It was no use for her to tell him that soldiers made their own beds and washed their own dishes, for his short answer was: 

“Mebbe they had to, ’cause thar wasn’t no women folks around, but he didn’t,” and his face was so hopelessly set and stubborn that she handed him the old gun without another word.  For a moment he hesitated, lifting his solemn eyes to hers.  “I want you to know I’m much obleeged,” he said.  Then he turned away, and St. Hilda saw him mount his old nag, climb the ridge opposite without looking back, and pass over the summit.

Old Jason Hawn was sitting up in a chair when two days later disgusted little Jason rode up to his gate.

“They wanted me to do a gal’s work over thar,” he explained shortly, and the old man nodded grimly with sympathy and understanding.

“I was lookin’ fer ye to come back.”

Old Aaron Honeycutt had been winged through the shoulder while the lad was away and the feud score had been exactly evened by the ambushing of another of the tribe.  On this argument Arch Hawn was urging a resumption of the truce, but both clans were armed and watchful and everybody was looking for a general clash on the next county-court day.  The boy soon rose restlessly.

“Whar you goin’?”

“I’m a-goin’ to look atter my corn.”

At the forks of the creek the old circuit rider hailed Jason gladly, and he, too, nodded with approval when he heard the reason the boy had come back.

“I’ll make ye a present o’ the work I’ve done in yo’ corn—­bein’ as I must ‘a’ worked might’ nigh an hour up thar yestiddy an’ got plumb tuckered out.  I come might’ nigh fallin’ out, hit was so steep, an’ if I had, I reckon I’d ‘a’ broke my neck.”

The old woman appeared on the porch and she, too, hailed the boy with a bantering tone and a quizzical smile.

“One o’ them fotched-on women whoop ye fer missin’ yo’ a-b-abs?” she asked.  Jason scowled.

“Whar’s Mavis?” The old woman laughed teasingly.

“Why, hain’t ye heerd the news?  How long d’ye reckon a purty gal like Mavis was a-goin’ to wait fer you?  ‘Member that good-lookin’ little furrin feller who was down here from the settlemints?  Well, he come back an’ tuk her away.”

Jason knew the old woman was teasing him, and instead of being angry, as she expected, he looked so worried and distressed that she was sorry, and her rasping old voice became gentle with affection.

“Mavis’s gone to the settlemints, honey.  Her daddy sent fer her an’ I made her go.  She’s whar she belongs—­up thar with him an’ yo’ mammy.  Go put yo’ hoss in the stable an’ come an’ live right here with us.”

Jason shook his head and without answer turned his horse down the creek again.  A little way down he saw three Honeycutts coming, all armed, and he knew that to avoid passing his grandfather’s house they were going to cross the ridge and strike the head of their own creek.  One of them was a boy—­“little Aaron”—­less than two years older than himself, and little Aaron not only had a pistol buckled around him, but carried a Winchester across his saddle-bow.  The two men grinned and nodded good-naturedly to him, but the boy Aaron pulled his horse across the road and stopped Jason, who had stood many a taunt from him.