“I don’t guess you’d better figure on that.  Some folks are made to live in the city, and some ain’t.  I reckon I was built to live in these hills.  I don’t somehow feel like I could get along without them; and besides, I’d always be knockin’ against somethin’ there.”  He laughed grimly, and stretched out his huge arms.  “I’ve got to have room.  Then there’s the folks yonder.”  He turned his face toward the log house, just showing through the trees.  “You know how it is, me bein’ the only one left, and Dad gettin’ old.  No, I don’t guess you need to count on me bein’ more than I am.”

Then suddenly he wheeled about and looked from one face to the other; and there was a faint hint of defiance in his voice, as he finished; “I got an idea, too, that the backwoods needs men same as the cities.  I don’t see how there ever could be a city even, if it wasn’t for the men what cleared the brush.  Somebody’s got to lick Wash Gibbs some day, or there just naturally won’t be no decent livin’ in the neighborhood ever.”

He held up his big hand to the man on the horse; “Good-by, and good luck to you, Ollie.”  The horses turned down the Old Trail and with their riders, passed from sight.

That night Sammy Lane said farewell to her lover, and, with many promises for the future, Ollie rode away to his cabin home, to leave the next morning for that world that lies so far—­so far away from the world of Young Matt and his friends, the world that is so easy to get into after all, and so impossible to get out of ever.

CHAPTER XII.

The shepherd and his flock.

All that spring and summer things went smoothly in the Mutton Hollow neighborhood.  The corn was ready to gather, and nothing had happened at the ranch since Mr. Howitt took charge, while the man, who had appeared so strangely in their midst, had made a large place for himself in the hearts of the simple mountaineers.

At first they were disposed to regard him with some distrust, as one apart; he was so unlike themselves.  But when he had changed his dress for the rough garb of the hillsman, and, meeting them kindly upon their own ground, had entered so readily into their life, the people by common consent dropped the distinguishing title “Mister” for the more familiar one of the backwoods, “Dad.”  Not that they lacked in respect or courtesy; it was only their way.  And the quiet shepherd accepted the title with a pleased smile, seeming to find in the change an honor to be received not lightly.  But while showing such interest in all that made up their world, the man never opened the door for anyone to enter his past.  They knew no more of his history than the hints he had given Mr. Matthews the night he came out of the mists.

At the occasional religious meetings in the school house at the Forks, Mr. Howitt was always present, an attentive listener to the sermons of the backwoods preacher.  And then, seeing his interest, they asked him to talk to them one day when Parson Bigelow failed to make his appointment.  “He don’t holler so much as a regular parson,” said Uncle Josh Hensley, “but he sure talks so we’uns can understand.”  From that time they always called upon him at their public gatherings.