In the rumble of cheap and vulgar talk the voices of these men appealed to the troubled girl with great charm. She felt more akin to them than to any one else in the room, and from time to time she raised her eyes to their faces. They were aware of her also, and their gaze was frankly admiring as well as wondering; and in passing the ham and eggs or the sugar they contrived to show her that they considered her a lady in a rough place, and that they would like to know more about her. She accepted their civilities with gratitude, and listened to their talk with growing interest. It seemed that the young man had come down from the hills to meet his friend and take him back to his cabin. "I can't do it to-day, Ross," said the older man. "I wish I could, but one meal of this kind is all I can stand these days." "You're getting finicky," laughed the younger man. "I'm getting old. Time was when my fell of hair would rise at nothing, not even flies in the butter, but now--" "That last visit to the ancestral acres is what did it." "No, it's age--age and prosperity. I know now what it is to have broiled steak." Mrs. Wetherford, seizing the moment, came down to do the honors. "You fellers ought to know my girl. Virginny, this is Forest Supervisor Redfield, and this is Ross Cavanagh, his forest ranger in this district. You ought to know each other. My girl's just back from school, and she don't think much of the Fork. It's a little too coarse for her." Lee flushed under this introduction, and her distress was so evident that both men came to her rescue. The older man bowed, and said: "I didn't know you had a daughter, Mrs. Wetherford," and Cavanagh, with a glance of admiration, added: "We've been wondering who you might be." Lize went on: "I thought I'd got rid of her. She's been away now for about ten years. I don't know but it was a mistake--look's like she's grown a little too fine-haired for us doughies out here." "So much the worse for us," replied Redfield. This little dialogue gave the girl time to recover herself, but as Cavanagh watched the blush fade from her face, leaving it cold and white, he sympathized with her--pitied her from the bottom of his heart. He perceived that he was a chance spectator of the first scene in a painful domestic drama--one that might easily become a tragedy. He wondered what the forces might be which had brought such a daughter to this sloven, this virago. To see a maid of this delicate bloom thrust into such a place as Lize Wetherford's "hotel" had the reputation of being roused indignation. "When did you reach town?" he asked, and into his voice his admiration crept. "Only last night." "You find great changes here?" "Not so great as in my mother. It's all----" She stopped abruptly, and he understood.