There were no “finds” down by the lick to rejoice the professor, and he went away at last boneless, except in so far as nature had provided him.  He left Birt amply rewarded for his labor.  So independent did Mrs. Dicey feel with this sum of money in reserve, that she would not agree that Birt should work on the old terms with the tanner.  Birt was dismayed by this temerity.  Once more, however, he recognized her acumen, for Jubal Perkins, although he left the house in a huff, came back again and promised good wages.  Ignorant and simple as she was, her keen instinct for her son’s best interest, his true welfare, endowed her words with wisdom.  Thenceforth he esteemed no friend, no ally, equal to his mother.

It delighted him to witness her triumph in the proof of his innocence, and indeed she did not in this matter bear herself with meekness.  It made him feel so prosperous to note her relapse into her old caustic habit of speech.  Ah, if he were hurt or sore beset, every word would be tenderness.

Birt shortly compassed a much desired object.  The mule’s revival of his ancient glories as a “turrible kicker” had injured his market value, and Birt’s earnings enabled him to purchase the animal at a low price.  The mule lived to a great age, always with his master as “mild-mannered” as a lamb.

For some time Birt saw nothing of Nate, but one day the quondam friends met face to face on a narrow, precipitous path on the mountain side.  Abject fear was expressed in Nate’s sharp features, for escape was impossible.

There was no need of either fear or flight.

“How air ye, I’on Pyrite!” cried Birt cheerfully.

The martyr’s countenance changed.

“Ye never done me right ’bout that thar mine, Birt Dicey,” Nate said reproachfully.  “Ye mus’ hev knowed from the fust ez them thar rocks war good fur nuthin’.”

“Ye air the deceivinest sandy-headed Pyrite that ever war on the top o’ this mounting, an’ ye knows it,” Birt retorted in high good humor; “an’ ef it war wuth my while I’d gin ye a old-fashion larrupin’ jes’ ter pay ye fur the trick ez ye played on me.  But I ain’t keerin’ fur that, now.  Stan’ back thar, Tennessee!”

Since then, Tennessee, always preserving the influence she wielded that memorable night, has grown to be a woman—­never pretty, but, as her brother still stoutly avers, “powerful peart.”

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