Laughter and banter and song came from the cabins that lined the big ravine and the little ravines opening into it.Abanjo tinkled at the entrance of "Possum Trot,''sacred to the darkies.We moved toward it.On the stoop sat an ecstatic picker and in the dust shuffled three pickaninnies--one boy and two girls--the youngest not five years old.The crowd that was gathered about them gave way respectfully as we drew near;the little darkies showed their white teeth in jolly grins,and their feet shook the dust in happy competition.I showered a few coins for the Blight and on we went--into the mouth of the many-peaked Gap.The night train was coming in and everybody had a smile of welcome for the Blight--post-office assistant,drug clerk,soda-water boy,telegraph operator,hostler,who came for the mules--and when tired,but happy,she slipped from her saddle to the ground,she then and there gave me what she usually reserves for Christmas morning,and that,too,while Marston was looking on.Over her shoulder I smiled at him.
That night Marston and the Blight sat under the vines on the porch until the late moon rose over Wallens Ridge,and,when bedtime came,the Blight said impatiently that she did not want to go home.She had to go,however,next day,but on the next Fourth of July she would surely come again;and,as the young engineer mounted his horse and set his face toward Black Mountain,I knew that until that day,for him,a blight would still be in the hills.