A Chilhowee Lily | Page 3

man Byars's house. An' thar he staid till
Loralindy an' the old 'oman Byars nussed him up so ez he could bear
the pain o' bein' moved. An' he got old man Byars ter wagin him down
ter Colb'ry, a-layin' on two feather beds 'count o' the rocky roads, an'
thar he got on the steam kyars an' he rid on them back ter whar he kem
from."
Kinnicutt seemed unable to longer restrain his impatience. He advanced
a pace. "Ye appear ter 'low ez ye air tellin' news--I knowed all that
whenst it happened a full year ago!"
"I reckon ye know, too, ez Loralindy hed no eyes nor ears fur ennybody
else whilst he war hyar--but then he war good-lookin' an' saaft-spoken
fur true! An' now he hev writ a letter ter her!"
Crann grinned as Kinnicutt inadvertently gasped. "How do you uns
know that!" the young man hoarsely demanded, with a challenging
accent of doubt, yet prescient despair.
"'Kase, bubby, that's the way the story 'bout the lily got out. I was at the
mill this actial day. The miller hed got the letter--hevin' been ter the
post-office at the Crossroads--an' he read it ter her, bein' ez Loralindy
can't read writin'. She warn't expectin' it. He writ of his own accord."
A sense of shadows impended vaguely over all the illuminated world,
and now and again a flicker of wings through the upper atmosphere
betokened the flight of homing birds. Crann gazed about him absently
while he permitted the statement he had made to sink deep into the
jealous, shrinking heart of the young mountaineer, and he repeated it as
he resumed.
"She warn't expectin' of the letter. She jes' stood thar by the mill-door
straight an' slim an' white an' still, like she always be--ter my mind like

she war some sort'n sperit, stiddier a sure enough gal--with her yaller
hair slick an' plain, an' that old, faded, green cotton dress she mos'
always wears, an' lookin' quiet out at the water o' the mill-dam ter one
side, with the trees a-wavin' behind her at the open door--jes' like she
always be! An' arter awhile she speaks slow an' saaft an axes the miller
ter read it aloud ter her. An' lo! old man Bates war rej'iced an' glorified
ter the bone ter be able ter git a peek inter that letter! He jes' shet down
the gates and stopped the mill from runnin' in a jiffy, an' tole all them
loafers, ez hangs round thar mosly, ter quit thar noise. An' then he
propped hisself up on a pile o' grist, an' thar he read all the sayin's ez
war writ in that letter. An' a power o' time it tuk, an' a power o' spellin'
an' bodaciously wrastlin' with the alphabit."
He laughed lazily, as he turned his quid of tobacco in his mouth,
recollecting the turbulence of these linguistic turmoils.
"This hyar feller--this Renfrow--he called her in the letter 'My dear
friend'--he did--an' lowed he hed a right ter the word, fur ef ever a man
war befriended he hed been. He lowed ez he could never fur-get her.
An' Lord! how it tickled old man Bates ter read them sentiments--the
pride-ful old peacock! He would jes' stop an' push his spectacles back
on his slick bald head an' say, 'Ye hear me, Loralindy! he 'lows he'll
never furget the keer ye tuk o' him whenst he war shot an' ailin' an' nigh
ter death. An' no mo' he ought, nuther. But some do furget sech ez that,
Loralindy--some do!'"
An' them fellers at the mill, listenin' ter the letter, could sca'cely git thar
consent ter wait fur old man Bates ter git through his talk ter Loralindy,
that he kin talk ter every day in the year! But arter awhile he settled his
spectacles agin, an' tuk another tussle with the spellin,' an' then he rips
out the main p'int o' the letter. "This stranger-man he 'lowed he war
bold enough ter ax another favior. The cuss tried ter be funny. 'One
good turn desarves another,' he said. 'An' ez ye hev done me one good
turn, I want ye ter do me another.' An' old man Bates hed the insurance
ter waste the time a-laffin' an' a-laffin' at sech a good joke. Them fellers
at the mill could hev fund it in thar hearts ter grind him up in his own
hopper, ef it wouldn't hev ground up with him thar chance o' ever

hearin' the end o' that thar interestin' letter. So thar comes the favior.
Would she dig up that box he treasured from whar he told her he hed
buried it, arter he escaped from the attack o' the miners? An' would she
take the box ter Colb'ry in