y to earn his living. She had heard in town that he had been down
looking at the place the day before. Perhaps he had walked over that
very meadow. She leaned forward: the ground was soft: surely there were
the marks of footsteps. Only yesterday! Isabel glanced quickly
around--at the lonely road, the mighty hills that shut her in, swathed
in forest, shouldering the clouds, the gray mist creeping through the
gorge. An eagle swept across the opening overhead, frogs croaked in the
swamp yonder: there were no other living things to see her. She sprang
from the wagon, ran across the meadow, put her foot in the deep print:
her bosom heaved, the tears came to her eyes. Isabel was not a
sentimental, silly girl, but a shrewd, hard-working woman. She had not
seen her lover for a long time, and she thought it would be years before
she would see him again.

She walked down to the river--sat down under a walnut tree. Surely she
might rest there a minute. She would never see David's home again.

A tall, dark man gathered himself up from among the deep fern, watching
her breathlessly. Was it possible that she cared to walk over the land
because it was _his_ land? No: she was too cold-blooded a little thing
for that.

"Miss Isabel!"

She sprang to her feet. It was he! Then she spoke coolly, precisely as
if they had met on the street in Sevier: "How did you come here, Mr.
Cabarreux? I thought there was nobody but myself in this valley."

Young Cabarreux stood leaning over her, his hat in his hand: "The truth
is, I was asleep by the branch thar. I came out to look into the quality
of the soil this mornin', but I took a rest instead: I'll have enough of
work hyar next year."

"Yes, you will," with a little sigh, and a quick glance of pity at the
well-knit, handsome figure.

Cabarreux colored high and hesitated: "You--you knew it was my land,
then, Miss Isabel? When you stopped?" He bent so close that she could
feel his breath stir her hair. What could she say? She had never let him
know that she cared for him so much as that. She gave a frightened
glance at the face above her, the mellow olive complexion, the laughing
mouth, the dark, liquid eyes. It seemed to her that one of the early
gods might have had such a face.

"I had heard--I thought you had a farm in this valley," she faltered,
moving away.

Cabarreux did not press the question: he followed her, moving the
branches aside with patient courtesy. He was a sincere man, an