Around the corner of the yard fence a negro appeared leading a prancing iron-gray horse, the front doors opened, a tall girl in a black riding-habit came swiftly down the walk, and a moment later the iron-gray was bearing her at a swift gallop toward the turnpike gate.  As she disappeared over a green summit, his heart stood quite still.  Could that tall woman be the little girl who, with a tear, a tremor of the voice, and a touch of the hand, had swerved him from the beaten path of a century?  Mavis had grown, he himself had grown—­and, of course, Marjorie, too, had grown.  He began to wonder whether she would recollect him, would know him when he met her face to face, would remember the promise she had asked and he had given, and if she would be pleased to know that he had kept it.  In the passing years the boy had actually lost sight of her as flesh and blood, for she had become enshrined among his dreams by night and his dreams by day; among the visions his soul had seen when he had sat under the old circuit rider and heard pictured the glories of the blessed when mortals should mingle with the shining hosts on high:  and above even St. Hilda, on the very pinnacle of his new-born and ever-growing ambitions, Marjorie sat enthroned and alone.  Light was all he remembered of her—­the light of her eyes and of her hair—­yes, and that one touch of her hand.  His heart turned to water at the thought of seeing her again and his legs were trembling when he rose to start back through the fields.  Another rabbit sprang from its bed in a tuft of grass, but he scarcely paid any heed to it.  When he crossed the creek a muskrat was leisurely swimming for its hole in the other bank, and he did not even pick up a stone to throw at it, but walked on dreaming through the woods.  As he was about to emerge from them he heard voices ahead of him, high-pitched and angry, and with the caution of his race he slipped forward and stopped, listening.  In a tobacco-patch on the edge of the woods Steve Hawn had stopped work and was leaning on the fence.  Seated on it was one of the small farmers of the neighborhood.  They were not quarrelling, and the boy could hardly believe his ears.

“I tell you that fellow—­they’re callin’ him the autocrat already--that fellow will have two of his judges to your one at every election booth in the State.  He’ll steal every precinct and he’ll be settin’ in the governor’s chair as sure as you are standing here.  I’m a Democrat, but I’ve been half a Republican ever since this free-silver foolishness came up, and I’m going to vote against him.  Now, all you mountain people are Republicans, but you might as well all be Democrats.  You haven’t got a chance oh earth.  What are you goin’ to do about it?”

Steve Hawn shook his head helplessly, but Jason saw his huge hand grip his tobacco knife and his own blood beat indignantly at his temples.  The farmer threw one leg back over the fence.

“There’ll be hell to pay when the day comes,” he said, and he strode away, while the mountaineer leaned motionless on the fence with his grip on the knife unrelaxed.