FROM THE HAND OF DOLORITA.
THE little cabin lay in a hollow of the uplands, picturesquely covered with vines, whose autumn-tinted leaves waved coquettishly in the light breeze. Overhanging it protectingly loomed the Virginia mountains, their sombre tops lost in the mists of gathering darkness. A gleam of firelight fell across the threshold, cheering Ruth Herrick with its suggestion of warmth and homeliness as she reined in her horse before the open door. Within, she could see dimly, among the smoke from several pipes, the sprawling figures of mountaineers, who looked up, at her approach, with the dumb indifference of their kind. She remained mounted until some one should come to accord her the hospitality she knew would not be lacking, while her guide kept a little in the background, equally confident that the trying journey of the day was over.
Miss Herrick stated her errand briefly to the tired-eyed mountain woman whom the
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