Never in all her wanderings had Jeanne found such simple and kindly people as those who had hewn their homes from the forests on these hills.
When nights were damp and chill they had invited her to sit beside their rough stone fireplaces. At night they had tucked her away in a corner and piled her high with blankets and coverlids woven in fantastic patterns, all woven by hand.
When Bihari had mended their pots and pans, when they were ready to journey onward, they had crowded round to press her hand and add as a blessing an invitation to return.
“And these mountains where our Jensie lives,” she whispered. “They are like that. They must be.
“Ah, yes,” she breathed, “it must be truly wonderful when the dogwood is in bloom on Big Black Mountain. Jensie shall tell me all about it. Then, who knows? If only—”
“Dreaming still,” Florence broke in. “Come! The hot chocolate and cakes are ready.”
During this late hour of refreshment, which was indeed a time of glorious fellowship, a thing happened which will linger long in their memories.
“It was in this Tavern,” Jeanne was saying, “that Abe Lincoln and Ann Rutledge sang those strange religious songs that people of those times loved so well. I read some of them only yesterday. Listen! This is one of them:
“Death like an overflowing stream
Sweeps us away. Our life’s a dream,