Below the widow's house, the stream, after its riotous descent from the fall, meandered quietly through the rich bit of meadow and field, her inheritance for over a hundred years, establishing her claim to distinction among her neighbors. Here Martha Caswell had lived with her mother and her two brothers until she married and went with her young husband over "t'other side Pisgah"; then her mother sent for them to return, begging her son-in-law to come and care for the place. Her two sons, reckless and wild, were allowing the land to run to waste, and the buildings to fall in pieces through neglect.
The daughter Martha, true to her name, was thrifty and careful, and under her influence, her gentle dreamer of a husband, who cared more for his fiddle, his books, and his sermons, gradually redeemed the soil from weeds and the buildings from dilapidation, until at last, with the proceeds of her weaving and his own hard labor, they saved enough to buy out the brothers' interests.
By that time the younger son had fallen a victim to his wild life, and the other moved down into the low country among his wife's people. Thus were the Merlins left alone on their primitive estate. Here they lived contentedly with Cassandra, their only child, and her father's constant companion, until the tragedy which she had so simply related to David.
Her father's learning had been peculiar. Only a little classic lore, treasured where schools were none and books were few, handed down from grandfather to grandson. His Greek he had learned from the two small books the widow had so carefully preserved, their marginal notes his only lexicon. They and his Bible and a copy of Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress were all that were left of his treasures. A teething puppy had torn his Dialogues of Plato to shreds, and when his successor had come into the home, he had used the Marcus Aurelius for gun wadding, ere his wife's precaution of placing the padlock from the door on her mother's old linen chest.
To-day, as David passed the house, the old mother sat on her little porch churning butter in a small dasher churn. She was glad, as he could see, because she could do something once more.
"Now are you happy?" he called laughingly, as he paused beside her.
"Well, I be. Hit's been a right smart o' while since I been able to do a lick o' work. We sure do have a heap to thank you fer. Be Decatur Irwin as glad to lose his foot as I be to git my laig back?" she queried whimsically; "I reckon not."
"I reckon not, too, but with him it was a case of losing his life or his foot, while with you it was only a question of walking about, or being bedridden for the next twenty years."
"They be ignorant, them Irwins, an' she's more'n that, fer she's a fool. She come round yest'day wantin' to borry a hoe to fix up her gyarden patch, an' she 'lowed ef you'n Cass had only lef' him be, he'd 'a' come through all right, fer hit war a-gettin' better the day you-uns took hit off. I told her yas, he'd 'a' come cl'ar through to the nex' world, like Farwell done. When the misery left him, he up an' died, an' Lord knows whar he went."
"I'll get him an artificial foot as soon as he is able to wear one. He'll get on very well with a peg under his knee until then. What's Hoyle doing with the mule?"