throwing off the spell with an effort, "I do." And
then with a reminiscent flash the smile broke over his face. "I
remember well where I heard the first music of my life. It was when I
was twelve years old, and from a mountain fellow who had had no
training. But he simply made the banjo talk, as the darkeys would say,
and reproduced with skillful touch and thrilling voice a fox hunt
which fairly set me crazy.

"Then the next," he went on, "was at a church, just a little later,
and never will I forget how the deep-toned organ stirred my soul to
the very depths." There was a quiet solemnity upon him as he said this
which Nita did not break for a moment. Then she said:

"How barren the mountains must be! You will never want to go there
again, will you?"

"Barren!" he exclaimed in return. "I wish I were an artist in word
painting and I would make mountain peak after mountain peak glow with
rhododendron and laurel, fill the valleys with silver sunrise-mist to
glorify their verdure for you, and then call out all the fur and
feathered folk and troops of mountain children from their forest
homes. You would not think it a barren country," he concluded with
smiling eloquence.

"Perhaps not," she said slowly, "but to think of no good music, no
pleasures, no,--anything that makes up our delightful living here,"
she ended.

"That is true," he responded gravely, adding almost to himself, "but
it must be carried to them through work and sacrifice by somebody."

Then becoming conscious the next instant of the brilliant scene about
him his smile flashed over his face again and he turned to her with:

"By the way, did you see an account in the papers of the wreckage of a
car load of millinery in the Kentucky mountains a few days ago?"

"No, I did not," she smiled back.

"Well, there was a railroad wreck somewhere up there and a whole car
load of millinery was sent out upon the four winds of heaven. Big hats
and little, such as women know all about and men can't even talk of,
with all sorts of gorgeous flower trimmings, feathers and ribbons were
scattered through the woods, and they say barefooted mountain women
flocked from every direction and decked themselves in the latest
styles of head-gear."

Both laughed over the picture and Steve added:

"I suppose it would only need a procession of fashionable gowns
parading the mountains to transform our women, while the sight of
swallow-tails and silk hats might do as much for th