Once, on a Saturday, she drove her father higher into the hills than they had ever gone before to see a very old woman who had sent for him. She was a witch-like crone, clay colored, shriveled and twisted, and her hot little eyes burned still with a horde of mountain loves and hates.

“Hit’s not that I were ailing,” she explained to the doctor. “I’m right peart, and aiming to live two, three year yet, but I have kindly heard of you from all my tribe and kinnery, and I was wishful to name hit to you consarning my boy Luke.”

Darrow sat down beside her, companionably. “Well, what about your son?”

“Hit’s not my son,” she cackled mirthfully, “nor neither yet, my son’s son! Hit’s my son’s son’s son! His maw died a-borning him, and I have kindly raised him up myself. But now hit purely stands to reason I must leave him, hit’s ontelling when, and I do shorely hone to have him fotched on, for he is one young-un with a headpiece!”

[22]Good roads and schooling would come too late for Ailsa Manders, but she had glimpsed the vision for lack of which her people were perishing. The doctor knew the Manders; a hard and reckless lot; killers. The old woman had the look of a ruthless tribal priestess. She caught sight of Glen and beckoned to her to come nearer.

[22]

“Howdy, Sis? Red h’ar is my delight!” She ran her gnarled fingers through it, making little mouthing sounds of pleasure. “Hit purely warms a bordy! Air you wedded yet?”

“Lord, no,” the doctor exploded. “She’s a youngster in school—will be, for years!”

The old creature wagged a disapproving head. “When I were her size I had two—one on the floor and one at suck! I had fo’teen, which is a right fam’ly, but a pusson is obliged to start early, and wimmin now days——”

“But how about this boy, Luke?” he brought her back to her main theme.

The lad had learned to read and write and figure—he was smart as a steel trap at figures—at the evening school down on the Branch, but his ancient kinswoman wanted real learning for him, a chance to work for his board in a town family, advanced schooling.

“But, sir, I’m pine-blank skeered he won’t go! Wild as a hawk, he is! Hit’s even ontelling if he’ll[23] see you!” She lifted a gourd horn and blew a surprisingly lusty blast.

[23]

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