again the figure of a young giant, standing in
the level rays of the setting sun, with his great arms
outstretched, saying, "I reckon I was built to live in these
hills. I don't guess you'd better count on me ever bein' more'n I
am." Sammy realized suddenly that the question was no longer
whether Ollie would be ashamed of her. It was quite a different
question, indeed.

CHAPTER XXIII.

OLLIE COMES HOME.

The day that Ollie was expected at the cabin on Dewey Bald, Mr.
Lane was busy in the field.

"I don't reckon you'll need me at th' house nohow," he said with a
queer laugh, as he rose from the dinner table; and Sammy,
blushing, told him to go on to his work, or Young Matt would get
his planting done first.

Jim went out to get his horse from the stable, but before he left,
he returned once more to the house.

"What is it, Daddy? Forget something?" asked Sammy, as her father
stood in the doorway.

"Not exactly," drawled Jim. "I ain't got a very good forgetter.
Wish I had. It's somethin' I can't forget. Wish I could."

In a moment the girl's arms were about his neck, "You dear foolish
old Daddy Jim. I have a bad forgetter, too. You thought when I
began studying with Dad Howitt that my books would make me forget
you. Well, have they?" A tightening of the long arm about her
waist was the only answer. "And now you are making yourself
miserable trying to think that Ollie Stewart and his friends will
make me forget you; just as if all the folks in the world could
ever be to me what you are; you, and Dad, and Uncle Matt, and Aunt
Mollie, and Young Matt. Daddy, I am ashamed of you. Honest, I am.
Do you think a real genuine lady could ever forget the father who
had been so good to her? Daddy, I am insulted. You must apologize
immediately."

She pretended to draw away, but the long arm held her fast, while
the mountaineer said in a voice that had in it pride and pain,
with a world of love, "I know, I know, girl. But you'll be a
livin' in the city, when you and Ollie are married, and these old
hills will be mighty lonesome with you gone. You see I couldn't
never leave the old place. 'Tain't much, I know, so far as money
value goes. But there's some things worth a heap more than their
money value, I reckon. If you was only goin' t' live where I could
ride over once or twice a week to see you, it would be different."

"Yes, Daddy; but maybe I won't go after all. I'm not married, yet,
you know."

Something