But Ola was impervious to his scorn. A stone wall was the only barrier her direct methods recognized. She caught and saddled the filly, brought out her black calico riding skirt, hooked it on over her workaday frock, clambered to Cindy's back, and turned her into the little frequented woodsroad down which Lance used to come with his banjo to play for the dances. Cindy put forward [297] her ears and nickered softly as they neared her old home, and Satan, running free in a field of stubble from which Lance had gathered the corn, came galloping to the boundary to stretch a friendly nose across to his old companion. Ola looked with relief at the black horse. Here was assurance that Lance was at home. Yet, when she got off, tied the filly, and made her way to the cabin, she found it all closed, silent, apparently deserted. In the mountains, nobody raps on a door. Ola gave the customary hail, her voice wavering on the "hello!" There was no answer. Again she tried, drawing nearer, circling the house, forbearing to touch either of the doors or step on the porch. "Hello, Lance! Hoo-ee--Lance!" she ventured finally. "It's Ola. I got somethin' to say to you." She stood long after that effort. A wind went by in the oak leaves, whispering to itself derisively. The shabby, stubbed little figure in the dooryard, halting with rusty calico riding skirt dragged about her, choked and shivered. "I know he's in thar," she muttered to herself resentfully, and then marched straight up the steps and shook the door. The rattling of the latch gave her to understand that the bar was dropped. People cannot go outside and bar a door. "Lance," she reiterated, "I got somethin' to tell you about Cindy." [298] The hound who had accompanied Lance and Ola on many a stolen hunting trip or fishing excursion roused from his slumbers in the barn and came baying down to greet her. She paid no attention to the dog. "Flent he's had the filly at our house for two weeks," she said, addressing the closed and barred door. "He--he's a-aimin' to take her away to-morrow. Do you want me to buy her back for you? Lance--aw, say, Lance--do you? I could." Outside were the usual summer sounds, the rattle of the dog's feet on the porch floor as he capered about her. Within, hearken as she might, the silence was unbroken, till suddenly across it cut, with a sharp pang of melody, the twanging of banjo strings. Ola began to cry. Springing forward, she beat fiercely on the door with her palms, then laid hold of its knob once more to rattle it. Under her touch it swung wide, revealing an empty room, spotlessly clean, in perfect order, with Lance's banjo, yet humming, lying on the floor where it had fallen from its nail. "I know you' in thar," she sobbed, speaking now to the four walls that mocked her with a semblance of welcome. "This here is jest like you. Lance Cleaverage. This is the way you always treat a friend. You ain't a-lookin', you ain't a-carin'!"