Lillian was ready, erect, tense, waiting, for miles and miles before her
destination could be reached, when suddenly the conductor appeared, his
face alive with the realization of sensation. The sheriff of the county
had flagged the train. He had a vehicle in waiting for Mrs. Royston, in
order that she might curtail the distance, as the house where the child
was held was on the verge of the Qualla Boundary, and the nearest station
was still some miles further. There were few words spoken on that hasty
morning drive under the vast growths of the dense and gigantic valley
woods. The freshness of the forest air, the redundant bloom of the
rhododendron, the glimpse now and again of a scene of unparalleled
splendor of mountain range and the graces of the Oconalufty River,
swirling and dandering through the sunshine as if its chant in praise of
June must have a meaning translated to the dullest ear--all was for
Lillian as if it had not been. The officers had cast but one glance at
her tense, pale face, then turned their eyes away.
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