" Of course the old
negro did not understand the man's allusion. He was puzzled by the
speech; but Joe went on without an explanation: "But thar is danger in
sech huntin'. Your young master, maybe, better keep a lookout for
his-self!"

His voice trembled with intensity.

In the meantime Layson was still seated thoughtfully before his fire of
crackling "down-wood," busy with a thousand speculations. Just what
Madge Brierly, the little mountain girl, meant to him, really, he could
not quite determine. He knew that he had been most powerfully attracted
to her, but he did not fail to recognize the incongruity of such a
situation. He had never been a youth of many love-affairs. Perhaps his
regard for horses and the "sport of kings" had kept him from much
travelling along the sentimental paths of dalliance with the fair sex.
Barbara Holton, back in the bluegrass country, had been almost the only
girl whom he had ever thought, seriously, of marrying, and he had not,
actually, spoken, yet, to her about it. When he had left the lowlands
for the mountains he had meant to, though, when he returned. There were
those, he thought, who believed them an affianced couple. Now he
wondered if they ever would be, really, and if, without actually
speaking, he had not led her to believe that he would speak. He was
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 huma