to leave for fear some neighbor might come; but there was no one to milk and, when she drew near with a low moo, he saw that her udders were full and dripping.  It would hurt her to go unmilked, so Chad put his things down and took up a cedar piggin from a shelf outside the cabin and did the task thoroughly—­putting the strippings in a cup and, so strong was the habit in him, hurrying with both to the rude spring-house and setting them in cool running water.  A moment more and he had his pack and his rifle on one shoulder and was climbing the fence at the wood-pile.  There he stopped once more with a sudden thought, and wrenching loose a short axe from the face of a hickory log, staggered under the weight of his weapons up the mountain.  The sun was yet an hour high and, on the spur, he leaned his rifle against the big poplar and set to work with his axe on a sapling close by—­talking frankly now to the God who made him: 

“I reckon You know it, but I’m a-goin’ to run away now.  I hain’t got no daddy an’ no mammy, an’ I hain’t never had none as I knows—­but Aunt Jane hyeh—­she’s been jes’ like a mother to me an’ I’m a-doin’ fer her jes’ whut I wish You’d have somebody do fer my mother, ef You know whar she’s a-layin’.”

Eight round sticks he cut swiftly—­four long and four short—­and with these he built a low pen, as is the custom of the mountaineers, close about the fresh mound, and, borrowing a board or two from each of the other mounds, covered the grave from the rain.  Then he sunk the axe into the trunk of the great poplar as high up as he could reach—­so that it could easily be seen—­and brushing the sweat from his face, he knelt down: 

“God!” he said, simply, “I hain’t nothin’ but a boy, but I got to ack like a man now.  I’m a-goin’ now.  I don’t believe You keer much and seems like I bring ever’body bad luck:  an’ I’m a-goin’ to live up hyeh on the mountain jes’ as long as I can.  I don’t want you to think I’m a-complainin’—­fer I ain’t.  Only hit does seem sort o’ curious that You’d let me be down hyah—­with me a-keerint fer nobody now, an’ nobody a-keerin’ fer me.  But Thy ways is inscrutable—­leastwise, that’s whut the circuit-rider says—­an’ I ain’t got a word more to say—­Amen.”

Chad rose then and Jack, who had sat perfectly still, with his head cocked to one side, and his ears straight forward in wonder over this strange proceeding, sprang into the air, when Chad picked up his gun, and, with a joyful bark, circled a clump of bushes and sped back, leaping as high as the little fellow’s head and trying to lick his face—­for Jack was a rover, too.

The sun was low when the two waifs turned their backs upon it, and the blue shadows in valley and ravine were darkening fast.  Down the spur they went swiftly—­across the river and up the slope of Pine Mountain.  As they climbed, Chad heard the last faint sound of a cow-bell far below him and he stopped short, with a lump in his throat that hurt.  Soon darkness fell, and, on the very top, the boy made a fire with his flint and steel, cooked a little bacon, warmed his corn-pone, munched them and, wrapping his blanket around him and letting Jack curl into the hollow of his legs and stomach, turned his face to the kindly stars and went to sleep.