sunshine; the magnificent sweep of wooded slopes; Pine Mountain
and the peak-like Narrows, where through it the river had worn its
patient way; and the Cumberland Range, lying like a cloud against
the horizon, and bluer and softer than the sky above it. He longed
to know what her thoughts were; if in them there might be a hint of
what he hoped to find. Probably she could not tell them, should he
ask her, so unconscious was she of her mental life, whatever that
might be. Indeed, she seemed scarcely to know of her own
existence; there was about her a simplicity to which he had felt
himself rise only in the presence of the spirit about some lonely
mountain-top or in the heart of deep woods. Her gaze was not
vacant, not listless, but the pensive look of a sensitive child, and
Clayton let himself fancy that there was in it an unconscious love
of the beauty before her, and of its spiritual suggestiveness a
slumbering sense, perhaps easily awakened. Perhaps he might
awaken it.

The drowsy hum of the spinning-wheel ceased suddenly, and his
dream was shattered. He wondered how long they had sat there
saying nothing, and how long the silence might continue. Easter,
he believed, would never address him. Even the temporary
intimacy that the barter of the gun had brought about was gone.
The girl seemed lost in unconsciousness. The mother had gone to her loom, and was humming softly to herself as she passed the shuttle to and fro. Clayton turned for an instant to watch her, and the rude background, which he had forgotten, thrust every unwelcome detail upon his attention: the old cabin, built of hewn logs, held together by wooden pin and augur-hole, and shingled with rough boards; the dark, windowless room; the unplastered walls; the beds with old-fashioned high posts, mattresses of straw, and cords instead of slats; the home-made chairs with straight backs, tipped with carved knobs; the mantel filled with utensils and overhung with bunches of drying herbs; a ladder with half a dozen smooth-worn steps leading to the loft; and a wide, deep fireplace-the only suggestion of cheer and comfort in the gloomy interior. An open porch connected the single room with the kitchen. Here, too, were suggestions of daily duties. The mother's face told a tale of hardship and toil, and there was the plough in the furrow, and the girl's calloused hands folded in her lap. With a thrill of compassion Clayton turned to her. What a pity! what a pity! Just now her face had the peace of a child's; but when aroused, an electric fire burned from her calm eyes and showed the
ardent temperament that really lay beneath. If she were quick and
sympathetic-and she must be, he who could tell how rich the
development possible for her?

"You hain't seen much of this country, I reckon. You hain't been
here afore?