you remind
me of my lost mother."

"Thank you, my dear. You must be very lonely, up here all alone."

"I am, sometimes," said the girl, "but I have lots of fun, too. The
woods are full of friends. Th' birds an' squirrels ain't afraid o' me.
They seem to think I'm a wild thing, like 'em."

"It's true," said Frank, with an admiring, cheering look at the little
country girl. "Their confidence in her is wonderful."

The bluegrass girl's annoyance was increasing. She had come up to the
mountains thinking that, among such crude surroundings, her gowns and
the undoubted beauty they adorned, would hold the center of the stage,
and by contrast, hold Layson quite enthralled; but here, instead, was a
brown-faced country maid in grotesque, homemade costume, attracting most
of his attention. She was conscious that by showing her discomfiture she
was not strengthening her own position, but she could not hide it, could
not curb her tongue.

"A rider of races," said she; "a tamer of animals! What accomplishments!
Do you actually live here, all alone?"

"Come," said Madge, determined to be pleasant, "and I'll show you." She
led the bluegrass girl to a convenient point from which her cabin was in
sight.

"In that little hut!" said Barbara, not impressed as Madge had
innocently thought she would be. "Shocking!"

The girl was angered, now. "So sorry I didn't have your opinion afore!
But, maybe, you wouldn't think it were so awful, if you knowed how
'twere I come to live there."

Frank had written something of the poor girl's tragic story to his aunt.
She was all interest. "Won't you tell us, please?" she asked.

Holton seemed to show a strange disinclination to listen to the
narrative. "Ain't got no time for stories," he objected. "Gettin' late."

"We'll take time, then," said Frank.

"Go on, little one," urged Colonel Doolittle. "We're listening."

Impressed and touched by the sympathy in the horseman's tone and the
interest in Miss Alathea's eyes, Madge told with even greater force and
more effect than when she had related it to Layson the story of the
tragedy which had robbed her at a blow of father and of mother, the
black, dreadful tale of merciless assassination which had left her
orphaned in the mountains. Her audience attended, spellbound, even the
disgruntled and unsympathetic Barbara listening with unwilling
fascination. Only Holton turned away, with a gesture of impatience. He
plainly did not wish to waste time