  His face was dark and of the poetic, sensitive type; his eyes were brown, his hair was almost black, and thick, and long enough to touch his collar.  His shoulders were broad, and his limbs muscular and well shaped.  He wore tight-fitting top-boots, which he had drawn over his trousers to the knee.  His face was clean-shaven, and but for his tanned skin and general air of the better-class planter, he might have passed for an actor, poet, or artist.  He was just the type of Southerner who, with a little more ambition, and close application to books, might have become a leading lawyer and risen finally to a seat in Congress.  But John Westerfelt had never been made to see the necessity of exertion on his part.  Things had come easily ever since he could remember, and his wants were simple, and, in his own way, he enjoyed life, suffering sharply at times, as he did this morning, over his mistakes, for at heart he was not bad.