The best bits in the book are Stratton-Porter's lyrical descriptions of the scenery:
They were at the foot of a small levee that ran to the bridge crossing Singing Water. On the left lay the valley through which the stream swept from its hurried rush down the hill, a marshy thicket of vines, shrubs, and bushes, the banks impassable with water growth. Everywhere flamed foxfire and cardinal flower, thousands of wild tiger lilies lifted gorgeous orange-red trumpets, beside pearl-white turtle head and moon daisies, while all the creek bank was a coral line with the first opening bloom of big pink mallows. Rank jewel flower poured gold from dainty cornucopias and lavender beard-tongue offered honey to a million bumbling bees; water smart-weed spread a glowing pink background, and twining amber dodder topped the marsh in lacy mist with its delicate white bloom. Straight before them a white-sanded road climbed to the bridge and up a gentle hill between the young hedge of small trees and bushes, where again flowers and bright colours rioted and led to the cabin yet invisible.I don't think I have heard of even half of the individual species named there, but it adds up to a very pleasing picture, and every chapter has several passages like this.
On the other hand, the characters are a little too perfect to be true, apart from the evil uncle of whom the opposite is the case, and also one or two points where our hero gets a bit manipulative with our heroine, though he does get a mild comeuppance from it. Not too long, compared with some of the other century-old blockbusters I have read.