And yet St. Hilda, as one forsaken lover in the Blue-grass had christened her, opened the little roll-book in her lap and sighed deeply, for in there on her waiting-list were the names of a hundred children for whom, with all the rebuilding, she would have no place.  Only the day before, a mountaineer had brought in nine boys and girls, his stepdaughter’s and his own, and she had sadly turned them away.  Still they were coming in name and in person, on horseback, in wagon and afoot, and among them was Jason Hawn, who was starting toward her that morning from far away over the hills.

Over there the twin spirals of smoke no longer rose on either side of the ridge and drifted upward, for both cabins were closed.  Jason’s sale was just over—­the sale of one cow, two pigs, a dozen chickens, one stove, and a few pots and pans—­the neighbors were gone, and Jason sat alone on the porch with more money in his pocket than he had ever seen at one time in his life.  His bow and arrow were in one hand, his father’s rifle was over his shoulder, and his old nag was hitched to the fence.  The time had come.  He had taken a farewell look at the black column of coal he had unearthed for others, the circuit rider would tend his little field of corn on shares, Mavis would live with the circuit rider’s wife, and his grandfather had sternly forbidden the boy to take any hand in the feud.  The geologist had told him to go away and get an education, his Uncle Arch had offered to pay his way if he would go to the Bluegrass to school—­an offer that the boy curtly declined—­and now he was starting to the settlement school of which he had heard so much, in the county-seat of an adjoining county.  For, even though run by women, it must be better than nothing, better than being beholden to his Uncle Arch, better than a place where people and country were strange.  So, Jason mounted his horse, rode down to the forks of the creek and drew up at the circuit rider’s house, where Mavis and the old woman came out to the gate to say good-by.  The boy had not thought much about the little girl and the loneliness of her life after he was gone, for he was the man, he was the one to go forth and do; and it was for Mavis to wait for him to come back.  But when he handed her the bow and arrow and told her they were hers, the sight of her face worried him deeply.

“I’m a-goin’ over thar an’ if I like it an’ thar’s a place fer you, I’ll send the nag back fer you, too.”

He spoke with manly condescension only to comfort her, but the eager gladness that leaped pitifully from her eyes so melted him that he added impulsively:  “S’pose you git up behind me an’ go with me right now.”

“Mavis ain’t goin’ now,” said the old woman sharply.  “You go on whar you’re goin’ an’ come back fer her.”

“All right,” said Jason, greatly relieved.  “Take keer o’ yourselves.”

With a kick he started the old nag and again pulled in.

“An’ if you leave afore I git back, Mavis, I’m a-goin’ to come atter you, no matter whar you air—­some day.”