accommodating himself with ready ease to the dialect of the mountains. "Famblies well?" The driver, a tall, lank mountaineer in a butternut suit and a cap of skins, pulled up his team and stared at his interlocutor stolidly. "Fyar ter middlin'," he said, after a brief pause.

"Wot's the news in the mountings?" queried Exall, further.

"Thar ain't none," said the mountaineer. Then relaxing a little he asked, "Are thar any with you?"

"I'm a-runnin' fur the legislatur', gen'lemen, on the Democrat ticket," responded Exall, "an' I 'd take it pow'ful proud ef ye 'd put my name in the box when the time comes."

"Wot mought yo' entitle be, stranger?" asked the man under the canvas, leaning forward with a show of interest. He was older and more grizzled than the driver.

"You know me, I reck'n," answered the candidate. “My name 's Exall. Did n' I seen you when I was through here some time ago a-runnin' fur Commonwealth?"

"Yes," responded the man. "I voted fur ye, an' so did Jim. We whooped ye up, beca'se ye had sont Jack Linsper ter the penitench', when ye was Commonwealth afo', fur stealin' of Jim's roan mar'. That's been severeal year, but I 'lowed yer face looked kinder familiouslike. I was a witness ter the trial, and so was Jim. Are ye arter Commonwealth ag’in?”

Naw; I'm for the legislatur' now," said Exall, who had forgotten the men, but was delighted at the reminiscence.

"Wall, one good turn begits t' other," said Jim. "We'll give ye a lif' when the time comes, honnuble. We ain't furgot whar ye put Jack Linsper."

"Thar 's Sprouse f'om up in the Holler a-comin' along back thar a piece," said the man in the wagon, with an interest that showed his recollection of Exall's "good turn" in convicting the horse thief to be as keen as Jim's. "He kin he'p ye right smart with them fellers up thar, ef he's a min' ter. He's a do-less kind of a devil, Sprouse is, but he 's some punkins with the gang in the Holler."

"Thankee, gen❜lemen, thankee," said Exall, exuberantly; "my reegards ter yer famblies. I'll talk ter Sprouse. Whar did ye mention he lived? An' how many chillun did ye say he's got? An' what was the oldes' one's name?

Sprouse lived in Wildcat Hollow. His progeny were five in number. The name of his firstborn was "Mandy Jane."

"Evenin', gen'lemen," said Exall, waving his hand, and riding forward to meet Sprouse. "You're a pretty good one at it," said Cope,

in admiration.

"I don't know how I shall pan out with

Sprouse. There he comes, I reckon," said Exall, as a frowsy mountaineer hove in sight, driving an ox-cart loaded with bark.

"Hello, Sprouse, old boy," called the candidate cheerily ; "wot's the racket up in the mountings 'bout Wilecat Holler?"

Sprouse was evidently surprised.

"Whoa! durn ye!" he called to his oxen; and as the lumbering cart stood still, he looked at Exall curiously.

"Ye got me, Cap'n," he said with ready frankness. "I 'low I orter know ye, but 'pears like I don't."

"Exall 's my name," said the politician. “I was 'roun' here some years ago a-runnin' fur Commonwealth. How 's 'Mandy Jane an' the boys? An' wot's the old 'oman up ter these times?"

"They 's all well," said Sprouse, eying him with an expression of puzzled uncertainty. "Mandy Jane's a gre't big gal now, ain't she, Sprouse?"

"Yes, she's growed pow'ful." Then he continued apologetically, though with dubious intonation: “I think I sorter reecollec's ye now, mister. I had n' saw ye fur so long, I had smack disremembered ye."

"I'm out fur the legislatur', on the same old Democrat ticket, Sprouse. I want ye ter he'p me through ag'in."

"I nuvver holp ye through afo' on no sich ticket," said Sprouse, with offensive partisanship. "I ain't registered nuther, nor ain't been sence I moved f'om the Raggit Mountings over 'n Albemarle up ter this here durn kentry, 'long of a leetle misonderstan'in' with the neighbors over thar."

"Well, you go down ter Mount Salem an' git registered. Mr. Puffenbarger 'll fix up yer papers," said Exall, nothing abashed. "Don't forgit, Sprouse. An' you whoop up them boys in the mountings fur the Democrat ticket, Sprouse."

"I ain't nuvver whooped that a-way yit, mister," said Sprouse, with a twinkle in his eye; "but I mought do it fur you, bein' as how ye got so much slack-jaw."

Cope laughed.

"Who lives below here, Sprouse?" he queried.

“Morrow, half a mile ter the right." "He's a Dunkard," said Exall.

"He won't do ye no good," said the exiled mountaineer. "Heaps o' them Dunkards is like me-they ain't registered. They ain't none sich over in God's Kentry beyant the Ridge. Everybody votes over thar-niggers 'n' all. Folks tells me them Dunkards is agin war 'n' politics. They ain't none sich in the Raggit Mountings-leastways they all fights over thar, war times or peace."

"I'd like to see him," said Cope. "Well, good-bye, Sprouse, old fellow," called the candidate, as the creaking ox-cart started off. "Don't forget Exall on the secon' Chewsday in November."

"I'll be thar," answered Sprouse with noncommital promptness, looking back over his shoulder, while an unmistakable smile illumined his face.

"This was my old stamping-ground during the war," said Exall to his companion as they rode along. "I have n't been down this road, however, since I traveled it in a lieutenant's gray jacket."

They had entered one of the little "drafts," or narrow valleys, so common in that hilly country.

"That must be the place," said Cope, and he pointed to a house standing back a short distance from the main road and approached by a contracted lane.

It was a building of four rooms, constructed of hewn logs and weather-boarded at the joints. It had a little porch in front, with some vines from which the leaves were almost all gone. From each end of the house rose a brick chimney. The plank fence which surrounded the diminutive yard, and the trunks of the aspens, whose trembling branches hung over the lane, were alike vividly whitewashed. A few cherry and damson trees grew about the house, and in one corner of the yard was a tall pole on the top of which was perched a tiny bird-box. The barn, which stood to the right and almost on a line with the dwelling, was much larger and more pretentious than the latter, and was neatly painted. The place had a prosperous appearance, and the surrounding acres seemed well tilled and fertile.

How're ye, Mr. Morrow?" called the candidate, as the two politicians rode up the narrow lane and drew rein at the stile.

The man who was thus addressed came across the little yard from the direction of the barn, where he had been feeding swill to his pigs. He held the empty bucket in his hand as he slowly approached the stile, eying his visitors searchingly meanwhile.

A woman of some twenty-eight years, with black eyes and regular features, betokening a former beauty that had now faded into sallow insignificance, appeared at the sound of Exall's voice and stood in the doorway. Her gown was of dark gray homespun, cut in a quaint fashion and surmounted by a short cape, but devoid of flounce or furbelow. Her hair, parted in the middle and drawn back closely on each side of her narrow forehead, gave a bold and

Evenin', marm," said Exall with a flourish, while his companion lifted his hat. "You 'n' the chillun well ?" "Toluble peart, thankee, mister," she answered. "Won't ye 'light?"

"Thar comes Morrow now," she added, as the tall, rawboned Dunkard approached.

His countenance was grave even to sadness. Life was evidently a serious thing in his contemplation. His long hair, parted in the middle like his wife's, hung over his sloping shoulders. His garments were of dark gray homespun, the coat being a regulation "swallow tail," save that it was collarless and devoid of the twin buttons on the back, which in fashionable society serve to exemplify a sporadic instance of the survival of the useless. His upper lip was closely shaven, but he wore a bushy black beard several inches in length on his chin.

Exall, with an intuitive perception of the man's straightforwardness, did not disguise or defer the object of his visit.

"I'm 'lectioneerin', Mr. Morrow, fur the legislatur'. I'd be proud to have yer support."

The sad-faced man set the bucket down upon the ground, and, lifting one foot to the lower step of the stile, looked his visitor squarely in the face.

"Won't ye 'light, gen'lemen?" he queried; "supper 's nigh ready."

"We have n't long ter 'bide, thankee,” answered Exall. "We jes drapped by fur a minute on our way ter speakin' at Mossford." "Ye're Jedge Exall, ef I mistake not," said Morrow. "I've saw ye in town."

"That's my name.'

"I've heern tell ye was an able Commonwealth, an' a jes jedge," said the Dunkard. "Obleeged," answered Exall.

"I'm a Dunkard, Jedge," continued Morrow.

"I know that, Mr. Morrow; but there are a few o' yo' folks that vote, an' I thought that mebbe ye might do likewise, sometimes." "I almos' always do," he responded. "Democrat ticket, I hope," ventured Exall. The man for answer gravely shook his head in the negative.

"Now, Mr. Morrow," said the candidate, with no uncertain appreciation of his own skill as a debater of public questions, throwing one leg over the pommel of his saddle as he spoke, "I'd like fur ye ter give me the reason o' the faith that is in ye. Mebbe I can persuadge ye that ye 're on the wrong side o' the fence with the Republicins."

"WON'T YE LIGHT, GEN'LEMEN?

Exall's horse, conscious of a loosened rein, began to crop the grass that grew near the bottom of the fence. Cope listened to the conversation curiously.

"I ain't on that side nuther," said the beset suffragist.

"I've struck a blind ditch," observed Exall to Cope, "an' I don' see whar she en's."

"I ain't no politicianer, an' I allays votes the Whig ticket, like my daddy did afo' me," the Dunkard explained with some anxiety, anticipating the ridicule of his visitors. "Mebbe it looks foolish," he continued, "but it's my principles. That ticket tells the faith that's in me, Jedge Exall."

"But thar ain't no Whig ticket," argued Exall. "How kin ye vote what thar ain't?"

"I make it fur myse'f," the man answered. "My daddy useter 'low that ev'ry citizen orter vote. I can't reeconcile my idees ter them other two; an' so I stick ter the old silvery VOL. XXXVII.- 56.

gray Whig ticket, an' I pick out the names fur myse'f that go on it."

It seemed extremely ludicrous to Exall; he would have laughed aloud but for the fear of offending the Dunkard, whom he hoped to convince of his folly and to persuade to his support.

The woman with the faded face called to her husband:

"Saul, ast the men in ter supper."

"Git down, gen'lemen," he said; "supper's dished up."

Exall welcomed the opportunity for a further conversation with this abnormal voter, and his young companion was nothing loath to hear the interview to an end.

"Will ye ast a blessin', Jedge?" the Dunkard queried, as they stood about the long pine table, over which the evening sunlight shone through the little western window. On it was spread a characteristic feast,

and indigestion was the lord of it. Plates of hot biscuits flanked dishes of preserves. Hot meats were surrounded by pickles, both sweet and sour; and over all predominated the conventional apple-butter.

Cope looked up with an ill-concealed smile when the Dunkard proffered his request to Exall. But the politician was equal to any emergency. With reverent words and bowed head he besought the Divine blessing, and Morrow's respect for the man was increased fourfold.

"Draw up, reach, an' he'p yo'se'f," he said, uttering the current formula of hospitality, and his guests, to whom their ride had given the zest of a keen appetite, did full justice to all the viands spread before them; though, as Exall subsequently observed to Cope, it was a desperately dangerous venture on the part of one unaccustomed to such regimen.

The faded-faced woman literally "served" the tea and coffee, and waited upon the guests,

who sat on long wooden benches without backs, drawn up along the side of the table. This service was rendered in a silence on her part that was unbroken, save now and then by the interrogative words, "Coffee?" "Coffee?" "Butter?" "Pickle?" as she proffered the article mentioned to one or the other.

When the meal was ended Exall produced cigars, and Mrs. Morrow busied herself about her household duties.

The Dunkard did not smoke, but Cope lighted one of the weeds to keep Exall company. "Now let's hear about that Whig ticket," said the latter, settling himself as comfortably as possible in a straight-backed splint chair, and smiling benignly at his host.

“Well, I'll tell ye," said Morrow. "It was all along o' the old man that I tuk up agin the two other parties. It started way back yander in the winter o' sixty-fo', when I was a boy jes fo'teen year old. Thar had been big fightin' goin' on here in this valley, with the Union soldiers on top at one time, an' then ag'in the Cornfed'rits. The folks o' my faith are agin fightin', Mr. Cope, as mebbe the Jedge here has told ye. My daddy was a Union man afo' the war, like most o' the Dunkards, beca'se they were all agin sich doin's. They did n' take no part nor lot in sesaysion, an' they thought the abolitioners warn't no less wrong. They were in favor o' peace an' quiet. They wanted ter let good enough alone. They were agin breakin' up the Union, beca'se they did n' want ter see no row 'bout it."

“An' they warn't fur from right," observed Judge Exall, sitting with his legs crossed before the open autumn fire, and puffing clouds of smoke from his cigar.

"But when the war kim," continued Morrow," he did n' go in when Linkhorn called fur them troops, like so many o' the t'other Union men in the county did, that had been Whigs, an' were agin the war. He believed that them who take the sword shall perish by the sword, an' he hated it fur the sin that comes o' spillin' human blood."

I was a Whig in them days, myself," commented Exall; "still I went in ter the war."

The Dunkard paid no attention to the interruption, but continued, with his eyes set on vincy. He was looking back into the irrevocable past.

But when they got ter fightin' all aroun', an' the armies was a-movin' up an' down the valley, summer-time an' winter, he done many a good deed in the way o' he'pin' along the ak'n' the cold 'n' the hongry. An' he done it like Hezekiah in Juc all his heart." ght!" mur

That was right

mured Exall

cloud of smok

behind his

"It did n' make no differ' ter him," continued the reminiscent Dunkard, "whether the man had on a blue jacket or a gray one, ef it kivered a hongry belly. He'd give one as quick as t'other vittles an' drink an' a seat by the fire an' a bed fur the night. An' ef he did n' w'ar no coat at all, as many a one did n' in them days, the old man never pestered himself ter know ef he was f'om Pennsylvany or Georgy; but he clothed his nakedness.

"Still, he told 'em all, Yankees an' Rebels, that he was agin all wars, an' agin the politicianers that permoted strife."

"I see," observed Cope, reflectively.

The chill of the autumn evening was coming on, and the Dunkard rose from his seat and left the room for wood to replenish the dying fire.

"I'm just beginning to get my bearings," said Exall to Cope. "If I 'm not vastly mistaken, we 've struck a more promising trail than that of our friend Sprouse back yonder.” Before he could explain, the Dunkard returned.

Piling up the hickory logs upon the fire until it leaped and sparkled and lighted up resplendently the tall Dutch clock in the corner and flung strange shadows over the rag-carpeted floor, he resumed his seat and his story together.

"The soldiers let him be fur a long time, an' did n' interrupt him. He was old an' not overly strong, an' he thought they'd suffer him to spen' his las' days in that peace my people love an' try ter live up ter.

"But in that year o' sixty-fo' men begun ter git scase in the Cornfed'rit army, an' things was a-lookin' kinder bilious fur the sesaysioners."

"Devilish scase! devilish bilious!" interrupted Exall, earnestly.

Then he proceeded to apologize amply to his host for the interruption and its unconventional language.

a-ran

"But ter cut a long story short, they did n' pay no heed ter her, an' tuk him off."

He paused for a moment in the midst of his narrative and stirred the fire abstractedly. Judge Exall's cigar burned low. The twilight was not very far away, and Cope's mind began to grow distraught between his desire to hear the Dunkard's story to its end and his fear that the audience at Mossford would dwindle away before the arrival of the speakers, and his eloquent oration be, in consequence, lost to posterity. "Somehow or 'nother," Morrow resumed, "we managed ter scratch through the balance o' that summer 'n' fall, with the neighbors he'pin' us on; the most o' which were women an' chillun like us, an' nigh as bad off as we were. Ole Mis' Simpkins at the aidge o' the draft-she's dead this many a year, God bless her! was the closes' an' the kindes'. She useter come over reg'lar ter see us, an' allays fotch her knittin' along. An' thar o' winter evenin's, when the snow was on the groun', an' the win' f'om the Shanado' Mountings was a-howlin' over the draft, them two ole women sot an' talked about the war, an' the foolishness of it."

"Did Mis' Simpkins belong to yo' folks?" queried Exall, sympathetically.

Naw," he replied, "she was a Methody; but it looked like she did n' have no better opinion o' fightin' than my mammy did. Two o' her boys had been kilt down the valley, close ter Winchester, an' ole man Simpkins was too feeble ter tote a gun, or he 'd 'a' been in it too, she said-he allays actin' contraerylike, an' agin her, she 'lowed.

"Well, one day in December Mis' Simpkins driv her ole gray ter the stile, out thar, an' h'istin' of her coat-tails out o' the slush, tromped in here with a baskit o' things onder her arm, an' her knittin'."

"Allays toted her knittin', hey?" chimed in Exall. He was growing impatient, but gave no hint of it to his host.

"Yes," the latter went on. "An' after she'd settled down by the fire, a-toastin' o' her feet with the yarn socks over her shoes, she says, says she:

"Rachel, they tells me that man Early's army is close ter Fishersville. Are it a fac'?'

"I've heern tell,' says mammy.

"It went through me like a flash that ole Mis' Simpkins had come ter persuadge us ter sen' arter daddy. An' so it turned out.

"I'd have a word down thar ter Enoch afo' Saturday,' she says, 'an' tell him his wife an' his son is a-needin' of him badly at home.' "An' ef he comes, an' they ketch him?' says mammy, questionin' like.

666

"An' ef he don't come, an' them Yankees shoot him?' says ole Mis' Simpkins. Do you

think a whole army is a-goin' ter turn out ter hunt one po' ole Dunkard, like a passel o' boys arter a skeered hyar in the snow?' she says.

"Mis' Simpkins's knittin' needles was fyarly a-flyin' 'bout then. Mammy nuvver said nothin'. She 'peared ter be wraslin' with her mind, an' cudden git the best of it. But two days later I was at Fishersville.”

"You did n't try to make him desert ?" asked Cope.

"He warn't a fightin' man, an' he jes kim home," responded the Dunkard simply. "Thar was no harm in that, ter his mind, though it did seem ter upset t' other folks powerful. But 't was like ole Mis' Simpkins said: thar were the abolitioners in the Northern army, in front, a-strivin' ter kill him; an' it seemed like the sesaysioners in the Southern army did n' think no mo' o' his life back here."

66

Exall's gaze was bent on the man's face with an expression of absorbed interest as he spoke. "Ye orter seen mammy when we got home," he went on. Her eyes were wet, but not with sorrow, Jedge. I heern her tell him her heart was like ter break — but I knowed it was only beca'se she was so glad ter git him back. Neither on 'em seemed ter look beyant that. An' me why, sir, I was the happies' boy in the whole hill kentry; beca'se, ye see, I had tuk him the word ter Fishersville.

"But the happiness of it did n' bide long. We had been here not more 'n ten days when another batch o' gray soldiers rid up that lane. I went ter the do' with my heart a-thumpin' an' a-jumpin' onder my jacket like it was a-goin' ter pop out. They ast me ef this was Morrow's. I told 'em it was. They ast me ef Morrow was at home. I knowed daddy was up at the barn, but I suspicioned that they warn't alookin' fur him fur any good. Bein' powerful put ter it, I lied-God forgive me!

"He's in Early's army,' said I.

666

'Lookee here, bub,' said one o' the men, 'that won't do. He's a deserter in the face o' the enemy, an' I reckon he ain't fur off from jes here.'

"They got down off 'n thar hosses an' commenced ter s'arch the place. They went to'ds the barn, 'n' seen the old army mule that had fotch' him an' me f'om Fishersville.

"We're on a hot trail,' said another one of 'em, an' tuk the Lord's name in vain.

66

Presen❜ly I seen 'em a-fetchin' him along, an' he was as cool as I am now, Jedge, twel mammy kim a-cryin' an' a-wringin' her han's.

"Jim,' said the cap'n ter one o' his men, 'this 'll nuvver do. We mus' send the old lady away. Hitch that mule ter the spring waggin onder the shed.'

"Then it come on me like a flash what they wanted with daddy. I reasoned that they