A deer lifted its head from browsing and stood motionless, with long ears erect, watching her go by.
Thus happily and dreamily absorbed, Ellen covered the forest miles and soon reached the trail that led down into the wild brakes of Chevelon Canyon.

It was rough going and less conducive to sweet wanderings of mind.

Ellen slowly lost them.

And then a familiar feeling assailed her, one she never failed to have upon returning to her father's ranch--a reluctance, a bitter dissatisfaction with her home, a loyal struggle against the vague sense that all was not as it should be.
At the head of this canyon in a little, level, grassy meadow stood a rude one-room log shack, with a leaning red-stone chimney on the outside.

This was the abode of a strange old man who had long lived there.