“I got to ack like a man now.”  And, sobered at once, he walked on up the hill—­thinking.  He could not know that the school-master was back in the town, looking for him.  If he waited until the next morning, the Turners would probably have gone on; whereas, if he started out now on foot, and walked all night, he might catch them before they left Lexington next morning.  And if he missed the Squire and the Turner boys, he could certainly find the school-master there.  And if not, he could go on to the mountains alone.  Or he might stay in the “settlemints”—­what had he come for?  He might—­he would—­oh, he’d get along somehow, he said to himself, wagging his head—­he always had and he always would.  He could always go back to the mountains.  If he only had Jack—­if he only had Jack!  Nothing would make any difference then, and he would never be lonely, if he only had Jack.  But, cheered with his determination, he rubbed the tears from his eyes with his coat-sleeve and climbed the long hill.  There was the Armory, which, years later, was to harbor Union troops in the great war, and beyond it was the little city of the dead that sits on top of the hill far above the shining river.  At the great iron gates he stopped a moment, peering through.  He saw a wilderness of white slabs and, not until he made his way across the thick green turf and spelled out the names carved on them, could he make out what they were for.  How he wondered when he saw the innumerable green mounds, for he hardly knew there were as many people in the world living as he saw there must be in that place, dead.  But he had no time to spare and he turned quickly back to the pike—­saddened—­for his heart went back, as his faithful heart was always doing, to the lonely graves under the big poplar back in the mountains.

When he reached the top of the slope, he saw a rolling country of low hills stretching out before him, greening with spring; with far stretches of thick grass and many woodlands under a long, low sky, and he wondered if this was the Bluegrass.  But he “reckoned” not—­not yet.  And yet he looked in wonder at the green slopes, and the woods, and the flashing creek, and nowhere in front of him—­wonder of all—­could he see a mountain.  It was as Caleb Hazel had told him, only Chad was not looking for any such mysterious joy as thrilled his sensitive soul.  There had been a light sprinkle of snow—­such a fall as may come even in early April—­but the noon sun had let the wheat-fields and the pastures blossom through it, and had swept it from the gray moist pike until now there were patches of white only in gully and along north hill-sides under little groups of pines and in the woods, where the sunlight could not reach; and Chad trudged sturdily on in spite of his heavy rifle and his lame foot, keenly alive to the new sights and sounds and smells of the new world—­on until the shadows lengthened and the air chilled again; on, until the sun began to sink close to the far-away