“I must speak to old Cappeze,” he said aloud and musingly. “He’s being unfair to her.” And that did not seem a relevant comment upon the paper he held in his hand.
Then Spurrier started a little as from outside a human voice sounded above the chorus of the frogs and whippoorwills.
“Hallo,” it sung out. “Hit’s Blind Joe Givins. Kin I come in?”
A few minutes later into the lamplight of the room shambled the beggar of the disfigured face, whom Spurrier had last seen at the town of Waterfall, led by a small, brattish boy. His violin case was tightly grasped under his arm, and his free hand was groping.
“I’d done sot out ter visit a kinsman over at ther head of Big Wolfpen branch,” explained the blind man, “but ther boy hyar’s got a stone bruise on his heel an’ he kain’t handily go on, ter-night. We wonder could we sleep hyar?”
Spurrier bowed to the law of the mountains, which does not deny shelter to the wayfarer, but he shivered fastidiously at the unkempt raggedness of his tramp-like visitor, and he slipped into his pocket the papers in his hand.
That night before Spurrier’s hearth, as in elder times before the roaring logs of some feudal castle, the wandering minstrel paid his board with song and music; his voice rising high and tremulous in quaint tales set to measure.
But on the next morning the boy set out on some mission in the neighborhood and left his charge to await his return, seated in a low chair, and gazing emptily ahead.
Spurrier went out to the road in response to the shout of a passing neighbor, and left his papers lying on the table top, forgetful of the presence of the sightless guest, who sat so negligibly quiet in the chimney corner.