“I dare say we had best begin to-morrow morning,” he said at last.

“Birt can’t go a-diggin’ no-ways, this evenin’,” put in the officious Rufe, who stood, according to his wont, listening with his mouth and eyes wide open, “’kase ez I kem home by the tanyard Jube Perkins hollered ter me ter tell Birt ter come thar right quick.  I furgot it till this minit,” he added, with a shade of embarrassment that might pass for apology.

Birt felt a prophetic thrill.  This summons promised developments of importance.  Only a few hours ago he was discharged under suspicion of dishonesty; why this sudden recall?  He did not know whether hope or fear was paramount.  He trembled with eager expectancy.  He seized his hat, and strode out of the house without waiting to hear more of the professor’s plans or the details of the wages.

He had reached the fence before he discovered Tennessee close at his heels.  He cast his troubled eyes down upon her, and met her pleading, upturned gaze.  He was about to charge her to go back.  But then he remembered how she had followed him with blessings—­how mercy had kept pace with her steps.  He would not deny her the simple boon she craved, and if she were troublesome and in his way, surely he might be patient with her, since she loved him so!  He lifted her over the fence, and then started briskly down the path, the sturdy, light-footed little mountain girl delightedly trudging along in the rear.

When he entered the tanyard no one was there except Jube Perkins and Andy Byers the tanner, lounging as usual on the wood-pile, and the workman, with scarcely less the aspect of idleness, dawdlingly scraping a hide on the wooden horse.  Birt discerned a portent in the unwonted solemnity of their faces, and his heart sank.

“Waal, Birt, we-uns hev been a-waitin’ fur ye,” said the tanner in a subdued, grave tone that somehow reminded Birt of the bated voices in a house of death.  “Set down hyar on the wood-pile, fur Andy an’ me hev got a word ter say ter ye.”

Birt’s dilated black eyes turned in dumb appeal from one to the other as he sank down on the wood-pile.  His suspense gnawed him like an actual grief while Jubal Perkins slowly shifted his position and looked vaguely at Andy Byers for a suggestion, being uncertain how to begin.

“Waal, Birt,” he drawled at last, “ez yer dad is dead an’ ye hev got nobody ter see arter ye an’ advise ye, Andy an’ me, we-uns agreed ez how we’d talk ter ye right plain, an’ try ter git ye ter jedge o’ this hyar matter like we-uns do.  Andy an’ me know more ’bout the law, an’ ’bout folks too, than ye does.  These hyar Griggs folks hev always been misdoubted ez a fractious an’ contrary-wise fambly.  Ef enny Griggs ain’t aggervatin’ an’ captious, it air through bein’ plumb terrified by the t’others.  They air powerful hard folks—­an’ they’ll land ye in the State Prison yet, I’m thinkin’.  I wonder they hain’t started at ye a’ready.  But thar’s no countin’ on ’em, ‘ceptin’ that they’ll do all they kin that air ha’sh an’ grindin’.”