Her voice sank to a whisper.
A vision suddenly illumined her own soul, and she forgot her anxiety over Jim's queer moods.
Deeper and deeper grew the shadows of crag, gorge, and primeval forest. The speedometer on the foot-board registered five miles from the Mount Mitchell house. They had passed two cabins by the way, and still no sign of the third.
“Why couldn't she tell us how many miles, I'd like to know?” Jim grumbled.
“It's the way of the mountain folk. They're noncommittal on distances.”
He stopped the car and lighted the lamps.
“Going to be dark in a minute,” he said. “But I like this place,” he added.
He picked his way with care over the narrow road. They crossed the little stream they were trailing, and the car crawled over the rocks along the banks at a snail's pace.
An owl called from a dead tree-top silhouetted against an open space of sky ahead.
“Must be a clearing there,” Jim muttered.