Nobody's Child

h her eyes were observant enough. The basement was the "wash-room" and the "churning-room," with one corner partitioned off for the combination of boarder and hired man that,

ied Ben and his surrounding

ins, a fox-skin and a beautifully striped wild-cat-skin were all stretched in the same fashion. A gun, a pistol and fishing tackle hung above the hammock, sharing the space with a wide-winged, dried bat. The hi

ed and ridged and snout-nosed. It was his appearance that had earned him the sobriquet, "Bear Brokaw." He rolled like an inebriate when he walked, yet never in his forty years on the Ridge had Bear Brokaw been known to "take a drink." He knew and was known by every soul on the Ridge, and by many in the adjoining counties, for he had worked, in intermittent fashio

u doin', Ben

at the same time shrewdly intelligent. Just now they were reddened by an

as a growling base; his manner indic

ith Bear Brokaw seated in this fashion, at his feet, and many had been the secrets each had told the other. For Ben had worked on the Penniman fa

at would be arresting. "Ben, Garvin Westmore'

ork and his rolling mo

e his le

tled, through his

story, as she h

n jest see him at it," Ben mutte

the poor thing suffer," Ann

way. But he did not take up his work.

had reasons for most things. She changed her tone

e couldn'

d doing it?" Ann asked; Baird's

ickly. "Why you

too much if she explained. She was usuall

eanings where there ai

rawing him from his grievance, and that had been her first object. H

him back to Westmo', whether the colonel was laid acrost his back like a sack o' oats, or sittin' shoulders square like he always did when not soaked through an' through. Nimrod knew when to go careful.... I mind one night-that was the year I was huntin' on Westmo' an' helpin' Miss Judith run the place-I was bringin' Miss Judith back up the Post-Road from the station, an' where the Westmo' Road cuts into the Mine Banks we come plumb on a white objec'. I don't take no stock in ghosts, all I've ever seen has turned out to be a human or a' animal or a branch wavin' in the wind. But that b

she called out,

d.... It was the colonel gone to bed in the road, an' Nimrod standin' stock-still by his

l the Westmo's in Miss Judith, and was then, though she weren't no older than you. 'Some gentl

oat-he had a' instinc' for anything feminine an' his manners co

a little accident. I shall hope to thank you in person to-morrow.' He were to

she says was, 'Drive on, Ben.'... That's Westmo

her cheeks, for it stirred her imagination, but she had never flushed m

got feelin' for the woods-a born hunter. Tr

. "It was a bag-fox they had this m

I reckon I'll choose Westmo' fo' my nex' shooti

mean you'd go away from us, Ben?" s

in' you news now, ain't I! Wha

ads ... Aunt Sue told me. She's just heart-broken, an' I said I'd come an' beg you. How could we hav

this place without me,

an," Ann persisted. "

know Coat

than I do," Ann said wistfully.

n his ways-Coats Penniman's a fearful steady, determin

e best man who ever wal

o much goodness, Ann-not the kind that's unhuman good. That'

e would have stroked the collie. "You stay, Ben?" she pleaded softly. "Just stay a while and see how it will be. Stay 'cause I want you to. What'll I do without you to talk to-

as he looked down at her, and, whatever hi

l to you?" he asked. "You sure could bring the birds down from the

oods-soon as it's warm," she coaxed. "We'll have fun this spring, Ben." This was a project that lay close to Ben's

wled, his ey

I've got to help Aunt Sue now," she announced b

should,

rouetted out and danced up

is way to the barn, started for the spring. But it was evidently not her ultimate destination, for she dropped the buc

as agilely as she had run, and quickly gained the split crotch. The flicker's hole was bored deep in the de

ar

ope you did. I've been living on that hope for the last two weeks. Will you come to the Crest Cave at the Banks on Sunday

rvi

over what she had read. So far her meetings with Garvin Westmore had had the excuse of chance; he knew on what days she drove to the v

r coquetry, the new and intoxicating realization of her allure, was the craving for the certain something that distinguished the Westmores from the Pennimans; a "niceness" Ann called it, for want of a clearer understa

as she was doubtful of her duty to the Penniman cause. It was that troubled her most. She felt no great sense of duty to her grandfather, and Sue's blind clinging to the family quarrel seemed senseless. But there was her father? Ann want

er father loved her-and she would know instantly if there was about him the something that had always held her apart from her grandfather and even from her

ll lips set and she put her ha