Gena of the Appalachians

Paul Waffington inhaled deep draughts of the crisp night air as he ascended the mountainside, and was refreshed. He had been glad to greet the folk of the little village after two long years of absence. Especially glad to learn of the sticking qualities of Miss Emeline Hobbs and the prosperity of the little Sunday-school. With all this he had been in some degree satisfied. But there was one thing still for which he had a longing desire to know, and that one thing was, how went life with Gena Filson. Well, he soon would know, and with renewed energy he mended his pace up the mountainside. Half way up, he stopped and looked down at the little village in the dark valley. Some two or three faint flickering lights was all that could be made out. The laboring men of the mountains retire early and arise early. Not all the fathers of the Blood Camp neighborhood idled away their time. Many of them were logmen -- men who felled trees the long day through, winter and summer alike, others yoked together the oxen and "snaked in" the logs from the mountain coves so they could be loaded on the wagons and hauled away to the markets. But, by this hour, the oxen had been given his fodder, each workman had sat at his humble board and partaken of his portion, and now man and beast had gone to his bed that he might find rest. Under the shining heaven's blue Paul Waffington stood upon the mountain's side and reflected upon it all. A single light was now burning in Blood Camp. He watched its faint glow -- it flickered now and went out -- Blood Camp is at rest.

"What if old Jase should resent this visit? " he thought, as he resumed his journey. Well, old Jase had invited him in the first place to visit his home. It was not a late hour -- 7: 30 o'clock. Rather a seasonable hour for a summer night's call, he thought. And, further, it was perfectly proper for him to accept the invitation and pay his respects to Jase Dillenburger and his adopted daughter.