Up to this time, he had observed a profound silence; but for all that, I fancied he was not disinclined to a little _causerie_. His reserve seemed to spring from a sense of modest delicacy--as if he did not desire to take the initiative. I relieved him from this embarrassment, by opening the dialogue:--"What sort of a gentleman is this Mr Holt?" "Gentleman!" "Yes--what sort of _person_ is he?" "Oh, what sort o' person. Well, stranger, he's what we, in these parts, call a rough customer." "Indeed?" "Rayther, I shed say." "Is he what you call a poor man?" "All that I reckon. He hain't got nothin', as I knows on, 'ceptin' his old critter o' a hoss, an' his clarin' o' a couple o' acres or thereabout; besides, he only _squats_ upon that." "He's only a squatter, then?" "That's all, stranger; tho' I reckon he considers the clarin' as much his own as I do my bit o' ground, that's been bought an' paid for." "Indeed?" "Yes--I shedn't like to be the party that would buy it over his head." The speaker accompanied these words with a significant glance, which seemed to say, "I wonder if that's _his_ business here." "Has he any family?" "Thar's one--a young critter o' a girl." "That all?" I asked--seeing that my companion hesitated, as if he had something more to say, but was backward about declaring it. "No, stranger--thar war another girl--older than this 'un." "And she?" "She--she's gone away." "Married, I suppose?" "That's what nobody 'bout here can tell nor whar she's gone, neyther." The tone in which the young fellow spoke had suddenly altered from gay to grave; and, by a glimpse of the moonlight, I could perceive that his countenance was shadowed and sombre. I could have but little doubt as to the cause of this transformation. It was to be found in the subject of our conversation--the absent daughter of the squatter. From motives of delicacy I refrained from pushing my inquiries farther; but, indeed, I should have been otherwise prevented from doing so: for, just at that moment, the road once more narrowed, and we were forced apart. By the eager urging of his horse into the dark path, I could perceive that the hunter was desirous of terminating a dialogue--to him, in all probability, suggestive of bitter memories. For another half hour we rode on in silence--my companion apparently buried in a reverie of thought--myself speculating on the chances of an unpleasant encounter: which, from the hints I had just had, was now rather certain than probable. Instead of a welcome from the squatter, and a bed in the corner of his cabin, I had before my mind the prospect of a wordy war; and, perhaps afterwards, of spending my night in the woods. Once or twice, I was on the point of proclaiming my errand, and asking the young hunter for advice as how I should act; but as I had not yet ascertained whether he was friend or foe of my future hypothetical antagonist, I thought it more prudent to keep my secret to myself.