“Yes, Miss Thayor, and some of it is a good deal better looking.”

“You shall see, dearie,” added Thayor; “I’ve a surprise in store for you both—­yes, a hundred surprises.  We will cross the East Branch of Big Shanty Brook in a moment—­that is surprise number one.  How is the headache, Alice—­better?”

“A little,” she returned indifferently.

“Listen!” said Thayor; “hear it?  That’s the East Branch roaring.”

“Oh—­I’m just crazy to see it!” cried Margaret.  “It was on the West Branch you killed the deer, wasn’t it, daddy?”

Thayor nodded and smiled.

“Now look, puss!” he commanded, as they reached the rough bridge spanning the East Branch.

Margaret peered down into the heavy black water a hundred feet below them.

“Daddy, it’s gorgeous—­simply gorgeous,” exclaimed Margaret.  “Look, mother, at the water swirling through that green pool.  Oh, do look, mother.”  Alice condescended to look.

“Isn’t it superb, Alice?” ventured Thayor.

“Yes—­Sam—­but lonely.”

In the twilight the great brook boiled below them.

“It ain’t so lonely,” remarked Holcomb pleasantly, turning to Mrs. Thayor, “when the sun is shining.”  He had dropped into his native dialect, which now and then cropped out in his speech.

“I suppose it ain’t,” said Alice in a whisper to Margaret.  The girl touched her mother’s arm pleadingly.

“Please don’t,” she said; “he might hear you.  It really isn’t kind in you, mother.  You know they speak so differently in the country.”

Holcomb had heard it, but not a muscle twitched in resentment.  He tightened the reins, and for a mile drove in silence.

“And this is the man your father lunched with at The Players,” continued Alice under her breath.

Margaret did not reply.

Presently they came out into the valley at the head of the Deadwater, still as ink, reflecting the barkless trees it had killed so clearly that it was difficult to see the point of immersion.  Then the plain gabled roof of Morrison’s came into view above a flat of young poplars, the silver leaves shivering in the breeze.

Morrison, who had been sweeping off his narrow porch, in his shirt-sleeves, came out into the road at the rapid approach of the buckboard.

“Hello thar!” he shouted, and Holcomb stopped at an insistent gesture from the proprietor.

“Hain’t seen nothin’ of a barril of kerosene fer me down thar, hev ye?” he asked.  “Gosh durn it!—­it oughter been here more’n a week ago.”

“Nothing there for you.  Jimmy’s coming along with the trunks,” replied Holcomb.  “He won’t start before the freight gets in.”

“Evenin’, Mr. Thayor,” said Morrison.  “Wall, ye’ve got ’em all here now, haven’t ye?” he remarked, running his shrewd eyes over the filled seats.

“Mrs. Thayor and my daughter, Mr. Morrison,” said Thayor.