Just then he made out through the twilight a cabin almost hidden by a clump of rhododendrons. He drew up before it and called out:
“Hello!”
“Oh, Lordy have mercy! Oh! You liked to scared me plumb to death, sure,” said the voice of a large, fat woman as she came running out from behind the clump of rhododendrons, holding on to her milk-pail with one hand and digging the warm milk out of her eyes with the other. She stood there working the milk out of her eyes and wiping her face, a woman of some two hundred and fifty pounds avoirdupois and proportionately tall.
“I didn’t hear you acomin’ at all. Milk spilt? Why, Lordy bless you, I don’t care nothin’ fur the milk. Jist so old Blackie didn’t knock the bottom clean outer this new milk-pail is all I care fur. An’ it’s a thousand wonders thet she didn’t knock it clean out when she heard you holler over there. You see, she ain’t used to hearn’ anybody holler in this here gorge atter night. Nobody passes this gorge much at night. Then, besides, Blackie is the skeeriest cow in this here gorge, an’ has bin ever since she wuz a calf. An’ thet’s asayin’ a right smart, too, for this gorge is nine miles long. What did you say? A stranger and want to stay all night!” She softened down to a kind motherly tone and continued, “Why, Lordy bless you, child, we’re the poorest family ’twixt here an’ Blood Camp an’ jist one room. But, child, if you think thet you can put up with our fare, the door’s open, go in. Here, Cicero, fetch a chair out here in the yard, I believe it’s more pleasanter out here. Now hurry, Cicero, an’ bild’ a gnat-smoke here in the yard fur this gentleman. Hurry now. There, stranger, take thet chair an’ rest. The smoke maybe’ll keep the gnats off. Now jist make yourself at home an’ rest. My old man and tother boy Cæsar have gone to mill, but they’ll be back directly. So jist make yourself at home and rest,” and off she went into the cabin, to bake the corn-pone on the coals for supper.
CHAPTER VI
When Evening Comes
What a world of joy, happiness and rest—of fear, dread and remorse evening brings!
Some are glad when evening comes, and hail with delight the first long shadows of the dying day. The sturdy toiler of the field puts forth his sickle in the early morning and gleans the long day through with confidence, believing that when the end of the day is come he can lay down his blade, go in at the door of his humble home and under the spell of sweet smiles and the merry laughter of those whom he loves, forget the toils of the day and find sweet rest and peace.
But to another—the prisoner behind the bars—evening brings remorse and dread. His restless body is early astir, and he sits in his iron chains, looks out through the bars, and watches the curtains of night receding as the rising sun brings forth a new day. At the noontide, he gets a glimpse of the busy, surging throngs in the street below. He strains his ears and catches from the throng words of cheer and strength; songs of happiness and courage—and hope is almost born again in his bosom. But, alas! the day soon dies, and the gathering shadows of night fall upon him, bringing only fear and regret, for well he knows for him tomorrow’s sun will never rise.
Then to the weary traveler, what a world of suspense, fatigue and rest evening brings! At first, footsore, hungry and alone, he plods on through the dust and meets the shadows of evening with a faltering heart. But when a friendly roof is found, how quickly the fainting heart is changed to one of strength and multiplied joys! After the day is done, is it not sweet to the worn traveler to abide the night under a kindly roof? To go in at the door and find a welcome? To lie down upon the couch and sleep, assured of the protection and defense of the home, cannot fail to fill the heart with gratitude and remind us of how close akin all the world must be.
As Paul Waffington sat with his chair tilted back against the cabin wall tonight, he watched the chip-fire glow and burn through the darkness with great satisfaction. True gratitude was welling up and running over in his human heart as he sat alone, taking his rest. He was thanking his lucky star that he had found the humble home in which to abide the night. Evening breezes came down from the great gorge above, laden with the breath of sweet flowers. He sniffed their perfumes into his nostrils and all but cried aloud with ecstasy. At the further side of the yard the stream babbled and laughed as it went on its way, hurrying on to the falls below. It was the very stream that ran by Blood Camp. Yes, its fountain-head rivulet began not a hundred yards distant from the cabin in which Gena Filson dwelt tonight. Turbulent little stream! thought Paul Waffington. First an eddy, then a pool; then a splash, splash over the rocks, then a fall. Fall after fall, winding and twisting forever through the rhododendrons and laurels, always overshadowed by the tall hemlocks.