Lastly, old Jed was called from his outside duties and stood, battered hat in hand, to receive his commands.  Jed was old and black and his wool was white as snow; his strong, perfect teeth glittered with gold fillings.  How the old man had fallen to this vanity no one knew, but sooner or later all the money he made was converted into fillings.

“They do say,” he once explained to Sister Angela, “that ’tain’t all gold as glitters, but dis year yaller in my mouth, ma’am, is right sure gold an’ it’s like layin’ up treasure in heaven, for no moth nor rust ain’t ever going to distroy anythin’ in my mouth.  No, ma’am!  No corruption, nuther.”

Jed, listening to Sister Angela, now, was beaming and shining.

“I want you to go to Stone Hedgeton to-morrow, Uncle Jed.  You better start early.  You must meet every train until you see a young lady—­she will be looking about for someone—­and bring her here.  In between trains make yourself and the horses comfortable at the tavern.  I’m glad you do not drink, Jed.”

“Yes-m,” pondered Jed, “but I ‘spect there might be mo’ dan one young lady.  I reckon it would be disastering if I fotched the wrong one.  Isn’t thar something ‘bout her discounterments as might be leading, as yo’ might say, ma’am?”

“Jed, I rely upon you to bring the right young lady!”

There was no use of further arguing.  Jed shuffled off.

Alone, of all the household, little Mary Allan was not taken into Sister Angela’s confidence, and this was unfortunate, for Mary ran well in harness, but was apt to go a bit wild if left to her own devices.  What people did not confide to Mary she generally found out for herself.

Mary was known to Silver Gap as the “last of them Allans.”  Her father and mother both died soon after Mary showed signs of persisting—­her ten brothers and sisters had refused to live, and when Mary was left to her fate Sister Angela rescued her, and the girl had been trained for entrance into a Sisterhood later on.

She was abnormally keen but discouragingly superstitious; she had moods when the Sisters believed they had overcome her inheritance of reticence and aloofness.  She would laugh and chat gaily and appear charmingly young and happy, but without warning she would lapse back to the almost sullen, suspicious attitude that was so disconcerting.  Sister Angela demanded justice for Mary and received, in return, a kind of loyalty that was the best the girl had to give.

She regarded, with that strange interpretation of the lonely hills, all outsiders as foreigners.  She was receiving benefits from them, her only chance of life, and while she blindly repaid in services, Mary’s roots clung to the cabin life; her affections to the fast-decaying hovel from which she had been rescued.

Jed was the only familiar creature left to Mary’s inner consciousness.  He belonged to the hills—­if not of them, and while his birthright made it possible for him to assimilate, he shared with Mary the feeling that he was among strangers.