astonished at the thrill of actual fear he felt as he considered the
mere possibility of this.

The news which had been brought to him by mail that upon the morrow he
would see the girl again, in company with his Aunt and Colonel
Doolittle, had focussed matters in his mind. Did he really love the
haughty, bluegrass beauty? He was far from sure of it, as he sat there
in the little mountain-cabin, although he had been certain that he did
when he had left the lowlands.

It seemed almost absurd, even to his young and sentimental mind, that
one in his position should have lost his heart to an uneducated girl
like Madge, but he definitely decided that, at any rate, he had never
loved the other girl. If it was not really love he felt for the small
maiden of the forest-fire and spelling-book, it surely was not love he
felt for the brilliant, showy, bluegrass girl.

He was reflecting discontentedly that he did not know exactly what he
felt or what he wanted, when he heard Joe Lorey's startling imitation of
the panther's cry, outside, and, rising, presently, when careful
listening revealed the fact that the less obtrusive sound of human
voices followed what had seemed to be the weird, uncanny call of the
wild-beast, he went to the door and opened it, so that he could better
listen.

Joe and the negro had not been in actual view of Layson's cabin, up to
that time. A rocky corner, rising at the trail's side, had concealed it.
Now they stepped around this and the lighted door and windows of the
little structure stood out, despite increasing darkness, plainly in
their view.