Suddenly he lifted his eyes. They were wide with a new speculation. An angry flare blazed in them. “What sort'n beastis is this hyar mare ez the ranger tuk up?” he asked. Peters looked at him, hardly comprehending his tremor of excitement. “Seems sorter sizable,” he replied, sibilantly, sucking his pipe-stem. Todd nodded meditatively several times, leaning his elbows on his knees, his eyes fixed on the landscape. “Hev she got enny particular marks, ez ye knows on?” he drawled. “Wa'al, she be ez black ez a crow, with the nigh fore-foot white. An' she hev got a white star spang in the middle o' her forehead, an' the left side o' her nose is white too.” Todd rose suddenly to his feet. “By gum!” he cried, with a burst of passion, “she air _my_ filly! An' 'twar that thar durned horse-thief of a ranger ez tolled her off!” ***** Deep among the wooded spurs Lonesome Cove nestles, sequestered from the world. Naught emigrates thence except an importunate stream that forces its way through a rocky gap, and so to freedom beyond. No stranger intrudes; only the moon looks in once in a while. The roaming wind may explore its solitudes; and it is but the vertical sunbeams that strike to the heart of the little basin, because of the massive mountains that wall it round and serve to isolate it. So nearly do they meet at the gap that one great assertive crag, beetling far above, intercepts the view of the wide landscape beyond, leaving its substituted profile jaggedly serrating the changing sky. Above it, when the weather is fair, appear vague blue lines, distant mountain summits, cloud strata, visions. Below its jutting verge may be caught glimpses of the widening valley without. But pre-eminent, gaunt, sombre, it sternly dominates “Lonesome,” and is the salient feature of the little world it limits. Tobe Gryce's house, gray, weather-beaten, moss-grown, had in comparison an ephemeral, modern aspect. For a hundred years its inmates had come and gone and lived and died. They took no heed of the crag, but never a sound was lost upon it. Their drawling iterative speech the iterative echoes conned. The ringing blast of a horn set astir some phantom chase in the air. When the cows came lowing home, there were lowing herds in viewless company. Even if one of the children sat on a rotting log crooning a vague, fragmentary ditty, some faint-voiced spirit in the rock would sing. Lonesome Cove?--home of invisible throngs! As the ranger trotted down the winding road, multitudinous hoof-beats, as of a troop of cavalry, heralded his approach to the little girl who stood on the porch of the log-cabin and watched for him. “Hy're, Cunnel!” he cried, cordially. But the little “Colonel” took no heed. She looked beyond him at the vague blue mountains, against which the great grim rock was heavily imposed, every ledge, every waving dead crisp weed, distinct.