me I shall ever see you
all alone?"

She gasped. He had not hinted at a thing like that before. "You ain't
going back with them, are you?" she asked, her voice a little tremulous
from the shock of the surprise. "You ain't going back with them--never
to come hyar no more, are you?"

He stepped nearer to her. "Why, little one," he asked, "would you care?"

"Care?" she said with thrilling voice, and then, gaining better
self-control, tried to appear indifferent. "Why should I?" she said
lightly. "I ain't nothin' to you and you ain't nothin' to me."

His heart denied her words. "Don't say that!" he cried. "You don't know
how dear you've grown to me." He stepped toward her with his arms
outstretched. He almost reached her and he knew, and she knew,
instinctively, that if he had he would have kissed her.

[Illustration: "NO MAN CAN CROSS THIS BRIDGE, UNLESS--UNLESS,--"]

She shrank back like a startled fawn, when his foot was almost on the
bridge that spanned the chasm between them and her cabin.

"Don't you dare to touch me!" she said fiercely.

She sped back upon the little bridge, and, when he would have followed,
held her hand up with a gesture of such native dignity, offended
womanhood, that he stopped where he was, abashed.

"No--no, sir; you can't cross this bridge," said she. "No man ever can,
unless--unless--"

Almost sobbing, now, she left the sentence incomplete; and then: "Oh,
you wouldn't dared act so to a bluegrass girl! But I know what's right
as well as them. It don't take no book-learnin' to tell me as how a kiss
like that you planned for me would be a sign that really you care for me
no more than for the critters that you hunt an' kill for pastime up hyar
among the mountings."

He would have given much if he had never done the foolish thing. He
stood there with lowered eyes, bent head, abashed, discomfited.

"An' I 'lowed you were my friend!" said she.

Now he looked up at her and spoke out impulsively: "And so I am, Madge,
really! I was ... wrong. Forgive me!"

She dropped her hands with a weary change of manner. "Well, I reckon I
will," said she. "You've been too kind and good for me to bear a grudge
ag'in you; but ... but ... Well, maybe I had better say good-night."

She walked slowly back across the bridge without another word, pulled
on its rope and raised it, made the rope fast and slowly disappeared
within her little cabin.

"Poor child!" said he, and turned away. "I was a brute to