Mrs. Upchurch sat in the entry of her house knitting, while down on the step—a rough block of Georgia granite—Mr. Upchurch sat resting and smoking an after-dinner pipe. It was on a summer afternoon, and the hot glare of the sun made a shade gratefully welcome. The house had only the space of an ordinary yard between it and the public country road, but it was on a breezy hill and commanded a fine view of the surrounding country.

Far away, above the green, wooded hills and valleys, rose the North Georgia Mountains, veiled in misty blue. Those mountains were the boundary line of Mrs. Upchurch's world. She had never gone to them; she never dreamed of going beyond them. Still, they were old friends, immovable, unchangeable, upon which she could look when perplexed, sorrowful, or glad. She worked slowly, and often glanced away toward those distant peaks, a very grave meditative light in her eyes.

She was a woman above medium height, and rather dignified in appearance and manner, with a kind, homely face, yellowed and hardened by sun and wind, and with honest, steadfast eyes. She had on a stout, plain cotton dress, and an old brown veil was drawn around her head and tied under her chin. Summer and winter she wore it, to ward off that greatest enemy of her peace—neuralgia.

"He always was an onfortunit creetur," she said abruptly, and with a sigh.

"Who now, Peggy?" inquired Mr. Upchurch in some surprise.

"Why, Ab," and laying her knitting down on her knee, she smoothed it out thoughtfully.

"That brother o' your'n?"

"Yes; I said he always was an onfortunit creetur."

"Yes, onfortunitly lazy," her husband dryly observed.

"He all but died wi' the measles when he was a sucklin' baby not more'n three months old, an' then 'long come the whoopin'-cough on the heels er that, an' liked to 'a' tuk him off. Then you remember ther time he was snake-bit on his big toe, an' how the pizen flew all over him like lightnin', an' he would er died ef we hadn't er happened ter have some dram in the house. Then he tuk cramp once in Punkin Vine Creek, an' would er drownded right on the spot ef Providence hadn't er sent the singin'-school teacher along fer ter fish him out."

The half-forgotten incidents of childhood and youth crowded fresh upon her memory. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees—a favorite attitude with many country women when they are smoking their pipes, dipping snuff, or are lost in deep thought—and thrust a knitting-needle through her hair. But her reminiscences did not impress her husband very deeply. He eyed her kindly, and with a slight touch of pity.

"You hain't seen him sence the war, Peggy. What's got inter you that yer mind keeps er runnin' onter him ter-day?"

"I'm shore I don't know, Sam, but it's er fact. I ain't thought as much erbout him these twenty years an' more as I have ter-day. Mebby Ab's a-comin'."

"Mebby he is, but 'tain't likely at this late day, an' I wouldn't be a-botherin' erbout it, Peggy," said the farmer, shaking the ashes out of his pipe before placing it in his pocket.

"I ain't exactly botherin', Sam, but I dreamed erbout him las' night, an' takin' it all tergether it jes' pesters me er little."

Mr. Upchurch got up slowly from his resting-place, and stepping into the west room, took down his gun from over the door.

"B'lieve I'll go a-huntin', Peggy."

"Well," she answered, absently, still thinking of her brother, and wondering if she would ever see him again.

"He's that onfortunit, he might 'a' wandered off an' er died among strangers, with not er soul ter look arter him, or ter put him erway decently," she murmured in a troubled undertone. "I can't fergit the time he stood between me an' old Miss Whitlock's dog, that run mad when me an' him was little fellers. He was always sorter sickly an' quare, but I knowed then he had grit, for there he stood as calm as could be, an' that dog a-comin' straight fer him, or so it 'peared like, jest er-foamin' at the mouth. I thought shore Ab 'ud be bit plum' through, but the critter passed by without techin' him. Them days is all over, but I ain't fergot that, I orter love him, poor feller!" And she looked away to those blue mountains with eyes grown dim with sudden tears.

It was Saturday afternoon, and therefore a holiday among the farmers. A man must be hard pushed indeed who will not "knock off" Saturday afternoon.

The Upchurch family were thrifty, industrious people, took care of their not too fertile farm, lived honest lives, and kept peace with their neighbors.

"Upchurch is er smart man, ef I do say it," his wife would sometimes proudly remark. "When me an' him married we 'lowed we'd help one ernuther, an' mebby we'd git helped; an' so we did, fer Providence always helps them that helps themselves."

Peggy Upchurch was a good woman, and noted among her neighbors and friends for her readiness to visit the sick and the sorrowful. She was a useful woman in her narrow sphere, a strict member of Ebenezer Baptist Church, and while she did not consider it right "fer wimmin to speak out in meetin'," she did a good deal of missionary work quietly.

She rose and glanced around to see if everything had been put in proper order, then sat down again, with her snuff-box and her knitting on her lap.

The house was a double log-house—that is, two large rooms with a wide, open entry between, and a loft above. In the furnishing of those rooms, the chief consideration seemed to have been beds—high feather beds, with blue and white checked foot-curtains concealing the unpainted pine posts of the bedsteads, and elaborately fringed "double-wove" counterpanes spread over them. Those beds were the pride of Mrs. Upchurch's heart.

"I raised them feathers myself, an' I know they er fresh ernough fer the President ter sleep on."

Doors stood wide open, letting in sunshine and sweet flowers' scents, and George Washington looked down from his rusty frame with a gracious unbending of his dignity.

A few scrubby oaks shaded the clean-swept yard, and a honeysuckle vine had been trained to climb and spread itself over the rough logs of the house. A fine rose-bush bloomed beside the gate, and there were beds of larkspur, pinks, and sweet-williams in the sunnier spots.

It was a home the counterpart of which may be found in almost any portion of Georgia, bare and rather lonely looking, but clean and healthy, and to the householders acceptable as a kingly palace. It appeared a very haven of rest and peace to the tired, dusty tramp toiling up the wide, hot road. His eyes wandered from object to object as though the place was not unfamiliar to him, and a slight quiver of emotion crossed his features when that roving glance fell on Mrs. Upchurch. He carried a small bundle hanging from the end of a knotted hickory stick over his right shoulder, and he walked in a halting, uneven way. He turned from the road and stopped at the gate.

"Good-evenin', ma'am."

"Good-evenin', sir," said Mrs. Upchurch, looking at him with some curiosity.

He opened the gate.

"May I come in an' git er drink er water? Walkin' is pow'ful hot work."

"Ter be shore; jes' walk right in an' take er seat an' rest yerself; you look plum' fagged out," said the hospitable woman, rising and placing a chair out in the entry for him.

He walked across the yard in a footsore and weary way, and dropped feebly down on the edge of the floor, laying his stick and meager bundle beside him. He took off his ragged old hat, and wiped his face on a faded cotton handkerchief. He was a sorry-looking case, shabbily dressed, thin, and stooping, and without the color of blood about his sallow face and hardened hands. His eyes were hollow, and he coughed once or twice a dry hacking cough. So utterly forlorn and friendless did he appear, that deep pity stirred Mrs. Upchurch's heart. He stared hard at her, his face working in an agitated manner. She brought him a gourd of water, and taking it in his trembling hands, he drank slowly from it.

"That's good," he muttered softly.

"Yes, we've got the best well in this country. But won't you take this cheer an' rest? It's better'n the floor," she said compassionately.

"No'm. Is this—where—Sam—Upchurch—lives—that married Peggy Dyer?" he slowly inquired.

"Why, yes; Upchurch bought this place before me an' him was married, an' we've been er-livin' here ever sence," she said, surprised, and striving to recognize him. He had called her name with the ease and familiarity of one well acquainted with it, but not a friend of her youth could she recall who would bear the slightest resemblance to this poor wanderer. Singularly enough, at that moment she had forgotten the brother Ab who had been haunting her memory all day. "You're not er stranger in this settlement, air you?"

"Yes, it 'pears like I am now. You don't seem to know me, Peggy?" he said with a sort of tremble in his voice, his haggard eyes raised to her pleasant, homely face.

She fell to trembling then herself, and her sunburnt face grew pale, for a sudden thought flashed into her mind—a bare possibility, that overcame her. She sat down in her chair, with a searching, eager look at the shabby, stooping figure, and pallid, sickly face.

"I orter know that voice; it 'pears like—" she faltered unsteadily.

"Have you forgot yer brother Ab, Peggy?"
"HAVE YOU FERGOT YER BROTHER AB, PEGGY?"
"HAVE YOU FERGOT YER BROTHER AB, PEGGY?"

"Lor', Ab! that ain't possible! it's too good ter be true!" she cried, and then burst into joyful tears.

"Yes, it's me," he said quietly, and wiped his own eyes.

There were no open demonstrations of love. They did not even shake hands.

"Air you glad ter see me, Peggy?" he asked in a sort of sad wonder, but no longer doubtful of his welcome.

"Glad! O Ab, ain't I been a-wantin' ter see you fer nigh on ter twenty years?" she cried, in a voice that might have laid the most subtile doubts at rest. "Come in, brother, and take a cheer, do," wiping her eyes on her knitting, and looking at him tenderly.

"I'm not a-hurtin' here, Peggy. I'm tired enough to rest ennywheres. It's been er hard pull ter git here."

"Praise the Lord that you did git here!" she ejaculated fervently.

She took his hat and stick and bundle and put them away, she brought him more water, and when he declined any further service she drew her chair near him, and sat down.

"You look well an' hearty, Peggy."

"Yes, I ain't got nothin' ter complain erbout; but you—you're dreadful peaked, Ab," she faltered, her heart yearning over him.

He drew his handkerchief across his face again, and coughed that dull, hacking little cough.

"I've been a'mos' dead with my liver. Low-country life didn't agree with me, an' I've been onfortunit, Peggy."

"You always was onfortunit, Ab. Me an' Upchurch have jes' been a-talkin' of the many times you come nigh ter losin' yer life when er boy, let erlone the war an' sence the war. Upchurch is gone a-huntin' now, an' Tempy an' the boys, they er gone over the creek ter town; but as I started ter say, it's cur'us how some folks hev ter live, sorter holdin' on ter life ennyhow. It's er slippery thing at the best, somethin' like er eel that'll slip through yer fingers jest when you're shore you've got it" (ending with a sigh).

"I've had my sheer er bad luck now, shorely," said Dyer wearily.

"Then you must be a-lookin' out for the good," said his sister more cheerfully. The deep dejection, the utter hopelessness of tone and appearance troubled her—took away something from her joy. She grew anxious to see him brighten up, raise his head, and speak with animation. She could not keep her eyes off him. His vagabond appearance, his evident ill health roused all her sisterly love, her womanly compassion. Oh, what a hard life he must have lived to be so changed! He had been a weak and ailing child, and odd, extremely odd, in all his ways. She, being the eldest, had watched over him, and had learned to know him better than any one else did, but she never expected to see him so unkempt, neglected, and broken down.

"Oh, brother, what've you been a-doin' with yourself?" she said abruptly, her eyes filling up again.

"A-roamin' up an' down the world. Lately I've be'n livin' down in southwest Georgia. I married there," he replied.

"Law! you did? Where is your wife?"

"Dead, an' so is my little gal. She was er peart little thing," and he turned his head away, swallowing audibly, as though something choked him. "I wish you could 'a' seed her, Peggy," he continued after a slight pause.

"An' I wish it too, Ab. Can't you tell me erbout her?" she said gently, and with deep sympathy.

"She was the smartest little creetur I ever saw, an' knowed the mos' for her age. She use' ter run an' meet me when I come in, an' the fust thing 'ud be, 'Daddy, I love you; do you love me?' Then she'd put her arms round my neck an' lay her face up close ter mine. Then when she got bigger, she was always a-wantin' ter help me, an' I never axed for better comp'ny than my little Sary Jane. O Lord! if she'd only 'a' lived. It fairly tuk the life outen me to see her—to see her—"

His head dropped on his breast, and again he was silent.

"You er 'bout all the kin I've got, Peggy," he said at last, and there was something in the broken way he uttered the few words that caused her to wipe her eyes again furtively on her knitting.

"You mus' stay with me now, Ab, an' not go wanderin' off enny more. You've be'n keerless erbout your health, I know in reason."

"Mebby I have."

He met his brother-in-law rather shrinkingly at first, but Sam Upchurch gave him such a hearty welcome, he seemed to grow more at ease. About sundown the children returned from their holiday visit to Rockymount, a small town two miles away across Bear Creek. There were four—three sturdy sunburnt boys and one handsome sunburnt girl. She was the eldest, and Mrs. Upchurch presented her to her uncle with motherly pride.

"This is our Tempy, Ab."

He looked at the tall, bright-eyed, rose-faced girl with melancholy surprise. He shook hands with her in an awkward, hesitating way.

"Why, she's grown, Peggy."

"Yes, grown, an' talkin' er gittin' married," said Peggy with a laugh and a sigh.

"Law, now, ma, jes' lis'en at you!" cried Tempy, blushing crimson and retreating to the kitchen.

The young people eyed the new-comer cautiously, and would have little to say to him; but the elders used all their homely arts to entertain him and make him comfortable. After supper, when they had returned from the kitchen to the entry, he grew more communicative. The boys were off in the thickets bird-thrashing, and Tempy sat in the best room with Jeff Morgan, her sweetheart, who lived in an adjoining settlement, and came on Saturday evening, and remained until Monday morning. So the older people were sitting alone in the entry, and Sam Upchurch smoked his pipe, and Peggy dipped snuff, but Dyer declined joining them in using tobacco.

"Had ter quit that years ergo. I have had ups an' downs sence the war. One time I went down inter the piny woods of Alabama an' j'ined the gopher traders, but it wasn't a payin' business, an' I quit it an' sot up ter teachin' school. If you can spell baker you can teach school in them diggin's. Then I tuk it inter my head to settle down an' have er home; but Susan she died, and the little un had ter go too, an' I've jes' be'n knockin' erbout ever sence." His poor thin hands worked nervously, and his head drooped dejectedly again.

How sharply his empty, desolate life contrasted with his sister's busy, useful, happy one! Her husband was beside her; the shouts of her boys floated up from the pine thickets where their torches flashed in and out like the flame of a "Jack-o'-lantern," and occasionally Tempy's full, hearty laugh rang out. The sister thought of it with a sigh, but feeling humbly grateful for her own good fortune. Upchurch, too, vaguely felt the contrast, for he said: "Well, you've got er home here now if you er mind ter take it. Peggy'll be doctorin' you up in no time."

He shook his head with a faint, dry smile.

A screech-owl flew into the yard near the house and began a doleful "shir-r-r-r." The men did not seem to notice it, but Mrs. Upchurch moved uneasily, for neither religion nor common sense could rid her of the superstitious feeling that it meant bad luck. That night her short, simple, but earnest prayers included the poor wanderer, and also an entreaty that no bad luck might come to any of them.

On Sunday morning the wagon was brought around, and all the family came out in their "go-ter-meetin'" clothes.

Ab declined accompanying them, although he had partially recovered from the fatigue of the day before, and he obstinately refused to allow one of the family to remain at home with him, to his sister's distress. She would gladly have remained, for there were still many things she wished to talk over with him, but he would not hear to it.

"I make no pretensions, Peggy, but neither am I goin' ter keep them erway that does," he said more decidedly than she had yet heard him speak.

He was sitting on the fence whittling a stick, and many were the curious glances directed toward the shabby, stooping figure, as the country people passed on their way to Ebenezer.

It was soon known throughout the settlement that Ab Dyer, Peggy Upchurch's brother had come, and the women discovered they owed Peggy a visit, and the men dropped in to see Upchurch, or to borrow some farming tool. Ab did not impress the visitors very favorably. Some regarded him suspiciously, others with more or less contempt.

"He's shore to be crazy," said old Miss Davis confidentially to Sally Gancey.

"You reckon?" in a shocked tone.

"Yes, an' er tramp, too. Won't you take er dip?" producing the little black snuff-box her grandfather had bequeathed to her.

"B'lieve I will. Po' Mis' Upchurch! how she mus' feel!"

"Law, it ain't no new thing. I knowed Ab Dyer when he wasn't much bigger'n er woodpeck, an' he never was right bright. He ain't 'walked fur with Solomon,' I kin tell you," rolling her eyes knowingly.

So the bit of gossip went from house to house, and hints of it reached the Upchurches; but if the poor wanderer ever heard of it, he made no sign. Yet it cut Peggy Upchurch to the heart, and she strove, by additional tenderness and consideration, to make up to him for all he had lost in not gaining the good will of the neighbors.

"I've always noticed that them that's talked erbout is apt ter be better than them that does the talkin'," she said privately to Upchurch.

But once she ventured to gently remonstrate with Ab about the palpable lack of pride in his personal appearance.

"'Tain't no use, Peggy. I wanted ter be somethin' an' I tried, but ever'thing went ag'in' me."

"You mus'n't be mad erbout that, Ab. It was the Almighty's doin's, though I ain't one er them that lays ever'thing ter Providence. Mebby you didn't start right."

"Mebby I didn't," he replied, spiritlessly, and with a fit of coughing. He sat on the door-step in the sunshine, his shoulders bent over, his chin almost touching his knees, as much of a vagabond as the day on which he walked up the road, seeking the last of his kith and kin.

"It pesters me to see you so down in the mouth. I'm all the time a-wantin' ter see you pearten up. Don't that fat light'ood-splinter tea help yer cough?"

"No; but don't you be a-botherin' erbout me, Peggy. 'Tain't no use."

"Ah, that sayin' o' yourn, ''Tain't no use,' has done a sight er harm in this world. Too many folks says it fer their own good," said Mrs. Upchurch solemnly.

"That may be so, but I ain't been no use ter myself nor nobody else."

"Well, I say you have. Don't forgit yer young days an' the time you run between me an' old Miss Whitlock's mad dog. I remember it, an' I'll keep on rememberin' it till I die."

"Lor'! that wasn't nothin'," he said, moving uneasily, a sort of flush passing over his face.

"Yet if you hadn't 'a' done it, I might not 'a' been here now," impressively, and with the feeling that she must ever hold him lovingly and gratefully in her heart, no matter how idle and purposeless his life might be—and one might better have been dead than lazy in that community.

"Mebby if the little un had 'a' lived—" he muttered, but leaving the sentence unfinished, he hastily rose and walked away toward the lot.

He grew rather fond of Tempy, after a cautious, undemonstrative fashion. His eyes would follow her in an absorbed, wistful way, for in her he saw, as it were, a pale vision of his own child grown to womanhood—a pale vision, for no girl could compare with what the reality would have been in his eyes.

Tempy's wedding-day approached, and he astonished her with the gift of ten dollars—all he had.

"Ter help buy yer fixin's," he said, and carefully restored the empty leather purse to his pocket.

The days came and went, and the farmers worked from daylight till dark, but Ab Dyer idled about the house or wandered aimlessly through the woods with a gun. Sometimes he would bring home game, but oftener he would come empty-handed.

"What ails him, Peggy?" Sam Upchurch inquired one evening, after Dyer had gone off to bed. "There ain't nothin' to be got outen him."

"He's give up—that's what ails him, an' it's the worst thing a body could do fer themselves. Ab always was easy to git down in the mouth, an' it 'pears like he ain't a-goin' to git over the loss o' his fambly. Poor fellow! he always was an onfortunit creetur," wiping her eyes on her nightcap and sighing deeply.

The summer drew near its end, and one cloudy morning, late in August, Sam Upchurch pulled out the buggy, harnessed his best horse to it, and invited Ab to go with him over to Rockymount, to buy some things for Tempy's wedding. It had rained torrents the night before, and Bear Creek rushed along turbulent, muddy, and nearly up to the bridge.

"But we'll be all right, if it don't set in to rainin' ag'in," said Upchurch, taking a sweeping glance at the clouds rolling so darkly above them.

"An' ef it does?" Ab dryly inquired.

"Well, I reckon we will, ennyhow; the bridge is new," Sam easily and carelessly replied.

It did rain again, heavy, flooding rains, and they were detained in town until quite late. Indeed, they did not realize how swiftly the day passed, until night was upon them.

"Better lie over in town to-night. Bear Creek ain't er pleasant sight jes' now," said an acquaintance, who also lived beyond the creek. But Sam Upchurch shook his head.

"No, Peggy'll be a-lookin' fer us, an' the bridge is strong. There ain't no danger, ef the water does run over it."

"You don't know that. My old woman'll be a-lookin' fer me, too, but I ain't a-goin' ter risk my life jes' fer that," muttered the other countryman, shrugging his shoulders.

It was dark when the belated travelers reached the creek—not the gray darkness of twilight, but the pitchy blackness of a clouded, stormy night. They could hear the rush and roar of the stream, and the horse trembled and shrank back from it in fear, but, urged on by his master's voice, he ventured in. For many a day Sam Upchurch reproached himself for that rash and foolhardy act, but he had such faith in the strength of the bridge, that he did not think of danger until with a desperate plunge they were floundering in the creek.

"Good God! the bridge is gone!" he groaned, and the next moment felt the buggy swept away from him by the strong current.

"Ab!" he shouted loudly.

"Here I am. Can you swim, Sam?"

"Not much here," he cried hoarsely, realizing that only a bare chance of life remained. A vision of his home rose up before him, and of his wife and children; life never seemed so precious and desirable a thing as when death stared him in the face. He groaned aloud; then he heard Ab's voice close beside him—

"Ketch onter this limb."

It was a willow bough clipping into the water, a slender, flexible thing, not strong enough to bear the weight of both men; but Upchurch did not know that when he clutched so desperately at the frail chance of salvation.

Ab loosened his grasp.

"What's the matter?" cried his brother-in-law in quick alarm, for the poor fellow brushed against him as the strong, swift current carried him away.

"Nothin'! Git home ter Peggy an' the chillun if you can. I'm goin'"—but there his voice died away, was swallowed up in the confusion of noises around them. Upchurch shouted himself hoarse, but no reply came back to him, and chilled and stiffened he drew himself up out of the water, realizing at last that Ab had given up to him the one chance of life that lay between them.

They laid him down within the shadow of Ebenezer Church, along with the other quiet sleepers who rested there, and no one ever again breathed aught against the luckless vagabond; while in one household his memory was gratefully and tenderly cherished. Never did a stormy night come, but they would draw up around the flaming pine-knot fire thinking of him, and Mrs. Upchurch would take one of Tempy's children on her knee, to shield her tearful eyes from observation.

Then again she would sit in the entry on calm, clear summer days, with her knitting and her snuff, just as she sat that day he came up the road, footsore, and weary with his tramp, and, recalling all the trials and failures of his life, she would far away toward those misty blue mountains, softly murmuring:

"Poor Ab! He always was an onfortunit creetur."