Just where he was going he did not know; but whenever he thought of returning to his old home, he would seem to hear some one say, “Lize hain’t goin’ ter starve,” and he would stop, as if to listen. He was nearer the shanties than he thought, for once as he paused he heard the voice of some one singing down the mountain path. A moment later Lize appeared, and Pete greeted her with, “Hello, Lize; I’m moughty glad ter see yo’. It’s been kinder lonesome on the mounting ter day.”
To most, Lize would not have been good looking, but Pete thought he had never seen so beautiful a picture as that of Lize standing in the rocky pathway in her soiled and ragged gown of calico. The leafless twigs of the pathside had caught her hair, and tangled it till it floated bewilderingly about her freckled face. A moment before, Pete was thinking of going home; but now, when Lize questioned him, he answered quickly, “Goin’ up to Forrest City. Paw ’lows I can’t go home no more ’thout I quit givin’ yo’ game, Lize. An’ yo’ hain’t goin’ to starve, not ef Pete Larkim knows it. Hyar, Lize, take these plovers; they’ll feed yo’ for a day or two. Game’s moughty scarce on the mounting, but I’ll git yo’ suthin, Lize.”
As they walked down the path together, Pete could not help wondering what made him feel so tenderly for Lize. Ever since he could remember, they had made mud pies together, and quarrelled over their dams of dirt and rocks which they had built across the little stream. In fact, their life acquaintance had not been a particularly pleasant one. But since his father’s interference, Pete had discovered an attraction in Lize as simple, yet as strong, as love can create.
Pete had no difficulty in finding a home among the shanties of the mountain “city.” Day after day he would go after game for Lize, and every evening she would meet him, and they would walk together to the turn of the road, in the cold November twilight. These walks made Pete very happy, for he had never before experienced the joy of doing a kind deed, and Lize was very thankful in her simple way.
The December days had brought the first scuds of snow down the little valley from the already whitened summits of Ossipee mountains. The walks with Lize became less and less frequent as the snow became deeper, but she never failed to meet Pete at the turn of the mountain road, to receive his gift of game.
As they met one evening in late December, Pete hung his head in shame. His hands were empty.
“’T ain’t my fault, Lize,” he said, hardly daring to look up. “I hed moughty fine luck up ther mounting ter-day, an’ war goin’ ter give yo’ a real surprise, fur tomorrer’s Christmas, yo’ know. But paw jest laid fur me up hyar in the brush, and stole ever plover I hed. I’m moughty sorry, Lize, but p’raps”——