Birt listened vaguely to this account of his friend’s filial shortcomings, his absent eyes fixed upon the wide landscape, and his mind busy with the anxious problems of Nate’s broken promises.

And the big red ball of the setting sun seemed at last to roll off the plane of the horizon, and it disappeared amidst the fiery emblazonment of clouds with which it had enriched the west.  But all the world was not so splendid; midway below the dark purple summits a dun, opaque vapor asserted itself in dreary, aerial suspension.  Beneath it he could see a file of cows, homeward bound, along the road that encircled the mountain’s base.  He heard them low, and this reminded him that night was near, for all that the zenith was azure, and for all that the west was aglow.  And he remembered he had a good many odd jobs to do before dark.  And so he turned his face homeward.

CHAPTER V.

Birt had always been held in high esteem by the men at the tanyard.  Suddenly, however, the feeling toward him cooled.  He remembered afterward, although at the time he was too absorbed to fully appreciate it, that this change began one day shortly after he had learned of Nate’s departure.  As he went mechanically about his work, he was pondering futilely upon his friend’s mysterious journey, and his tantalizing hopes lying untried in the depths of the ravine.  He hardly noticed the conversation of the men until something was said that touched upon the wish nearest his heart.

“I war studyin’ ‘bout lettin’ Birt hev a day off,” said the tanner.  “An’ ye’ll bide hyar.”

“Naw, Jube—­naw!” Andy Byers replied with stalwart independence to his employer.  “I hev laid off ter attend.  Ef ye want ennybody ter bide with the tanyard, an’ keer fur this hyar pit, ye kin do it yerse’f, or else Birt kin. I hev laid off ter attend.”

Andy Byers was a man of moods.  His shaggy eyebrows to-day overshadowed eyes sombre and austere.  He seemed, if possible, a little slower than was his wont.  He bore himself with a sour solemnity, and he was at once irritable and dejected.

“Shucks, Andy! ye knows ye ain’t no kin sca’cely ter the old woman; ye couldn’t count out how ye air kin ter her ter save yer life.  Now, I’m obleeged ter attend.”

It so happened that the tanner’s great-aunt was distantly related to Andy Byers.  Being ill, and an extremely old woman, she was supposed to be lying at the point of death, and her kindred had been summoned to hear her last words.

“I hed ’lowed ter gin Birt a day off, ’kase I hev got ter hev the mule in the wagon, an’ he can’t grind bark.  I promised Birt a day off,” the tanner continued.

“That thar’s twixt ye an’ Birt.  I hain’t got no call ter meddle,” said the obdurate Byers.  “Ye kin bide with the tanyard an’ finish this job yerse’f, of so minded.  I’m goin’ ter attend.”