She, herself, had had no love-affairs.  Instinctively she had held herself aloof from the ruck of the young mountain-men, neither she nor they knew why, unless it was because she owned the valley land and so was what the mountain folk called rich.  Most of them had tried to pay her court, but none of them, save Joe, had in the least attracted her, and she had let them know this (strangely) without arousing too much anger.

Now she had one suitor, only, who was at all persistent—­Joe.  She had sometimes thought she loved him.  Now she knew, quite certainly, that she did not, and, in a vague way, was sorry for him, for she was quite certain of his love for her.  It never once occurred to her that she was rapidly falling in love with the young man by her side.  She had not thought of him as being socially superior:  the spirit of independence, of equality of men, is nowhere stronger, even in this land of independence and equality, than it is among the mountains of the Cumberland; but she knew he was most wise.  Had not the puzzling symbols in the spelling-book been, to him, as simple matters?  She knew that he was gentle-hearted, for the kindness of his acts proved that.  She knew that he was, really, a gentleman, for his manner was so perfectly considerate, so ever kind.  She did not realize that she was thinking of him as a lover; but she dreamed, there, of the girls down in the bluegrass and wondered how it must seem to them to have lovers such as he.  She could but very vaguely speculate as to their emotions or appearance, but her speculations on both points, vague as they might be, made her suffer strangely and cast queer, furtive little side-glances at him.  In her heart were stirrings of keen jealousy of these distant maidens, but this she did not realize.

She broke into his revery with:  “Don’t you know any women, down there, but your aunt?”

“Er—­what?”

“Don’t you know any women, down there, but your aunt?”

“Why, yes,” said he, and laughed.  “I know a lot of women, down there; lots and lots of women, certainly.”

“All them that go to balls, and such?”

“Many of them.”

“Do you like to dance with them?”

“Oh, yes; of course.”

“Tell me—­all about the things they wear.”  This was not quite the question she had started out to ask, but an answer to it might be very interesting.

She settled comfortably back upon the boulder she had chosen as a seat, her hands clasped about one knee, her face turned toward him eagerly, her eyes sparkling with keen zest.

But he looked at her, appalled.  “Why,” said he, “why—­I don’t believe I can.  I know they always seem to be most charming in appearance, but just how they work the magic I don’t know.”

“Can’t you tell me nothing?” Her voice showed bitter disappointment.  She unclasped the hands about her knee and sat dejected on the boulder.  She gave him not the slightest hint of it, but, suddenly, a plan had come into her mind.