foothills, her mind flashed to the big far-away mountains and, dropping her face into her hands, she began to sob out her loneliness and sorrow.  The cry did her good, and by and by she lifted her head, rubbed her reddened eyes with the back of one hand, half rose to go to the school-house, and sank helplessly down on the thick grass by the side of the log.  The sun beat warmly and soothingly down on her.  The grass and even the log against her shoulders were warm and comforting, and the hum of insects about her was so drowsy that she yawned and settled deeper into the grass, and presently she passed into sleep and dreams of Jason.  Jason was in the feud.  She could see him crouched in some bushes and peering through them on the lookout evidently for some Honeycutt; and slipping up the other side of the hill was a Honeycutt looking for Jason.  Somehow she knew it was the Honeycutt who had slain the boy’s father, and she saw the man creep through the brush and worm his way on his belly to a stump above where Jason sat.  She saw him thrust his Winchester through the leaves, she tried to shriek a warning to Jason, and she awoke so weak with terror that she could hardly scramble to her feet.  Just then the air was rent with shrill cries, she saw school-boys piling over a fence and rushing toward her hiding-place, and, her wits yet ungathered, she turned and fled in terror down the hill, nor did she stop until the cries behind her grew faint; and then she was much ashamed of herself.  Nobody was in pursuit of her—­it was the dream that had frightened her.  She could almost step on the head of her own shadow now, and that fact and a pang of hunger told her it was noon.  It was noon recess back at the school and those school-boys were on their way to a playground.  She had left her lunch at the log where she slept, and so she made her way back to it, just in time to see two boys pounce on the little paper bag lying in the grass.  There was no shyness about her then—­that bag was hers—­and she flashed forward.

“Gimme that poke!”

The wrestling stopped and, startled by the cry and the apparition, the two boys fell apart.

“What?” said the one with the bag in his hand, while the other stared at Mavis with puzzled amazement.

“Gimme that poke!” blazed the girl, and the boy laughed, for the word has almost passed from the vocabulary of the Blue-grass.  He held it high.

“Jump for it!” he teased.

“I hain’t goin’ to jump fer it—­hit’s mine.”

Her hands clenched and she started slowly toward him.

“Give her the bag,” said the other boy so imperatively that the little girl stopped with a quick and trustful shift of her own burden to him.

“She’s got to jump for it!”

The other boy smiled, and it strangely seemed to Mavis that she had seen that smile before.

“Oh, I reckon not,” he said quietly, and in a trice the two boys in a close, fierce grapple were rocking before her and the boy with the bag went to the earth first.