The tanyard lay in the midst of a forest so dense that, except at the verge of the clearing, it showed hardly a trace of its gradual despoliation by the industry that nestled in its heart like a worm in the bud.  There were many stumps about the margin of the woods, the felled trees, stripped of their bark, often lying among them still, for the supply of timber exceeded the need.  In penetrating the wilderness you might mark, too, here and there, a vacant space, where the chestnut-oak, prized for its tannin, had once grown on the slope.

A little log house was in the midst of the clearing.  It had, properly speaking, only one room, but there was a shed-room attached, for the purpose of storage, and also a large open shed at one side.  The rail fence inclosed the space of an acre, perhaps, which was covered with spent bark.  Across the pits planks were laid, with heavy stones upon them to hold them in place.  A rude roof sheltered the bark-mill from the weather, and there was the patient mule, with Birt and a whip to make sure that he did not fall into reflective pauses according to his meditative wont.  And there, too, was Tennessee, perched on the lower edge of a great pile of bark, and gravely watching Birt.

He deprecated the attention she attracted.  He was sometimes ashamed to have the persistent little sister seen following at his heels like a midday shadow.  He could not know that the men who stopped and spoke to him and to her, and laughed at the infirmities of the infant tongue when she replied unintelligibly, thought better of him for his manifestation of strong fraternal affection.  They said to each other that he was a “peart boy an’ powerful good ter the t’other chill’en, an’ holped the fambly along ez well ez a man—­ better’n thar dad ever done;” for Birt’s father had been characterized always as “slack-twisted an’ onlucky.”

The shadows dwindled on the tan.  The winds had furled their wings.  White clouds rose, dazzling, opaque, up to the blue zenith.  The querulous cicada complained in the laurel.  Birt heard the call of a jay from the woods.  And then, as he once more urged the old mule on, the busy bark-mill kept up such a whir that he could hear nothing else.  He was not aware of an approach till the new-comer was close upon him; in fact, the first he knew of Nate Griggs’s proximity was the sight of him.  Nate was glancing about with his usual air of questioning disparagement, and cracking a long lash at the spent bark on the ground.

“Hello, Nate!” Birt cried out, eagerly.  “I’m powerful glad ye happened ter kem hyar, fur I hev a word ter say ter ye.”

“I dunno ez I’m minded ter bide,” Nate said cavalierly.  “I hates to waste time an’ burn daylight a-jowin’.”

He was still cracking his lash at the ground.  There was a sudden, half-articulate remonstrance.

Birt, who had turned away to the bark-mill, whirled back in a rising passion.