The fisherman laughed. He was just becoming accustomed to the mountain etiquette that commands a stranger to divulge himself first. “My name's--Jack.” “An' mine's--Jill.” She laughed now, and it was his time for surprise--where could she have heard of Jack and Jill? His line rang suddenly. “Jack,” she cried, “you got a bite!” He pulled, missed the strike, and wound in. The minnow was all right, so he tossed it back again. “That isn't your name,” he said. “If 'tain't, then that ain't your'n?” “Yes 'tis,” he said, shaking his head affirmatively. A long cry came down the ravine: “J-u-n-e! eh--oh--J-u-n-e!” That was a queer name for the mountains, and the fisherman wondered if he had heard aright--June. The little girl gave a shrill answering cry, but she did not move. “Thar now!” she said. “Who's that--your Mammy?” “No, 'tain't--hit's my step-mammy. I'm a goin' to ketch hell now.” Her innocent eyes turned sullen and her baby mouth tightened. “Good Lord!” said the fisherman, startled, and then he stopped--the words were as innocent on her lips as a benediction. “Have you got a father?” Like a flash, her whole face changed. “I reckon I have.” “Where is he?” “Hyeh he is!” drawled a voice from the bushes, and it had a tone that made the fisherman whirl suddenly. A giant mountaineer stood on the bank above him, with a Winchester in the hollow of his arm. “How are you?” The giant's heavy eyes lifted quickly, but he spoke to the girl. “You go on home--what you doin' hyeh gassin' with furriners!” The girl shrank to the bushes, but she cried sharply back: “Don't you hurt him now, Dad. He ain't even got a pistol. He ain't no--” “Shet up!” The little creature vanished and the mountaineer turned to the fisherman, who had just put on a fresh minnow and tossed it into the river. “Purty well, thank you,” he said shortly. “How are you?” “Fine!” was the nonchalant answer. For a moment there was silence and a puzzled frown gathered on the mountaineer's face. “That's a bright little girl of yours--What did she mean by telling you not to hurt me?” “You haven't been long in these mountains, have ye?” “No--not in THESE mountains--why?” The fisherman looked around and was almost startled by the fierce gaze of his questioner. “Stop that, please,” he said, with a humourous smile. “You make me nervous.” The mountaineer's bushy brows came together across the bridge of his nose and his voice rumbled like distant thunder. “What's yo' name, stranger, an' what's yo' business over hyeh?” “Dear me, there you go! You can see I'm fishing, but why does everybody in these mountains want to know my name?” “You heerd me!” “Yes.” The fisherman turned again and saw the giant's rugged face stern and pale with open anger now, and he, too, grew suddenly serious. “Suppose I don't tell you,” he said gravely. “What--” “Git!” said the mountaineer, with a move of one huge hairy hand up the mountain. “An' git quick!”