A small clearing on a hillside, sloping up from the little-traversed mountain-road to the forest, upon whose edge, in the midst of stunted oaks and scraggy pines stood a rude cabin, such as one comes upon here and there in the remote wilds of West Virginia. The sun, pausing just above the sharp summit of Pinnacle Mountain, threw slant rays across the rugged landscape, which spring was touching up with a thousand soft tints. A great swelling expanse of green, broken at intervals by frowning ledges, rolled off to the low-lying purple mountain ranges, whose summits still swam in sunset light, while their bases were lost in deepest shadow. Over all, a universal hush, the hush which thrills one with a sense of utter isolation and loneliness.  
The man and woman who were seated before the cabin door hardly perceived these things. What their eyes saw, doubtless, was the fair promise of the corn-field which stretched along the road for some distance, the white cow with her spotted calf, and the litter of lively pigs which occupied inclosures near the cabin, and—the tiny baby, who lay,[130] blinking and clutching at nothing, across the woman's lap. She was looking down upon the child with a smile upon her face. It was a young and handsome face, but there were shadows in the dark eyes and around the drooping lids, which the smile could not chase away—traces of intense suffering, strange to see in a face so young.
 
The man, a young and stalwart fellow, shaggy of hair and long of limb, had placed himself upon a log which lay beside the door-step, and was lost in contemplation of the small atom of embryo manhood upon which his deep-set blue eyes were fixed. He had been grappling for three weeks with the overpowering fact of this child's existence, and had hardly compassed it yet.
 
"Lord! Molly," he exclaimed, his face broadening into a smile, "jess look at him now! Look at them thar eyes! People says as babies don't know nuthin'. Durned ef thet thar young un don't look knowin'er 'n old Jedge Wessminster hisself. Why, I'm mos' afeared on him sometimes, the way he eyes me, ez cunnin' like, ez much ez ter say 'I'm hyar, dad, an' I'm agoin' ter stay, an' you's jess got ter knuckle right down tew it, dad!' Lord! look at thet thar now!" And the happy sire took one of the baby's small wrinkled paws and laid it across the horny palm of his own big left hand.
 
"Jess look, Molly! Now you ain't agoin' to tell me ez thet thar hand is ever agoin' to handle a[131] ax or a gun, or—or—" pausing for a climax, "sling down a glass o' whiskey? 'Tain't possible!"
 
At this juncture, an inquisitive fly lit upon the small eminence in the centre of the child's visage destined to do duty as a nose. Hardly had the venturesome insect settled when, without moving a muscle of his solemn countenance, that astonishing infant, with one erratic, back-handed gesture, brushed him away. The enraptured father burst into a roar of laughter.
 
"I tole ye so, Molly! I tole ye so! Babies is jess a-puttin' on. They knows a heap more'n they gits credit fur, you bet!"
 
Something like a smile here distended the child's uncertain mouth, and something which might be construed into a wink contracted for an instant his small right eye, whereupon the ecstatic father made the welkin ring with loud haw-haws of appreciative mirth.
 
Molly laughed too, this time.
 
"What a man you are, Sandy! I'm glad you feel so happy, though," she continued, softly, while a flush rose to her cheek and quickly subsided. "I ain't been much comp'ny for ye, but I reckon it'll be different now. Since baby come I feel better, every way, an' I reckon——"
 
She stopped abruptly and bent low over the child.
 
Sandy had ceased his contemplation of the boy,[132] and had listened to his wife's words with a look of incredulous delight upon his rough but not uncomely face. It was evidently a new thing for her to speak so plainly, and her husband was not unmindful of the effort it must have cost her, nor ungrateful for the result.
 
"Don't say no more about it, Molly," he responded, in evident embarrassment. "Them days is past an' gone an' furgotten. Leastways, I ain't agoin' to think no more about 'em. Women is women, an' hez ter be 'lowed fur. I don't know ez 'twas more'n I cud expect; you a-bein' so porely, an' the old folks a-dyin', an' you a-takin' on it so hard. I don't go fur ter say ez I ain't been outed more'n wunst, but thet's over'n gone; an' now, Molly," he continued cheerfully, "things is a-lookin' up. Ez soon ez you're strong ag'in, I reckon ye'll be all right. The little un'll keep ye from gittin' lonesome an' down-sperited; now won't he, Molly?"
 
"Yes, Sandy," said the woman earnestly, "I begin to feel as if I could be happy—happier than I ever thought of bein'. I'm goin' to begin a new life, Sandy. I'm goin' to be a better wife to ye than—I have been."
 
Her voice trembled, and she stopped suddenly again, turning her face away.
 
She was a strangely beautiful creature to be the wife of this brawny mountaineer. There was a[133] softness in her voice in striking contrast to his own rough tones, and although the mountain accent was plainly observable, it was greatly modified. He, himself, ignorant and unsophisticated, full of the half-savage impulses and rude virtues of the region, was quite conscious of the incongruity, and regarded his wife with something of awe mingled with his undemonstrative but ardent passion. He sat thus looking at her now, in a kind of adoring wonder.
 
"Waal!" he exclaimed at last, "blest ef I kin see how I ever spunked up enough fur ter ax ye, anyhow! Ye see, Molly, I'd allers liked ye—allers; long afore ye ever thought o' goin' down to Richmon'."
 
The woman moved uneasily, and turned her eyes away from his eager face; but Sandy failed to notice this, and went on, with increasing ardor:
 
"After ye'd gone I missed ye powerful! I used ter go over the mounting ter ax after ye whenever I cud git away, an' when they tole me how ye war enjoyin' yerself down thar, a-arnin' heaps o' money an' livin' so fine, it mos' set me wild. I war allers expectin' ter hear ez how ye'd got merried, an' I kep' a-tellin' myself 'twa'n't no use; but the more I tole myself, the wuss I got. An' when you come home, Molly, a-lookin' so white an' mizzable like, an' everybody said ye'd die, it—why, it most killed me out, Molly, 'deed it did, I sw'ar!"
 
[134]
 
Sandy did not often speak of those days of his probation; but, finding Molly in a softened mood,—Molly, who had always been so cold and reticent, so full of moods and fancies,—he felt emboldened to proceed.
 
"Lord, Molly, I didn't hev no rest night nor day! Bob'll tell ye how I hung around, an' hung around; an' when ye got a little better an' come out, a-lookin' so white an' peakèd, I war all of a trimble. I don't know now how I ever up an' axed ye. I reckon I never would a-done it ef it hadn't been fur Bob. He put me up tew it. Sez Bob, 'Marm's afeard as Molly'll go back to Richmon' ag'in,' an' that war more'n I could stand; an' so I axed ye, Molly."
 
Sandy's face was not one adapted to the expression of tender emotion, but there was a perceptible mellowing of the irregular features and rough voice as he went on.
 
"I axed ye, Molly, and ye said 'Yes'; an' I ain't never hed no call to be sorry ez I axed ye, an' I hope you ain't, nuther—say, Molly?" and the great hand was laid tenderly on her arm.
 
"No, Sandy," said she, "I ain't had no call to be sorry. You've been good to me; a heap better'n I have been to you."
 
Truly, Molly was softening. Sandy could hardly credit his own happiness. He ran his fingers through the tawny fringe of his beard awhile before he answered.
 
[135]
 
"Thet's all right, Molly. I laid out to be good to ye, an' I've tried to be. Say, Molly," he continued, with a kind of pleading earnestness in his voice, "ye've done hankerin' arter the city, ain't ye? Kind o' gittin' used to the mountings ag'in, ain't ye, Molly?"
 
It was quite dark on the little hillside now, and Molly could turn her face boldly toward her husband.
 
"What makes ye keep a-harpin' on that, Sandy? I ain't hankered after the city—not for a long time," and a slight shudder ran over her. "Just put that idea out of your head, Sandy. Nothin' could ever tempt me to go to the city again. I hate it!"
 
She spoke with fierce emphasis, and rose to go in. Sandy, somewhat puzzled by her manner, but re-assured by her words, heaved a sigh and rose also.
 
The stars were out, and from a little patch of swamp at the foot of the hill came the shrill piping of innumerable frogs, and a whip-poor-will's wild, sad cry pierced the silence. The baby had long since fallen asleep. The mother laid him in his cradle, and night and rest settled down over the little cabin.
 
Spring had brightened into summer, and summer was already on the wane; an August morning had dawned over the mountains. Although the sun[136] shone warmly down upon the dew-drenched earth, the air was still deliciously cool and fresh.
 
Molly stood in the door-way, holding in her arms the baby, whose look of preternatural wisdom had merged itself into one of infantile softness and benignity. She was holding him up for the benefit of Sandy, who, as he went down the red, dusty road, driving the white cow before him, turned now and then to bestow a grimace upon his son and heir. That small personage's existence, while perhaps less a matter of astonishment to his father than formerly, had lost none of the charms of novelty. He was a fine, robust little man, and cooed and chuckled rapturously in his mother's arms, stretching out his hands toward the scarlet blossoms of the trumpet-vine which climbed around the door-way. Mother and child made a fair picture in the twining green frame touched up with flame-like clusters of bloom—a picture which was not lost upon Sandy, who, as he passed out of sight of the cabin, shook his head, and said to himself again, as he had many and many a time before:
 
"Blest ef I see how I ever got up spunk enough to ax her!"
 
Molly watched her husband out of sight, and then let her eyes wander over the summer landscape. There was a look of deep content in her face, which was no longer pale and worn. The traces of struggle and suffering had disappeared.[137] The past may have had its anguish, and its sins perhaps, but the present must have seemed peaceful and secure, for she turned from the door-way with a song upon her lips,—a song which lingered all the morning as she went in and out about her household tasks, trying to make more trim and bright that which was already the perfection of trimness and brightness. When she had finished her work the morning was far advanced and the sun glared hotly in at the door and window.
 
She had rocked the baby to sleep, and came out of the inner room with the happy mother-look upon her face. She turned to look back, to see, perhaps, if the fly-net were drawn carefully enough over the little sleeper. As she stood thus she was conscious of a human shadow which fell through the outer door and blotted out the square of sunshine which lay across the floor, and a deep voice said:
 
"I'd thank you for a drink of water, ma'am."
 
Molly turned quickly and the eyes of the two met. Over the man's face came a look of utter amazement which ended in an evil smile.
 
Over the woman's face came a change so sudden, so terrible, that the new-comer, base and hardened as he looked, seemed struck by it, and the cruel smile subsided a little as he exclaimed:
 
"Molly Craigie, by all that's holy!"
 
The woman did not seem to hear him. She stood[138] staring at him with wild incredulous eyes and parted lips, from which came in a husky whisper the words:
 
"Dick Staples!"
 
Then she struck the palms of her hands together, and with a sharp cry sank into a chair. The man stepped across the threshold, and stood in the centre of the room looking curiously about him. He was a large, powerfully built fellow, and, in a certain way, a handsome one. He was attired in a kind of hunting costume which he wore with a jaunty, theatrical air.
 
"I swear!" he exclaimed, with a brutal laugh, as his eyes took in the details of the neat little kitchen, and came at last to rest upon the woman's white face. "I swear! I do believe Molly's married!"
 
The idea seemed to strike him as a peculiarly novel and amusing one.
 
"Molly Craigie married and settled down! Well, if that ain't a good one!" and he burst into another cruel laugh. His mocking words seemed at last to sting the woman, who had sat smitten mute before him, into action. She rose and faced him, trembling, but defiant.
 
"Dick Staples, what brought ye here only God knows, but ye mus'n't stay here. Ye must go 'way this minute, d'ye hear? Ye must go 'way!"
 
She spoke hurriedly, glancing down the road as she did so. The man stared blankly at her a moment.
 
[139]
 
"Well, now, if that ain't a nice way to treat an old friend! Why, Molly, you ain't going back on Dick you ain't seen for so long, are you? I'd no idea of ever seeing you again, but now I've found you, you don't get rid of me so easy. I'm going to make myself at home, Molly, see if I don't." And the man seated himself and crossed his legs comfortably, looking about him with a mocking air of geniality and friendliness. "Why, d——n it!" he continued, "I'm going to stay to dinner, and be introduced to your husband!"
 
Molly went nearer to him; the defiance in her manner had disappeared, and a look of almost abject terror and appeal had taken its place.
 
"Dick," she cried, imploringly, "oh, Dick, for God's sake hear me! If ye want to see me, to speak with me, I won't refuse ye, only not here, Dick,—for God's sake not here!" and she glanced desperately around. "What brought ye here, Dick? Tell me that, and where are ye stayin'?"
 
"Well, then," he answered surlily, "I ran up for a little shooting, and I'm staying at Digby's."
 
"At Digby's! That's three miles below here." She spoke eagerly. "Dick, you noticed the little meetin'-house just below here in the hollow?"
 
The man nodded.
 
"If ye'll go away now, Dick, right away, I'll meet ye in the woods. Follow the path that leads up behind the meetin'-house to-morrow mornin'[140] between ten and eleven an' I'll meet ye there, but oh, Dick, for God's sake go away now, before—before he comes!"
 
The desperation in her voice and looks produced some effect upon the man apparently, for he rose and said:
 
"Well, Molly, as you're so particular, I'll do as you say; but mind now, don't you play me no tricks. If you ain't there, punctual, I'll be here; now see if I don't, my beauty." He would have flung his arms about her, but she started back with flaming eyes.
 
"None o' that, Dick Staples!" she cried, fiercely.
 
"Spunky as ever, and twice as handsome, I swear!" exclaimed the fellow, gazing admiringly at her.
 
"Are ye goin'?"
 
There was something in her voice and mien which compelled obedience, and the man prepared to go. Outside the door he slung his rifle over his shoulder, and looking back, said:
 
"Remember now, Molly, 'Meet me in the willow glen,' you know. Punctual's the word!" and with a meaning smile he sauntered down the slope, humming a popular melody as he went.
 
The woman stood for a time as he had left her, her arms hanging by her side, her eyes fixed upon the door-way. The baby slept peacefully on, and[141] outside the birds were twittering and calling, and the breeze tossed the vine-tendrils in at the door and window, throwing graceful, dancing shadows over the floor and across her white face and nerveless hands. A whistle, clear and cheery, came piping through the sultry noontide stillness. It pierced her deadened senses, and she started, passing her hand across her eyes.
 
"God!"
 
That was all she said. Then she began laying the table and preparing the midday meal. When Sandy reached the cabin she was moving about with nervous haste, her eyes gleaming strangely and a red spot on either cheek. Her husband's eyes followed her wonderingly. The child awoke and she went to bring him.
 
"I wonder what's up now?" he muttered, combing his beard with his fingers, as he was wont to do when perplexed or embarrassed. "Women is cur'us! They's no two ways about it, they is cur'us! They's no 'countin' fur 'em no how, 'deed they ain't!"
 
At this point the baby appeared, and after his usual frolic with him, during which he did not cease his furtive study of Molly's face, Sandy shouldered his hoe and started for the field. As he reached the door he turned and said:
 
"O Molly, I seen a man agoin' across the road down by the crick; one o' them city fellers, rigged out in huntin' traps. Did ye see him?"
 
[142]
 
Molly was standing with her back toward her husband putting away the remains of the meal.
 
"A man like that came to the door an' asked for a drink," she answered, quietly.
 
"He warn't sassy nor nothin'?" inquired Sandy, anxiously.
 
"No—he wasn't sassy," was the answer.
 
Sandy breathed a sigh of relief.
 
"Them city fellers is mighty apt to be sassy, and this time o' year they'se allers prowlin' 'round," and bestowing another rough caress on the baby he went his way.
 
That evening as they sat together before the door Sandy said:
 
"O Molly, I'm agoin' over ter Jim Barker's by sun-up ter-morrer, ter help him out with his hoein'. Ye won't be lonesome nor nothin'?"
 
"No—I reckon not," replied his wife. "'Twon't be the first time I've been here alone."
 
Involuntarily the eyes of the husband and wife met, in his furtive questioning look which she met with a steady gaze. In the dusky twilight her face showed pale as marble and her throat pulsated strangely. The man turned his eyes away; there was something in that face which he could not bear.
 
And at "sun-up" Sandy departed.
 
Molly went about her work as usual. Nothing[143] was forgotten, nothing neglected. The two small rooms shone with neatness and comfort, and at last the child slept.
............