It was not until the train pulled out of the station that Isabel felt sure she was really going to the mountains. When the letter had come the day before, from Amy Scott to Mrs. Gwynne, begging the loan of her daughter for a few weeks, to help in the social work on Troublesome Creek,--"for," it read, "the singing classes are by far our most popular feature, and none of us can sing; our need of a singer is really desperate,"--Mrs. Gwynne had at first refused point-blank to let Isabel go. "I could not sleep at night," she said, "with you up in that wild country, where they do nothing but make moonshine whiskey and kill each other off in those horrible feuds." Mr. Gwynne's persuasion, added to Isabel's importunity, had at last won a reluctant consent; but during the hurried preparations, Isabel was in constant fear of its withdrawal; and while she and her father were driving the three miles to town in the family carriage, she was haunted by the dread of galloping hoofs behind, and the voice of one of the negro boys at the window saying, "Miss Millicent say she done change her mind, and for Miss Isabel to come on back home." Even at the station, she was in such nervous fear that she could hardly show appreciation of Thomas Vance's presence, and of the inevitable box of candy and new novel. She hardly knew what Thomas and her father said as they got her settled in the dingy day-coach (there was nothing better on this newly built road to the coal-fields in the edge of the mountains), her one desire being to hear the train-bell ring for a start. After what seemed a long time, it did so; Thomas and Mr. Gwynne jumped off, and Isabel felt that she was embarked upon the adventure of her life. The trip was an all-day one, the heat great, the train exceedingly dirty; but Isabel was all eyes and interest. They passed, first, through the beautiful Blue Grass country, with its smooth, rolling pastures, clear brooks, sleek herds of cattle and horses, and stately homes like her own, set back amid tall trees; then into the poorer and rougher "knobs," where life was evidently a different proposition; then the knobs rose into hills, and the hills became steeper and higher, until the train was shut in between cliffs and mountains. The progressive change in the people who got into and off the train all along the way was as striking as the changing topography. It was hard to believe that all could belong to the same state. About five in the afternoon they arrived at the end of the railroad--a mountain county-seat famous for the terrible feud then raging. A tall old man in a slouch hat was standing by the platform, and as Isabel descended he inquired solemnly, "Is this the singing gal?" "Yes; and of course you're Uncle Adam Howard," she answered. Without a word, he took her suitcase and led the way along the track, between endless piles of ties and lumber. Once she broke the silence to ask, "How is the feud coming on now?"