“’Come right along to Missouri!  Don’t wait and worry about a good price but sell out for whatever you can get, and come along, or you might be too late.  Throw away your traps, if necessary, and come empty-handed.  You’ll never regret it.  It’s the grandest country —­the loveliest land—­the purest atmosphere—­I can’t describe it; no pen can do it justice.  And it’s filling up, every day—­people coming from everywhere.  I’ve got the biggest scheme on earth—­and I’ll take you in; I’ll take in every friend I’ve got that’s ever stood by me, for there’s enough for all, and to spare.  Mum’s the word—­don’t whisper—­keep yourself to yourself.  You’ll see!  Come! —­rush!—­hurry!—­don’t wait for anything!’

“It’s the same old boy, Nancy, jest the same old boy—­ain’t he?”

“Yes, I think there’s a little of the old sound about his voice yet.  I suppose you—­you’ll still go, Si?”

“Go!  Well, I should think so, Nancy.  It’s all a chance, of course, and, chances haven’t been kind to us, I’ll admit—­but whatever comes, old wife, they’re provided for.  Thank God for that!”

“Amen,” came low and earnestly.

And with an activity and a suddenness that bewildered Obedstown and almost took its breath away, the Hawkinses hurried through with their arrangements in four short months and flitted out into the great mysterious blank that lay beyond the Knobs of Tennessee.

CHAPTER II.

Toward the close of the third day’s journey the wayfarers were just beginning to think of camping, when they came upon a log cabin in the woods.  Hawkins drew rein and entered the yard.  A boy about ten years old was sitting in the cabin door with his face bowed in his hands.  Hawkins approached, expecting his footfall to attract attention, but it did not.  He halted a moment, and then said: 

“Come, come, little chap, you mustn’t be going to sleep before sundown”

With a tired expression the small face came up out of the hands,—­a face down which tears were flowing.

“Ah, I’m sorry I spoke so, my boy.  Tell me—­is anything the matter?”

The boy signified with a scarcely perceptible gesture that the trouble was in the, house, and made room for Hawkins to pass.  Then he put his face in his hands again and rocked himself about as one suffering a grief that is too deep to find help in moan or groan or outcry.  Hawkins stepped within.  It was a poverty stricken place.  Six or eight middle-aged country people of both sexes were grouped about an object in the middle of the room; they were noiselessly busy and they talked in whispers when they spoke.  Hawkins uncovered and approached.  A coffin stood upon two backless chairs.  These neighbors had just finished disposing the body of a woman in it—­a woman with a careworn, gentle face that had more the look of sleep about it than of death.  An old lady motioned, toward the door and said to Hawkins in a whisper: