She stood for a moment, tall, fair, erect, under the rugged arch, which was massively imposed upon the clearing sky. A red suffusion of light was over the valley. The mountains were darkling and purple. An inexpressible sense of freshness blended with the eventide languors. All the woods were vibrant with the ceaseless chirr of the cicada, and the antiphonal chanting of frogs rose and fell by the water-side. Pensiveness pervaded the hour, and melancholy. Far-away cattle, homeward bound, were lowing and clanking their mellow bells. And the misty air ministered to the sun’s splendors, and bore its elongated rays far into space in gorgeous amplifications. The ground was dank, and Isabel’s bare feet pattered along with a noisy sound, and she was beset with forebodings. “I’ll be bound the foot-bredge over the ruver air nigh under water by this time, an’ I ain’t one o’ the swimmin’ kind,” Isabel observed with callow pertness. “I warn’t raised ter be a frawg.” Jepson had hesitated behind the two girls. Isabel’s words seemed to suggest his opportunity. “I mought ez well g’long home with you-uns ez no,” he remarked. “’Tain’t out’n my way none ter the Settlemint, an’ I’ll holp ye over the log.” They trudged along silently through the forest, with its ceaseless pulsations of sound: Isabel in the van, the other two walking side by side, and the dog of the “frequent visitor” following. Sometimes the shadows fell on Marcella’s fair face, sometimes the roseate glow of the west; and Jepson found a fascination undreamed of before in noting their fluctuations. Her expression betokened little favor toward him,—less, perhaps, than he realized. He had never sought the approval of others, and disapproval he was not quick to discern, since he had no self-disparagement to keep his fears alert. Long before they reached the river they heard the water roaring, but the unhewn log that served as foot-bridge, thrown from bank to bank, was not yet submerged, and the two girls walked swiftly and lightly across, with no need of assistance. Suddenly the woods gave way, and Broomsedge Cove lay before them, vague in the closing dusk. Half a dozen log cabins were scattered at long intervals, for this was “the Settlemint,”—their red lights growing distinct since the day had so waned. The sky was crimson above, and seemed to touch the gaunt, black, towering mountains that circled close about the sequestered nook. A star was gleaming near the horizon. Voices rose fitfully and fell to silence, and all was mute save for the nocturnal song of the woods, and presently a few strokes of an axe at some wood-pile, that set the echoes all a-hewing.