When old Killus Hurd dismounted from his horse before the Hardings' front gate one spring day, it was not to make a neighborly visit. The flash of his eyes, the set of his mouth, boded no good and mild temper. He was a strong, vigorous-looking man for his years, and larger than the average mountaineer. He walked erect, his brown jeans and homespun clothing fitting loosely, his gray hair falling from under a well-worn broad-brimmed hat to his shoulders.

The Hardings lived on a settlement road at the foot of Bush Mountain, in a weather-beaten old log-house, shaded by a fine chestnut-oak, and a towering spruce pine. The widow Harding sat out on the low piazza shelling seed corn into a small splint basket, and she stared at the approaching visitor with surprise and displeasure. She was a middle-aged woman, but looked older, with dust-colored hair, sallow, sunken features, and faded blue eyes. Mrs. Long, a neighbor who had dropped in to borrow some dye-stuff and to beg a few garden seed, sat near her, rubbing snuff, and retailing the latest gossip circulating through the settlement. At the sight of Mr. Hurd she paused in astonishment.

"Lizy Ann Harding, thar comes Killus Hurd, ez I live!"

"I'm a-seein' him," said Mrs. Harding, her fingers trembling over the yellow corn.

"Good-mornin', Mis' Harding; hope you air well as you wanter be, Mis' Long," he said, walking up to the piazza step.

"Will you come in an' take a cheer?" said Mrs. Harding, the laws of hospitality forcing her to be polite even to her enemy.

"Yes, for a minute or two, Mis' Harding," he replied, and sat down opposite her, resting his hat on his knees.

Mrs. Long took a fresh dip of snuff, and hitched her chair a little nearer, expectant and curious. A brief silence fell, but it was simply the stillness forerunning a storm. The shrill voices of the boys at work in the field below the house were distinctly audible, and from the kitchen, at the edge of the back yard, sounded the steady click-clack of a loom, plied by a strong, industrious hand.

A bitter feud existed between the Hurds and the Hardings. It dated back to the days when Killus Hurd and Sam Harding were young, and sprang from a dispute over some gold diggings. Unfilled trenches marked the spot where they first quarreled, and as the years seemed to wear the earth away into a deeper chasm, so the break between the two families widened until it passed into history in the settlement. The men were members of the same church, their farms adjoined, their homes were not over a mile apart, but they would not be reconciled. At last death claimed Sam Harding, and a new grave had to be made in the shadow of the "meetin'-house," where the Hurds and the Hardings of a former generation rested side by side in peace.

He had been dead two years, and all outward signs of hostility had ceased; but the elder members of the families had not forgotten. And when Mr. Hurd sat down before Mrs. Harding that morning, her thin cheeks flushed, her faded eyes gathered fire; she had plenty of spirit.

"Mis' Harding, where is that daughter o' your'n?"

The mode of attack confused her for a moment.

"Do you mean Sarah Betsy?"

"Yes, I mean Sarah Betsy."

"She's in the kitchen a-weavin'."

"Yes; but where is she when outen your sight?"

"What's that to you, Mister Hurd?" straightening up, and looking unflinchingly at him.

"Mebby you'll 'low it's a good deal when I tell you she's a-goin' to meetin' with John, an' a-seein' him at singin's an' frolics an' such. It's got to be stopped, Mis' Harding. God-a-mighty knows John's been raised as he orter be, an' he ain't a-goin' to spile it all by keepin' comp'ny with a Harding."

He stamped on the floor in mingled grief and rage, and Mrs. Long moved her chair back a few inches. The widow Harding did not move, but a curious tightness in her throat held her speechless for a moment. Could it indeed be true Sarah Betsy had so deceived her? She would not believe it.

"Mister Hurd, do you s'pose I'd 'low Sarah Betsy to keep comp'ny with John?" she said, clearing her throat as she talked. "Sez Harding to me when he lay a-dyin': 'I'm sorry to leave you, Lizy Ann, but it ain't to be helped, fer it's the Almighty's will. Take keer o' the chillun an' do the best you can for 'em;' an' now, ruther than see Sarah Betsy a-throwin' herself away on a son o' your'n I'd be willin' to lay her down 'longside her pa." Her voice trembled and softened. "She's always been a good obejent child, an' I ain't afraid o' trustin' her."

"But ain't I been told p'intedly that they are courtin' on the sly, and didn't John 'low to me this mornin' hisself that he'd marry Sarah Betsy if he lived? Call her and we'll hear what she sez."

"To be sure," murmured Mrs. Long, while Mrs. Harding raised her voice in a shrill call:

"Sarah Betsy! Sarah Bet-see!"

She came quickly from the kitchen and across the yard to the narrow entry leading to the piazza, a rift of wind blowing her short dark hair about her brow and white neck. Her face was sunburned and slightly freckled, though smooth and fresh as a nineteen-year-old face should be. Some day age, snuff-dipping and bad diet would probably make her as yellow and shriveled as her mother, but now the potent charm of youth gave her comeliness. Her brown checked homespun dress was neat, and its primitive fashion but served to show the free grace of all her movements.

"Did you call me, Ma?" in a soft, slow voice; then she saw Mr. Hurd and paused.

"Sarah Betsy, Mr. Hurd 'lows John an' you has been a-keepin' comp'ny unbeknownst to us," said her mother, looking seriously at her.

Sarah Betsy cast down her eyes and was silent.

"Jest speak out, Sarah Betsy," said Mr. Hurd, grimly; "your ma don't 'pear to believe me."

"No; for I 'lowed that you had always been a good child an' wouldn't go ag'in' me."

A quiver of strongly repressed emotion passed over the girl's face.

"Oh, Ma, it couldn't be helped!"

Mrs. Harding rose up, then sat down again, scattering the corn right and left in her agitation, while Mrs. Long shook her head compassionately, and old Killus Hurd looked sternly triumphant.

"Do you mean to tell me Sam Harding's daughter has plum' forgot all her pa's teachin's?" the widow demanded, sternly.

"Ma, it ain't that. I didn't 'low to keer fer John, an' he didn't 'low to keer fer me, but it jest gradually crope up on us," said the girl in a faltering tone, her face deeply red. She looked appealingly from Mr. Hurd to her mother. "Don't turn ag'in' us. We lowed it wusn't right not to tell you, but—"

"It ain't no use to be a-palaverin' with your ma, Sarah Betsy Harding," said Killus Hurd, standing up to his full height, and eying her sternly. "It's me you've got to listen to, an' if there is a spark o' pride or feelin' in your heart, it's bound to be teched. John's the last child, out'n nine, that's been left to me an' his ma; but I'll turn him out o' doors, I'll drive him plum' from the country before he shall marry you, an' the curse o' the Almighty shall foller him."

"It ain't for human creeturs to say who the Almighty's wrath must be turned against," said a mild, rebuking voice; and there at the piazza step stood Sile Ed'ards, the preacher, leaning on his stout stick, his deep-set gray eyes fixed gravely upon the angry neighbors.

A short embarrassed silence followed his unexpected appearance. Sarah Betsy retreated to the doorway, and Mrs. Long laughed awkwardly.

"You must 'a' jes' crope up, Brother Ed'ards," she said, with an attempt at lightness.

"Come in an' take a seat, won't you?" said Mrs. Harding, recovering herself.

"Not to-day, Sister Harding. I'm goin' up on Bush Mount'in, an' I 'low to salt Dave Martin's cattle while there."

Mr. Hurd put on his hat. "I'll jest be goin', Mis' Harding," he said, coldly.

"Won't you stay a minute?" asked the preacher in his mild, slow voice. "If it ain't puttin' nobody out, I'd like to know what's the matter."

The enemies each hastened to give an account of the renewed quarrel, and its cause. Sarah Betsy hung her head, and uttered not a word, though conscious that more than once Sile Ed'ards's deep grave eyes turned toward her. The story seemed to agitate him greatly. He grew pale, and gripped his stick with trembling fingers. He sighed deeply.

"It's a serious question; but it 'pears to me love might solve it. If the Almighty wants to bring you all together ag'in in peace by unitin' John an' Sarah Betsy I don't think you ought to rebel against his will. The Scripters say—"

"It ain't to be argued out on Scripter, Sile," interrupted Mr. Hurd, stubbornly. "I ain't thinkin' hard o' you or blamin' you for feelin' that way; it's nachel, seein' as you've been called to preach; but the Scripters don't fit ever' time."

"They will if we'll only 'low 'm to."

"Mis' Harding an' Sarah Betsy know what I've said."

"I ain't apt to forgit some o' the hard things you've said, Mister Hurd," the widow remarked, in a tone trembling with indignation.

Ed'ards continued to argue and plead with them. The woman he might have softened, but he found himself powerless before hard, stern old Killus Hurd, nursing the concentrated wrath and bitterness of years.

"'Tain't no use, Sile—'tain't no use," he said, moving away to his horse.

"Them that forgives air to be forgiven," said the preacher.

But the old man silently mounted and rode away. Mrs. Long was also ready to depart, being eager to spread the news of the quarrel throughout the settlement.

Ed'ards leaned against the rough sapling post supporting the piazza, with head dejectedly drooped. Mrs. Harding wiped her eyes, and looked furtively at him. "Wouldn't you like to take a cheer an' rest, Brother Ed'ards?" she said, gently. "I know it's sinful to carry on the way we've been a-doin' this mornin', but them Hurds are that mean an' no 'count—" she paused, then hurriedly changed the subject. "I'm most obleeged to take this corn down to the fields."

"Don't let me hinder you then, for I must soon be gittin' on my way. I must ask wisdom 'fore I say any more to you an' Brother Hurd—and I must git strength for myself," he concluded, half under his breath. When left alone, he sat down on the edge of the piazza a few minutes, then walked slowly around the house to the kitchen-door to speak a few words to Sarah Betsy.

She sat on the bench before the loom, but the shuttles lay idle on the beam, while she leaned forward with her face hidden in her hands. So still and deep seemed her dejection he would not disturb her, but stood gazing on her drooped figure with yearning eyes. He had long secretly loved her, but had scarcely realized that he indulged the hope of winning her until he learned that her heart was given to John Hurd. He had been used to self-denial all his life, and after the first confused sensation of misery and loss, strove to put aside his own feelings, and desire only her happiness. He had sought her to speak some comforting words, but finding her in that attitude of silent grief turned away, and left her alone.

He was a slender, undersized man, not more than thirty years old; but mental and physical suffering had drawn deep lines upon his thin, sallow face, and sprinkled threads of gray in his hair. His features would have looked hard and forbidding had they not been softened by the strong, patient endurance religion had brought to him. Throughout the length and breadth of Laurel Cove he was respected and loved. He belonged to the Cove; the encircling chain of mountains marked the boundaries of his life; for he was a hopeless cripple, walking ever with slow, halting steps, and with a staff to aid him. He had never been a lusty, vigorous youth, but one of unusual intelligence and ambition. It was a grievous blow to all his plans of life when a falling tree lamed him. It was a long time before he could walk, even with a crutch, and years before he laid the crutch aside for a stick. Active labor would never again be possible for him; but not liking to be dependent on his neighbors for charity, he plied the trade of a shoe-mender, and while he worked he read and meditated on the Bible—the only book he possessed, except a Webster's Speller and a small arithmetic. It was no wonder that so much reading and solitary thinking on religious themes should inspire him with the desire to preach. His tongue seemed loosened; he rose in "meetin'," and exhorted the people. His eloquence amazed them; his fervor, his deep sincerity impressed even the callous-hearted.

His physical infirmity also appealed to them, and it was not long before he became the pastor of the church in Laurel Cove. He had no more education than his parishioners, so far as text-books were concerned: but his spiritual discernment gave him a power marvelous to them. He did a great deal of good, but one thing he had set his heart on he failed to do; he could not make peace between the Hurds and the Hardings. Both men sat under his teachings in church and listened to his exhortations outside, and both loved him; but they would not be friends with each other. When Sam Harding died Sile tried to influence old Killus Hurd to extend the hand of peace to the widow; but he stubbornly refused, and the preacher gave it up. Now that a fresh quarrel had come he knew not what to say or do, particularly as his own feelings were so deeply involved. He had watched Sarah Betsy bloom into womanhood, delighting in her beauty and even admiring the girlish coquetry of her ways. He had never cherished any definite hopes of marrying her; what woman would like a cripple for a husband? but as long as she did not show any preference among her beaux he was satisfied. Now he knew why she smiled on all alike. It was because she secretly loved John Hurd, and not because she was heart-free. A cruel, jealous pang pierced the heart of the preacher, and a wave of rebellion, savage in its fierceness, swept over him. Why could he not have the love of this girl? It would be only a just compensation for the loss of his physical strength, and with it all he had hoped to be. For a moment he loathed his own body: his spirit panted to rush forth upon the air, freed from all its trammels of flesh. He was not conscious of a temptation to commit suicide; but for an instant the vistas of Heaven seemed to open on his longing eyes, the perplexities and sorrows of life to roll away. Death would be a sweet, a lovely friend to him, not the grisly terror that so many shrank from. He knew every nook and fastness of Bush Mountain, having spent many of the idle days of his boyhood in roaming over it, and now it was a favorite refuge when he wished to think out his sermons, or to wrestle in prayer over some wayward soul gone astray. It was a fair sight to look down on Laurel Cove from the heights, and see its freshly plowed fields and blossoming orchards. The settlers in that fertile region were more industrious and thrifty than their neighbors over the mountains, and they were unusually quiet and law-abiding. Very few moonshiners were to be found in Laurel Cove, and not a distillery. Those were hidden in remote and secret places on the mountains. Let it be said to the enlightenment of Sile Ed'ards, that he was bold enough to preach against the making of illicit whiskey, as against all manner of evil, and many listened and heeded his words. But while he climbed the heights that day, seeking solitude and God, in Laurel Cove things were going very wrong.

It was past the noon hour, and at the Hardings all evidences of the midday meal had been cleaned away. The boys had gone back to the fields, Mrs. Harding raked the garden beds preparatory to seed sowing, and Sarah Betsy had returned to her weaving. She had been through a trying interview with her mother, listening to scolding and reproaches in silence, and promising only one thing; to wait awhile before seeing John Hurd again.

"I can't promise never to see him ag'in," she said, half in tears.

"I don't, fer the life o' me, understan' how you could 'a' tuk such a fancy to him, when there's plenty o' better-lookin', pearter boys for you to 'a' liked," exclaimed Mrs. Harding, despairingly.

"I've never seen the man he couldn't equal," Sarah Betsy murmured; and with a shake of her head Mrs. Harding went away.
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