Almost unconsciously he laid aside his pencil and leaned from his
window to lift his eyes to the dark mountain he had climbed that
day. The rude melody of an old-fashioned hymn was coming up
the glen, and he recognized the thin, quavering voice of an old
mountaineer, Uncle Tommy Brooks, as he was familiarly known,
whose cabin stood in the midst of the camp, a pathetic contrast to
the smart new houses that had sprung around it. The old man had
lived in the glen for nearly three-quarters of a century, and he, if
any one, must know the girl. With the thought, Clayton sprang
through the window, and a few minutes later was at the cabin. The
old man sat whittling in the porch, joining in the song with which
his wife was crooning a child to sleep within. Clayton easily
identified Europa, as he had christened her; the simple mention of
her means of transport was sufficient.
Ridin' a bull, was she? " repeated the old man, laughing. "Well,
that was Easter Hicks, old Bill Hicks' gal. She's a sort o'
connection o' mine. Me and Bill married cousins.
She's a cur'us critter as ever I seed. She don' seem to take atter her
dad nur her mammy nother, though Bill allus had a quar streak in
'im, and was the wust man I ever seed when he was disguised by
licker. Whar does she live? Oh, up thar, right on top o' Wolf
Mountain, with her mammy.
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