"Gone! and whither gone?" Half aloud, I soliloquised the interrogatory. There was an echo from the empty walls, but no reply. Even conjecture failed to furnish an answer. The affair was altogether unexpected. Not anticipating that the squatter would leave his cabin before my return, I had made no inquiry either about his destination or future designs. I was, therefore, without the slightest clue as to whither he had gone. Nor should I have had any inquietude at this premature disappearance, but for the words of the Indian sibyl. Beyond the mere disappointment of missing an interview with Lilian--chagrin enough after such high-raised expectation--I should not have felt either uneasiness or regret. It would have been but natural to believe, that they had moved to some neighbour's house--perhaps to that up the creek, where lived the "friend of Lilian's father"--in all likelihood, the saint I had seen--or some other within a five-mile circuit. Or, if even ten miles distant, what would it matter to me? A ride of ten miles twice a day would be nothing--only an airing for my Arab. I should soon scent out the whereabouts of that sweet-smelling rose. Not all the forests in Tennessee could hide from me my fair blooming flower. Such _would have been_ my reflections, no doubt, had I not encountered the Indian girl. But her words of harsh warning now guided the current of my thoughts into a ruder channel--"You may go, but only to grieve: you will be too late." Figurative as was her speech, and undefined its meaning, it produced within me a presentiment sufficiently real: that the removal was not a mere flit to some temporary shelter under a neighbour's roof, but a departure for a distant point. Scarcely a presentiment, but a belief--a conviction. Around me were circumstances corroborative of this view. The articles of furniture left behind, though rude, were still of a certain value--especially to a householder of Holt's condition; and had the squatter designed to re-erect his roof-tree in the neighbourhood, he would no doubt have taken them with him. Otherwise they were too heavy for a distant migration. Perhaps he intended to return for them? If so--but no: there was no probability of his doing so. I need not have tried to comfort myself with the reflection. The innuendoes of the Indian had already negatived the hope. Still vaguely indulging in it, however, I cast a glance around the room in search of some object that might guide my conjectures to a more definite conclusion.