“Jack,” said Chad, “we just got to go down now.”

So they went on swiftly through the heat of the early afternoon.  It was very silent up there.  Now and then, a brilliant blue-jay would lilt from a stunted oak with the flute-like love-notes of spring; or a lonely little brown fellow would hop with a low chirp from one bush to another as though he had been lost up there for years and had grown quite hopeless about seeing his kind again.  When there was a gap in the mountains, he could hear the querulous, senseless love-quarrel of flickers going on below him; passing a deep ravine, the note of the wood-thrush—­that shy lyrist of the hills—­might rise to him from a dense covert of maple and beech:  or, with a startling call, a red-crested cock of the woods would beat his white-striped wings from spur to spur, as though he were keeping close to the long swells of an unseen sea.  Several times, a pert flicker squatting like a knot to a dead limb or the crimson plume of a cock of the woods, as plain as a splash of blood on a wall of vivid green, tempted him to let loose his last load, but he withstood them.  A little later, he saw a fresh bear-track near a spring below the head of a ravine; and, later still, he heard the far-away barking of a hound and a deer leaped lightly into an open sunny spot and stood with uplifted hoof and pointed ears.  This was too much and the boy’s gun followed his heart to his throat, but the buck sprang lightly into the bush and vanished noiselessly.

The sun had dropped midway between the zenith and the blue bulks rolling westward and, at the next gap, a broader path ran through it and down the mountain.  This, Chad knew, led to a settlement and, with a last look of choking farewell to his own world, he turned down.  At once, the sense of possible human companionship was curiously potent:  at once, the boy’s half-wild manner changed and, though alert and still watchful, he whistled cheerily to Jack, threw his gun over his shoulder, and walked erect and confident.  His pace slackened.  Carelessly now his feet tramped beds of soft exquisite moss and lone little settlements of forget-me-nots, and his long riflebarrel brushed laurel blossoms down in a shower behind him.  Once even, he picked up one of the pretty bells and looked idly at it, turning it bottom upward.  The waxen cup might have blossomed from a tiny waxen star.  There was a little green star for a calyx; above this, a little white star with its prongs outstretched—­tiny arms to hold up the pink-flecked chalice for the rain and dew.  There came a time when he thought of it as a star-blossom; but now his greedy tongue swept the honey from it and he dropped it without another thought to the ground.  At the first spur down which the road turned, he could see smoke in the valley.  The laurel blooms and rhododendron bells hung in thicker clusters and of a deeper pink.  Here and there was a blossoming wild cucumber and an umbrella-tree