bronze, and appearing, when viewed from the ground below, to
resemble a numberless array of small furled flags. On the hard
earth floor there were three parallel rows of "unseasoned" logs
which burned slowly day and night, filling the barn with gray
smoke and the pungent odour of the curing tobacco.

"It takes a heap of lookin' arter, an' no mistake," old Jacob was
remarking, as he surveyed the fine crop with the bland and easy
gaze of ownership. "Why, in a little while them top leaves thar
will be like tinder, an' the first floatin' spark will set it all
afire. That's the way Sol Peterkin lost half a crop last year,
an' it's the way Dick Moss lost his whole one the year before."
At Christopher's entrance he paused and turned his pleasant,
ruddy face from the fresh logs which he had been watching. "So
you want to have a look at my tobaccy, too?" he added, with the
healthful zest of a child. "Well, it's worth seein', if I do say
so; thar hasn't been sech leaves raised in this county within the
memory of man."

"That's so," said Christopher, with an appreciative glance. "I'm
looking for Jim, but he's keeping up the fires, isn't he?" Then
he turned quickly, for Tom Spade, who with young Matthew Field
had been critically weighing the promise of Jacob's crop, broke
out suddenly into a boisterous laugh.

"Why, I declar', Mr. Christopher, if you ain't lost yo' shadow!"
he exclaimed.

Christopher regarded him blankly for a moment, and then joined
lightly in the general mirth. "Oh, you mean Will Fletcher," he