The fields were divided by neat stone fences and far off Harry saw men working on the slopes.
Jarvis and Ike were still silent.

The man glanced at Harry and saw that he had not yet come from his absorption, but Samuel Jarvis was a joyous soul.

He was forty years old, and he had lived forty happy years.
The money for his lumber was in his pocket, he did not know ache or pain, and he was going back to his home in an inmost recess of the mountains, from which high point he could view the civil war passing around him and far below.

He could restrain himself no longer, and lifting up his voice he sang.
But the song, like nearly all songs the mountaineers sing, had a melancholy note.
"'Nita, 'Nita, Juanita, Be my own fair bride." He sang, and the wailing note, confined between the high walls of the stream, took on a great increase in volume and power.

Jarvis had one of those uncommon voices sometimes found among the unlearned, a deep, full tenor without a harsh note.