The tone was unmistakably patronizing. The big mountaineer lifted his head proudly, and turned toward the speaker; but before he could reply, Sammy broke in eagerly, “Law! but that would sure be fine, wouldn’t it, Matt? I’d know you’d do somethin’ big if you only had the chance. I just know you would. You’re so—so kind o’ big every way,” she laughed. “It’s a plumb shame for you to be buried alive in these hills.” There was nothing said after this, until, coming to the top of the ridge, they stopped. From here Ollie and Sammy would take the Old Trail to the girl’s home. Then, with his eyes on the vast sweep of forest-clad hills and valleys, over which the blue haze was fast changing to purple in the level rays of the sun, Young Matt spoke. “I don’t guess you’d better figure on that. Some folks are made to live in the city, and some ain’t. I reckon I was built to live in these hills. I don’t somehow feel like I could get along without them; and besides, I’d always be knockin’ against somethin’ there.” He laughed grimly, and stretched out his huge arms. “I’ve got to have room. Then there’s the folks yonder.” He turned his face toward the log house, just showing through the trees. “You know how it is, me bein’ the only one left, and Dad gettin’ old. No, I don’t guess you need to count on me bein’ more than I am.” Then suddenly he wheeled about and looked from one face to the other; and there was a faint hint of defiance in his voice, as he finished; “I got an idea, too, that the backwoods needs men same as the cities. I don’t see how there ever could _be_ a city even, if it wasn’t for the men what cleared the brush. Somebody’s got to lick Wash Gibbs some day, or there just naturally won’t be no decent livin’ in the neighborhood ever.” He held up his big hand to the man on the horse; “Good-by, and good luck to you, Ollie.” The horses turned down the Old Trail and with their riders, passed from sight. That night Sammy Lane said farewell to her lover, and, with many promises for the future, Ollie rode away to his cabin home, to leave the next morning for that world that lies so far—so far away from the world of Young Matt and his friends, the world that is so easy to get into after all, and so impossible to get out of ever. CHAPTER XII. THE SHEPHERD AND HIS FLOCK. All that spring and summer things went smoothly in the Mutton Hollow neighborhood. The corn was ready to gather, and nothing had happened at the ranch since Mr. Howitt took charge, while the man, who had appeared so strangely in their midst, had made a large place for himself in the hearts of the simple mountaineers.