“Oh, well, of course, you can't talk, if the cat's got your tongue.”      

       The steady eyes leaped angrily, but there was still no answer, and he bent to take the fish off his hook, put on a fresh minnow, turned his back and tossed it into the pool.     

       “Hit hain't!”      

       He looked up again. She surely was a pretty little thing—and more, now that she was angry.     

       “I should say not,” he said teasingly. “What did you say your name was?”      

       “What's YO' name?”      

       The fisherman laughed. He was just becoming accustomed to the mountain etiquette that commands a stranger to divulge himself first.     

       “My name's—Jack.”      

       “An' mine's—Jill.” She laughed now, and it was his time for surprise—where could she have heard of Jack and Jill?     

       His line rang suddenly.     

       “Jack,” she cried, “you got a bite!”      

       He pulled, missed the strike, and wound in. The minnow was all right, so he tossed it back again.     

       “That isn't your name,” he said.     

       “If 'tain't, then that ain't your'n?”      

       “Yes 'tis,” he said, shaking his head affirmatively.     

       A long cry came down the ravine:     

       “J-u-n-e! eh—oh—J-u-n-e!” That was a queer name for the mountains, and the fisherman wondered if he had heard aright—June.     

       The little girl gave a shrill answering cry, but she did not move.     

       “Thar now!” she said.     

       “Who's that—your Mammy?”      

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