Andrew had started out from the hiding tree with the intention of cutting
across the trail of the hunters at right angles a little up the ravine,
and he had trusted to a six-year-old remembrance of the lay of the land
as he led the way across the frosty meadow and up the ridge at a brisk
pace. Caroline swung lithely along beside him and in the matter of fences
took Polly's policy of a hand up and then a high vault, which made for
practically no delay. They skirted the tangle of buck bushes and came out
on the edge of the cliff just as the hunt swept by at their feet and on
up the creek bed. They were both breathless and tingling with the
exertion of their climb.

"There they go--left behind--no catching them!" exclaimed Andrew. "No
possum for you, and this is your hunt! I'm most awfully sorry!"

"Don't you suppose they will save me one?" asked Caroline composedly, and
as she spoke she walked to the edge of the bluff and looked down into the
dark ravine interestedly.

"You don't want the possum, child, you want to see it caught. The negroes
get the little beasts; it's the bagging that's the excitement!" Andrew
regarded her with amused interest.

"I don't seem to care to see things caught," she answered. "I'm always
sorry for them. I would let them all go if I got the chance--all caught
things." A little crackle in the bushes at her side made her move nearer
to him.

"I believe you would--release any 'caught thing'--if you could," he said
with a note of bitterness in his voice that she failed to detect. A cold
wind swept across the meadow and he swung around so his broad shoulders