school-master must have his own good reasons.  The memory of Marjorie’s look still hurt, and somehow he felt that even Mavis was vaguely on their side against him, and of a sudden the pang of loneliness that Marjorie saw in his eyes so pierced him that he pulled his old nag in and stood motionless in the middle of the road.  The sky was overcast and the air was bitter and chill; through the gray curtain that hung to the rim of the earth, the low sun swung like a cooling ball of fire and under it the gray fields stretched with such desolation for him that he dared ride no farther into them.  And then as the lad looked across the level stillness that encircled him, the mountains loomed suddenly from it—­big, still, peaceful, beckoning—­and made him faint with homesickness.  Those mountains were behind him—­his mountains and his home that was his no longer—­but, after all, any home back there was his, and that thought so filled his heart with a rush of gladness that with one long breath of exultation he turned in his saddle to face those distant unseen hills, and the old mare, following the movement of his body, turned too, as though she, too, suddenly wanted to go home.  The chill air actually seemed to grow warmer as he trotted back, the fields looked less desolate, and then across them he saw flashing toward him the hostile fire of a scarlet tam-o’-shanter.  He was nearing the yard gate of the big house on the right, and from the other big house on the left the spot of shaking crimson was galloping toward the turnpike.  He could wait until Marjorie crossed the road ahead of him, or he could gallop ahead and pass before she could reach the gate, but his sullen pride forbade either course, and so he rode straight on, and his dogged eyes met hers as she swung the gate to and turned her pony across the road.  Marjorie flushed, her lips half parted to speak, and Jason sullenly drew in, but as she said nothing, he clucked and dug his heels viciously into the old mare’s sides.

Then the little girl raised one hand to check him and spoke hurriedly: 

“Jason, we’ve been talking about you, and my Uncle Bob says you kept me from getting killed.”

Jason stared.

“And the school-teacher says we don’t understand you—­you people down in the mountains—­and that we mustn’t blame you for—­” she paused in helpless embarrassment, for still the mountain boy stared.

“You know,” she went on finally, “boys here don’t do things that you boys do down there—­”

She stopped again, the tears started suddenly in her earnest eyes, and a miracle happened to little Jason.  Something quite new surged within him, his own eyes swam suddenly, and he cleared his throat huskily.

“I hain’t a-goin’ to bother you folks no more,” he said, and he tried to be surly, but couldn’t.  “I’m a-goin’ away.”  The little girl’s tears ceased.

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I wish you’d stay here and go to school.  The school-teacher said he wanted you to do that, and he says such nice things about you, and so does my Uncle Bob, and Gray is sorry, and he says he is coming over to see you to-morrow.”