Five Mile Beach weekly journal., 1915-07-16
CHAPTER ~.

George Lescott had known hospital
ity of many brands and degrees. He
had been the lionized celebrity in
places of fashion. He had been the
guest of equally famous brother artists
in the cities Of two h~emispheres, and,
since sincere painting had been his
pole star, he had gone where his arts
wanderlust backoned. He had fol-
lowed the lure of transitory beauty
to remote sections of the world. The
present trip was only one of many
like it, which had brought him into
touch with varying peoples and dis
tinctive types of life. He told himself
that never had he found men at ono
so crude and so courteous as these
hosts who, facing personal perils, had
still time and willingness to regard his
comfort.
The coming of the kinsmen, who
would stay until the present danger
passed. had filled the house. The four
beds in the cabin proper were full,
and some slept on floor mattresses.
Lescott, because a guest and wounded,
vas given a small room aside. Sam
son. however, shared his quarters in
order to perform any service that an
injured man might require. 1t had
been a full and unusual day for the
painter, and its incidents crowded in
on him in retrospect and drove on the
possibility of sleep. Samson, too,
seemed wakeful, and in the isolation
of the dark room the two men fell into
conversation, which almost lasted out
the night. Samson went into the con
fessional. This was the first human
being he had ever met to whom he
could unburden his soul.
The thirst to taste what knowledge
lay beyond the hills; the unnamed
wanderlust that had at times brought
him a ~restiveness SO poignant as to
be agonizing; the underlined attuning
of his heart to the beauty of sky and
hill; these matters he had hitherto
kept locked in guilty silence.
In a cove or lowland pocket, stretch
ing into the mountain side. lay the
small and meager farm of the Widow
Miller. The Widow Miller was a
South" that is to say, she fell, by
tie of marriage, under the protection
OF the clan head. She lived alone with
her fourteen-year-old son and her six
teen-year-old daughter. The daughter
was Sally.
The sun ose on the morning after
Lescott arrived, the mists lifted, and
the cabin of the Widow Miller stood
revealed. A tousle-headed boy made
his way to the barn to feed the cattle,
and a red patch of color, as bright
and tuneful as a Kentucky cardinal.
morning-glory vines. The red patch
of color was Sally.
She made her way, carrying a
bucket, to the spring, where she knelt
down and gazed at her own image in
the water.
Before going home she set down her
bucket by the stream, and, with a
quick glance toward the house to make
sure that she was not observed.
climbed through the brush and wac
lost to view. She followed o path that
her own feet had made, and after a
steep course upward came upon a bald
face of rock. which stood out storm
battered where a rift went through
the backbone of the ridge. This point
of vantage commanded the other val
ley. Down below, across the treetopR,
were a roof and a chimney from which
a thread Of smoke rose in an attenu-
ated shaft. That was Spicer South's
house and Samson's home. The girl
leaned against the gnarled bowl of the
white oak and waved toward the roof
and chimney. She cupped her hands
and raised them to her lips like one
who means to shout across a great dis
lance. then she whispered sc low that
only she herself could hear:
Hello, Samson SOUTH"
She stood for a space looking down,
and forgot to laugh. while her ayes
grew religiously and softly deep, then,
turning, she ran down the slope. She
had performed her morning devotions.
That day at the house of Spicer
South was an on day. The kinsmen
who had stopped for the night stayed
on through the morning. Nothing vas
said of the possibility Of trouble. The
men talked crops and tossed horse
shoes in the yard; but no one went to
work in the fields. end all remained