Barbara was greatly worried by the situation.  All her life, despite the fact that she was beautiful, despite the fact that her father was a rich man—­richer, by a dozen times, than many of the people for whose friendship she longed vainly—­she had vaguely felt that there was an invisible gulf between her and the girls with whom she came in contact at the exclusive schools to which she had been sent, between her and the gentlefolk with whom, in some measure, she had mixed since she had left school-walls.  “Father,” she asked anxiously, “why do people look down on us so?”

He faced her with a worried look, as if he feared that she might guess at something which he wished should remain hidden.  “They say I made my money tradin’ in niggers,” he replied, at length.  “Well, what of it?  Didn’t I have the right?”

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

He seemed definitely startled.  “Girl, what makes you ask?”

“Because sometimes memories come to me.”

“Memories of what?”

“Of—­my childhood,” she said slowly, “of passes among mountains—­mountains much like these.”

He regarded her uneasily.  “Oh, sho, gal!” he exclaimed, trying to make light of it.  “Reckon you’ve been dreamin’.  You were never hyar before.”

But she looked about her, unconvinced, and, when she spoke, spoke slowly, evidently trying to recall with definite clarity certain things which flitted through her mind as vague impressions only.  “Why does everything seem so familiar, here, then, as if I had just wakened in my true surroundings after a long sleep in which I had had dreams?” There was, suddenly, a definite accusation in her eyes.  “Father, you are trying to deceive me!  I was once a child, here in these very mountains!” She stared about intently.

The speech had an amazing effect on the old man.  He stepped close to her.  “Hush!” said he, imperatively.  “Don’t you dare speak such a word ag’in!”

She peered into his eyes.  “There is a secret, then!  We lived here, long ago!”

“Stop, I tell you!” he commanded.  “Don’t hint at such things, for your life.”  He dropped his voice to hoarse whisper.  “Suppose I did live hyar, once.  I was a smooth-faced youngster, then; my own mother wouldn’t know me, now.”

The sound of voices coming up the mountain-trail interrupted the dramatic scene.

“Sh!” said he.  “They’re comin’!”

Frank was piloting his Aunt and Colonel Doolittle.  “This way, Aunt ’Lethe,” they could hear him say.

An instant later he appeared, leading the way up the steep trail.  His Aunt, Neb and the Colonel followed him.

“Now, Aunt ’Lethe,” he said gaily, “you can rest at last.  Colonel, I can welcome you in earnest.  This is, indeed, a pleasure.”

The Colonel was puffing fiercely from the hard work of the climb, but his broad face glowed with pleasure.  He took a long, full breath of the exhilerating mountain air.  “Pleasure?  It’s a derby-day, sir, metaphorically speaking.”  As he rested he eyed the youngster with approval.  “Frank,” said he, “you’ve grown to be the very image of my old friend, Judge Layson.  Ah, five years have made their changes in us all—­except Miss ’Lethe.”  He bowed gallantly in her direction, and she gaily answered the salute.