Uh, huh, now I got it, got it sho."

"What have you got?" Potter asked.

"W'y, sah, got de reason dat I'se troubled in my mine dis ebenin'."

"Are you troubled?"

"Is I troubled? Now, dat's er fine question ter ax er man dat has
been carryin' on like I has. Ain't my fiddle 'fused ter talk ter me,
an' ain't er old song dun failed ter fetch de co'n-bread crumbs o'
comfort? Tibby sho. Now, whut's de matter? Suthin' dat I needs. Whut
is dat suthin'? W'y, I needs ter go er possum huntin', sah, dat's whut
I needs. I dreamed last night dat I seed er piece o' fat meat an' er
sweet pertater er raslin'. I knowed it meant suthin', but I didn' know
whut till jes' now. It means dat we got ter go er possum huntin' dis
yere very night, sah. How do it hit you?"

"I'm willing. What do you say, John?"

"Suits me exactly," John replied.

"Then, let us get ready and go at once," said Potter. "There is no
retrospective hand that reaches so kindly out of the past and touches
me with a thrill of so endearing a memory as the hand that comes out
from under the hazy curtain of an Indian-summer night and gently draws
me back into a hallowed past, when, with eager footsteps, I followed
the negroes on my father's farm to the place where the dogs had treed."

"Yas, I reckon so," Alf replied; "I do reckon dat; yas, sah, I do.
I doan know nuthin' 'bout no arm comin' out, but I knows dat de
ricollection o' some frosty nights in ole North Kliny makes me wush
dat I wuz dar, er boy ergin. But let us go on ef we gwine, caze it's
been some time sense de oven has shined wid de sweet grease o' de
possum. Deze new dogs we got, I doan know so much erbout 'em. Wush Ole
Pete--neber mine, dat's all right. Lawd, yo' ole servant 'bout ter
grumble ergin."

They went out into the beautiful night. Nature was so hushed that the
rythmic flow of the river could be heard. The stars seemed to shine
through a gauzy sheen. In the air there was a faltering promise of
the coming of winter. On a log, where the moonbeams fell, there lay a
substance of greenish white. It was a dead tree-toad.

"Let's cross dis fiel'," said Alf, "an' skirt 'long de edge o' de woods
whar de'simmon trees grows. Whoop--ee! [calling to the dogs]. Git 'em
down, ole boys. Whoop--ee, git 'em down!"

The old negro was joyous. He hummed old tunes. "I doan know whut make
dem varmints so skace ter-night," said he.

"Knowing that you were coming after them, they have doubtless all left
the country," John replied.

"I reckon you's hit it, sah; I reckon you has, caze when I starts out,
suthin' mighty nigh sho ter happen. Whoop--shove 'em ole boys! Whoop,
push 'em!"

"Hold on a minute," said Potter, stopping. "What is the cause of that
bright light over yonder?"

"Bresh heep er burnin' whar somebody cl'arin' up new groun', I reckon,"
Alf replied.

"Not that," John remarked. "A brush heap would hardly send its light so
high."

"Dat's er fack," the old man admitted.

"That is someone's house on fire," said Potter. "Who lives over that
way?"

"Miz Forest's house is ober dat way ef I ain't turned 'roun'."

"It is her house!" John exclaimed, bounding forward. "Come on!"

They ran with the speed of utmost exertion. John gained on his
companions. He jumped over a rail fence without touching it. "Come on,"
he cried. They could now plainly see the house. The roof was in flames.
No one could be seen near the burning building. "Is it possible that
they are burning up?" John thought.

He reached the yard fence, cleared it at a bound, ran across the
yard, sprang upon the gallery, and threw himself with all his weight
against the door. It did not yield. "Eva," he cried, beating on the
door. "Eva!" No answer came. He leaped from the gallery, seized the
door-step, a ponderous log, staggered upon the gallery and threw the
log against the door. An oak latch snapped and the door flew open. He
did not rush into the room. His sense of modesty, even at such a time,
forbade it, but with a loud voice he exclaimed: "For God's sake come
out; your house is on fire." The next moment Mrs. Forest and Eva,
almost frantic with excitement, but wrapped in the clothes which they
had gathered from the bed, rushed from the room. By this time Potter
and Alf had arrived. They dashed into the house to save what furniture
they could. "Don't be excited," said Potter. "Fire is dropping down,
but it will take quite a while for those oak rafters to burn in two.
Carry out the trunks; we can save all the clothes. Here, Alf, you are
too much excited. Where is John?"

John had thought of Eva's books, and although that end of the house
was almost entirely wrapped in flames, was exerting himself in the
dangerous work of saving the cherished volumes, and before the roof
fell in, he had carried out the last book. A number of the neighbors
soon arrived, for the cry of "Fire!" "Fire!" had echoed through the
woods. Mrs. Forest and Eva, having dressed themselves in the barn,
stood looking at the destruction of their home.

"I don't know how it could have happened," said Mrs. Forest. "It
must have caught from the upper part of the chimney. I don't know
how to thank you all. The fact that this is the first time I have
ever been placed under such serious obligations, makes me awkward in
acknowledging them. Eva, can't you say something?"

The girl stood trembling. John stood near her. "No," she replied,
"I--I--don't know----" She burst into tears.

"Come, daughter, we are going home with Mrs. Patterson and stay until
we can have another house built."

The next day John went over to Patterson's. Mrs. Forest and Eva, with
that strong recuperative force found among people who live in the
woods, had recovered from the effect of the excitement of the previous
night.

"Let us walk over and look at the ruins," said John, addressing Eva.

"There is but little to look at," she replied, "but we will go."

They spoke but few words as they crossed the fields, but each one felt
that the other was not unhappy. The leaves on the running brier were
red, and the velvety top of the sassafras sprout was cool to the touch.

There was nothing left of the old house but a few smoldering chunks.
John and Eva sat down on a log that had served as a horse-block.

"It would have been a great disappointment to me, Eva, if your books
had not been saved."

"Yes," she replied, "but they were not worth so great a risk."

"Oh, the risk was nothing. All that was required was a little activity."

They were silent for some time, and then John remarked:

"How strange everything has been. I used to fear that there never would
be a time when I could talk to you without embarrassment. This fear did
not come from any word or action of yours, but from a true estimate of
myself."

"How a true estimate?"

"Why, an almost overpowering knowledge of my own ignorance."

She gave him an imploring look. He continued:

"You have ever been kind to me. You have helped me, inspired me. I
know nothing of the world, but I know gratitude. When I am reading a
book, and hold so much within my grasp, the world seems very small;
but when I look away at the clouds floating far beyond the hills, I
then feel that the world is very large. But, Eva, may it be large or
small, there is to me but one source of true happiness. You are that
source