As the little party started down the slope the next morning, a wonderful light quavered above the mountain-tops for the most part covered with a thick, gorgeous leafage of crimson, green, and gold flaming out among the duller browns. Now and then a rough, scraggy peak like Bear Knob showed grimly against the sky. Below them the mists lay huddled asleep awaiting the coming of the sun. The cool smell of the night was still in the air. Down where the creek path trailed out of sight came a jubilant chorus of bird voices. A strange feeling made Gincy’s heart beat faster, and a lump rose in her throat. But what might have happened did not, for Talitha, with foresight, reached up and laid a rough, brown hand tenderly over the one on the pommel of the saddle. Gincy looked down into the blue eyes smiling encouragement and was herself again. A straggling little procession, they followed the slim stream which curved around the base of the hills. At noon the party stopped to eat their lunch on its banks, and then they left it for a steep climb up the mountain. An hour before sunset they had made good progress, coming out suddenly upon a cleared cove halfway down the mountain. At the farther side, against a background of pines, stood a large, well-built cabin. Vines tinted with autumn colouring clambered over the broad porch. The space in front was cleanly swept. Back of the low palings in the rear was a large, thrifty garden, and fragrant odours of ripening fruit came from the small, but heavily-laden, orchard. “You can tell that a Bentville student lives here, all right,” said Martin. “This is where Tally and I stayed over night on our way to school last year.” Their approach had been discovered, for two hounds ran around the house barking a joyful greeting. Then a tall, muscular young fellow hurried out of the door, followed by other members of the family. There was no look of dismay on Joe Bradshaw’s face at the size of the party. With true mountain hospitality they were given a hearty welcome. Inside the house Gincy looked around curiously. The two rooms were better furnished and neater than even Squire Dodd’s, which represented to her the height of elegance. In the living-room the supper was cooking over a stove; the fireplace was not even lighted. A white linen cloth of Mrs. Bradshaw’s own weaving covered the table, and there seemed to be plenty of dishes without the makeshifts common in her home and those of other mountain families she knew. True, it was only coarse, blue earthenware, but in her unaccustomed eyes nothing could be finer.