“He air a toler’ble mean man, ain’t he, Birt?”

But Birt said he had no mind to talk about Andy Byers.

“SKEER me!” exclaimed Rufe, doughtily.  “It takes a heap ter skeer me!”

He got up presently, and going into the shed began to examine the tools of the trade which were lying there.  He had the two-handled knife, with which he was about to try his skill on a hide that was stretched over the beam of the wooden horse, when Birt glanced up and came hastily to the rescue.  Rufe was disposed to further investigate the appliances of the tanyard left defenseless at his mercy, but at last Birt prevailed on him to go home and play with Tennessee, and was glad enough to see his tow-head, with his old hat perched precariously on it, bobbing up and down among the low bushes, as he wended his way along the path through the woods.

The hides had all been replaced between layers of fresh tan before the men left, and Birt had only to fill up the space above with a thicker layer, ten or fifteen inches deep, and put the boards securely across the top of the pit, with heavy stones upon them to weight them down.  But this kept him busy all the rest of the afternoon.

Rufe was pretty busy too.  When he came in sight of home Tennessee was the first object visible in the open passage.  The sunshine slanted through it under the dusky roof, and the shadows of the chestnut-oak, hard by, dappled the floor.  Lying there was an old Mexican saddle, for which there was no use since the horse had died.  Tennessee was mounted upon it, the reins in her hands, the headstall and bit poised on the peaked pommel.  She jounced back and forth, and the skirts of the saddle flapped and the stirrups clanked on the floor, and the absorbed eyes of the little mountaineer were fixed on space.

Away and away she cantered on some splendid imaginary palfrey, through scenes where conjecture fails to follow her:  a land, doubtless, where all the winds blow fair, and sparkling waters run, and jeopardy delights, and fancy’s license prevails—­all very different, you may be sure, from the facts, an old saddle on a puncheon floor, and a little black-eyed mountaineer.

How far Tennessee journeyed, and how long she was gone, it is impossible to say.  She halted suddenly when her attention was attracted to a phenomenon within one of the rooms.

The door was ajar and the solitary Rufe was visible in the dusky vista.  He stood before a large wooden chest.  He had lifted the lid, and kept it up by resting it upon his head, bent forward for the purpose, while he rummaged the contents with vandal hands.

Tennessee stared at him, with indignant surprise gathering in her widening eyes.