It was not long before the two travelers found themselves on a plateau formed by a shoulder of the mountain. On this plateau were abundant signs of life. Cattle were grazing about among the trees, chickens were crowing, and in the distance could be heard the sound of a woman’s voice singing. As they pressed forward along the level road they came in sight of a cabin, and the blue smoke curling from its short chimney was suggestive of hospitality. It was a comfortable-looking cabin, too, flanked by several outhouses. The buildings, in contrast with the majestic bulk of the mountain, that still rose precipitously skyward, were curiously small, but there was an air of more than ordinary neatness and coziness about them. And there were touches of feminine hands here and there that made an impression—rows of well-kept boxwood winding like a green serpent through the yard, and a privet hedge that gave promise of rare sweetness in the spring.
As the soldiers approached, a dog barked, and then the singing ceased, and the figure of a young girl appeared in the doorway, only to disappear like a flash. This vision, vanishing with incredible swiftness, was succeeded by a more substantial one in the shape of a motherly looking woman, who stood gazing over her spectacles at the horsemen, apparently undecided whether to frown or to smile. The smile would have undoubtedly forced its way to the pleasant face in any event, for the years had fashioned many a pathway for it, but just then Uncle Billy Powers himself pushed the woman aside and made his appearance, laughing.
“’Light, boys, ’light!” he exclaimed, walking nimbly to the gate. “’Light whilst I off wi’ your creeturs’ gear. Ah!” he went on, as he busied himself unsaddling the horses, “you thought that while your Uncle Billy was a-moonin’ aroun’ down the hill yander you’d steal a march on your Aunt Crissy, an’ maybe come a-conscriptin’ of her into the army. But not—not so! Your Uncle Billy has been here long enough to get his hands an’ his face rested.”
“You must have been in a tremendous hurry,” said Captain Moseley, remembering the weary length of mountain road he had climbed.
“Why, I could ’a’ tuck a nap an’ ’a’ beat you,” said the old man.
“Two miles of tough road, I should say,” responded Moseley.
“Go straight through my hoss lot and let yourself down by a saplin’ or two,” answered Uncle Billy, “an’ it ain’t more ’n a good quarter.” Whereupon the old man laughed heartily.
“Jes leave the creeturs here,” he went on. “John Jeems an’ Fillmore will ten’ to ’em whilst we go in an’ see what your Aunt Crissy is gwine to give us for supper. You won’t find the grub so mighty various, but there is plenty enough of what they is.”
There was just enough of deference in Aunt Crissy’s greeting to be pleasing, and her unfeigned manifestations of hospitality soon caused the guests to forget that they might possibly be regarded as intruders in that peaceful region. Then there were the two boys, John Jeems and Fillmore, both large enough, and old enough, as Captain Moseley quietly observed to himself, to do military service, and both shy and awkward to a degree. And then there was Polly, a young woman grown, whose smiles all ran to blushes and dimples. Though she was grown, she had the ways of a girl—the vivacity of health and good humor, and the innocent shyness of a child of nature. Impulsive and demure by turns, her moods were whimsical and elusive and altogether delightful. Her beauty, which illumined the old cabin, was heightened by a certain quality that may be described as individuality. Her face and hands were browned by the sun, but in her cheeks the roses of youth and health played constantly. There is nothing more charming to the eye of man than the effects produced when modesty parts company with mere formality and conventionality. Polly, who was as shy as a ground squirrel and as graceful, never pestered herself about formalities. Innocence is not infrequently a very delightful form of boldness. It was so in the case of Polly Powers, at any rate.