Mrs. Matthews appeared in the doorway; by her frank countenance and kindly look anyone would have known her at a glance as the boy’s mother.  “Land sakes, if it ain’t Sammy Lane!  How are you, honey?”

“I am alright,” answered the voice; “I’ve come over t’ stop with you to-night; Dad’s away again; Mandy Ford staid with me last night, but she had to go home this evenin’.”  The big fellow at the woodpile drove his axe deeper into the log.

“It’s about time you was a comin’ over,” replied the woman in the doorway; “I was a tellin’ the menfolks this mornin’ that you hadn’t been nigh the whole blessed week.  Mr. Matthews ’lowed maybe you was sick.”

The other returned with a gay laugh, “I was never sick a minute in my life that anybody ever heard tell.  I’m powerful hungry, though.  You’d better put in another pan of corn bread.”  She turned her pony’s head toward the barn.

“Seems like you are always hungry,” laughed the older woman, in return.  “Well just go on out to the barn, and the men will take your horse; then come right in and I’ll mighty soon have something to fill you up.”

Operations at the woodpile suddenly ceased and Young Matt was first at the barn-yard gate.

Miss Sammy Lane was one of those rare young women whose appearance is not to be described.  One can, of course, put it down that she was tall; beautifully tall, with the trimness of a young pine, deep bosomed, with limbs full-rounded, fairly tingling with the life and strength of perfect womanhood; and it may be said that her face was a face to go with one through the years, and to live still in one’s dreams when the sap of life is gone, and, withered and old, one sits shaking before the fire; a generous, loving mouth, red lipped, full arched, with the corners tucked in and perfect teeth between; a womanly chin and nose, with character enough to save them from being pretty; hair dark, showing a touch of gold with umber in the shadows; a brow, full broad, set over brown eyes that had never been taught to hide behind their fringed veils, but looked always square out at you with a healthy look of good comradeship, a gleam of mirth, or a sudden, wide, questioning gaze that revealed depth of soul within.

But what is the use?  When all this is written, those who knew Sammy will say, “’Tis but a poor picture, for she is something more than all this.”  Uncle Ike, the postmaster at the Forks, did it much better when he said to “Preachin’ Bill,” the night of the “Doin’s” at the Cove School, “Ba thundas!  That gal o’ Jim Lane’s jest plumb fills th’ whole house.  What!  An’ when she comes a ridin’ up t’ th’ office on that brown pony o’ hern, I’ll be dad burned if she don’t pretty nigh fill th’ whole out doors, ba thundas!  What!” And the little shrivelled up old hillsman, who keeps the ferry, removed his cob pipe long enough to reply, with all the emphasis possible to his squeaky voice, “She sure do, Ike.  She sure do.  I’ve often thought hit didn’t look jest fair fer God ‘lmighty t’ make sech a woman ‘thout ary man t’ match her.  Makes me feel plumb ‘shamed o’ myself t’ stand ‘round in th’ same county with her.  Hit sure do, Ike.”