thought I had sinned past forgiveness, and I was beyond description
uncomfortable, for he had been like a parent to me. But the next
morning, at half after seven, he walked into the little office and laid
down some gold pieces on my table. Gold was very scarce in those days.

"They are for your journey, David," said he. "My only comfort in your
going back is that you may grow up to put some temperance into their wild
heads. I have a commission for you at Jonesboro, in what was once the
unspeakable State of Franklin. You can stop there on your way to
Kentucky." He drew from his pocket a great bulky letter, addressed to
"Thomas Wright, Esquire, Barrister-at-law in Jonesboro, North Carolina."
For the good gentleman could not bring himself to write Franklin.

It was late in September of the year 1788 when I set out on my homeward
way--for Kentucky was home to me. I was going back to Polly Ann and Tom,
and visions of that home-coming rose before my eyes as I rode. In a
packet in my saddle-bags were some dozen letters which Mr. Wrenn, the
schoolmaster at Harrodstown, had writ at Polly Ann's bidding. I have the
letters yet. For Mr. Wrenn was plainly an artist, and had set down on
the paper the words just as they had flowed from her heart. Ay, and
there was news in the letters, though not surprising news among those
pioneer families whom God blessed so abundantly. Since David Ritchie
McChesney (I mention the name with pride) had risen above the necessities
of a bark cradle, two more had succeeded him, a brother and a sister. I
spurred my horse onward, and thought impatiently of the weary leagues
between my family and me.

I have often pictured myself on that journey. I was twenty-one years of
age, though one would have called me older. My looks were nothing to
boast of, and I was grown up tall and weedy, so that I must have made