Aaron King was moved by the beauty of the picture as he had never been stirred before.  The peculiar charm of the music; the loveliness of the girl herself; the setting of the scene in the little glade with its wild roses, giant sycamores, dark cedars, and encircling mountain walls, all in the soft mystery of the twilight’s beginning; and, withal, the unexpectedness of the vision—­combined to make an impression upon the artist’s mind that would endure for many years.

Suddenly, as he watched, the music ceased.  The girl lowered her violin, and, with a low laugh, said to some one on the porch—­concealed from the painter by the trunk of a sycamore—­“O Myra, I want to dance.  I can’t keep still.  I’m so glad, glad to be home again—­to see old ‘San Berdo’ and ‘Gray Back’ and all the rest of them up there!” She stretched out her arms as if in answer to a welcome from the hills.  Then, whirling quickly, she gave the violin to her companion on the porch.  “Play, Myra; please, dear, play.”

At her word, the music of the violin began again—­coming now, from behind the trunk of the sycamore.  In the hands of the unseen musician, the instrument laughed and sang a song of joyous abandonment—­of freedom and rejoicing—­of happiness and love—­while in perfect harmony with the spirit and the rhythm of the melody, the girl danced upon the firm, green carpet of grass.  Here and there, to and fro, about the little glade shut in from the world by its walls of living green, she tripped and whirled in unstudied grace—­lightly as if winged—­unconscious as the wild creatures that play in the depths of the woods—­wayward as the zephyr that trips along the mountainside.

It was a spontaneous expression of her spiritual and physical exaltation and was as natural as the laughter in her voice or the flush upon her cheeks.  It was a dance that was like no dance that Aaron King had ever seen.

The artist—­watching through the screen of cedar boughs beside the old wagon road and scarcely daring to breathe lest the beautiful vision should vanish—­forgot his position—­forgot what he was doing.  Fascinated by the scene to which he had been led, so unexpectedly by the music he had so often heard while at work in his studio, he was unmindful of the rude part he was playing.  He was brought suddenly to himself by a heavy hand upon his shoulder.  As he straightened, the hand whirled him half around and he found himself looking into a face that was tanned and seamed by many years in the open.

The man who had so unceremoniously commanded the artist’s attention stood a little above six feet in height, and was of that deep-chested, lean, but full-muscled build that so often marks the mountain bred.  He wore no coat.  At his hip, a heavy Colt revolver hung in its worn holster from a full, loosely buckled, cartridge belt.  Upon his unbuttoned vest was the shield of the United States Forest Service.  From under the brim of his slouch hat, he gazed at Aaron King questioningly—­in angry disapproval.