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“Yes.  Well, it’s a big job.  It’s been on hand a long time.  The young men of America have their work cut out for them,” said MacPherson drily.

“No doubt,” returned Stoddard with undisturbed cheerfulness.  “But when every man saves his own soul, the salvation of the world will come to pass.”

CHAPTER VII

ABOVE THE VALLEY

All week in Johnnie the white flame of purpose burned out every consciousness of weariness, of bodily or mental distaste.  The preposterously long hours, the ill-ventilated rooms, the savage monotony of her toil, none of these reached the girl through the glow of hope and ambition.  Physically, the finger of the factory was already laid upon her vigorous young frame; but when Sunday morning came, though there was no bellowing whistle to break in on her slumbers, she waked early, and while nerve and muscle begged achingly for more sleep, she rose with a sense of exhilaration which nothing could dampen.  She had seen a small mountain church over the Ridge by the spring where her moccasin flowers grew; and if there were preaching in it to-day, the boys and girls scouring the surrounding woods during the intermissions would surely find and carry away the orchids.  There was no safety but to take the road early.

The room was dark.  Mandy slept noisily beside her.  All the beds were full, because the night-turn workers were in.  She meant to be very careful to waken nobody.  Poor souls, they needed this one day of rest when they could all lie late.  Searching for something, she cautiously struck a match, and in the flaring up of its small flame got a glimpse of Mandy’s face, open-mouthed, pallid, unbeautiful, against the tumbled pillow.  A great rush of pity filled her eyes with tears, but then she was in a mood to compassionate any creature who had not the prospect of a twelve-mile walk to get a flower for Gray Stoddard.

It was in that black hour before dawn that Johnnie let herself out the front door, finding the direction by instinct rather than any assistance from sight, since fences, trees, houses, were but vague blots of deeper shadow in the black.  She was well on her way before a light here and there in a cabin window showed that, Sunday morning as it was, the earliest risers were beginning to stir.  Her face was set to the east, and after a time a pallid line showed itself above the great bulk of mountains which in this quarter backed up the ramparts of the circling ridges about Watauga.  The furthest line was big Unaka, but this passionate lover of her native highlands gave it neither thought nor glance, as she tramped steadily with lifted face, following unconsciously the beckoning finger of Fate.

It was a dripping-sweet spring morning, dew-drenched, and with the air so full of moisture that it gathered and pattered from the scant leafage.  She was two miles up, swinging along at that steady pace her mountain-bred youth had given her, when the sky began to flush faintly, and the first hint of dawn rested on her upraised countenance.