Sammy Lane knew nothing of the laws and customs of the, so-called, best society.  Her splendid young womanhood was not the product of those social traditions and rules that kill the instinct of her kind before it is fairly born.  She was as free and as physically perfect as any of the free creatures that lived in the hills.  And, keenly alive to the life that throbbed and surged about her, her woman’s heart and soul responded to the spirit of the season.  The droning of the bees in the blossoms that grew in a cranny of the rock; the tinkle, tinkle of the sheep bells, as the flock moved slowly in their feeding; and the soft breathing of Mother Earth was in her ears; while the gentle breeze that stirred her hair came heavy with the smell of growing things.  Lying so, she looked far up into the blue sky where a buzzard floated on lazy wings.  If she were up there she perhaps could see that world beyond the hills.  Then suddenly a voice came to her, Aunt Mollie’s voice, “How do you reckon you’ll like bein’ a fine lady, Sammy, and a livin’ in the city with the big folks?”

The girl turned on her side and rising on one elbow looked again at Mutton Hollow with its little cabin half hidden in the timber.  And, as she looked, slowly her rich red life colored cheek, and neck, and brow.  With a gesture of impatience, Sammy turned away to her own home on the southern slope of the mountain, just in time to see a young woman ride into the clearing and dismount before the cabin door.  It was her friend, Mandy Ford.  The girl on the rock whistled to her pony, and, mounting, made her way down the hill.

All that day the strange guest at the Matthews place was the one topic of conversation between the two girls.

“Shucks,” said Mandy, when Sammy had finished a very minute description of Mr. Howitt; “he’s jest some revenue, like’s not.”

Sammy tossed her head; “Revenue! you ought to see him!  Revenues don’t come in no such clothes as them, and they don’t talk like him, neither.”

“Can’t tell ’bout revenues,” retorted the other.  “Don’t you mind how that’n fooled everybody over on th’ bend last year?  He was jest as common as common, and folks all ’lowed he was just one of ’em.”

“But this one ain’t like anybody that we ever met up with, and that’s jest it,” returned Sammy.

Mandy shook her head; “You say he ain’t huntin’; he sure ain’t buyin’ cattle this time o’ year; and he ain’t a wantin’ t’ locate a comin’ in on foot; what else can he be but a revenue?”

To which Sammy replied with an unanswerable argument; “Look a here, Mandy Ford; you jest tell me, would a low down revenue ask a blessin’ like Parson Bigelow does?”

At this Mandy gave up the case, saying in despair, “Well, what is he a doin’ here then?  ‘Tain’t likely he’s done come into th’ woods fer nothin’.”

“He told Old Matt that he was sick and tired of it all,” answered the other.

“Did he look like he was ailin’?”