ackground of
foliage, that the figure of Blossom Revercomb appeared suddenly out of
the mist. Her scant skirts were lifted from the cobwebs on the grass,
and her mouth was parted while she called softly after a cow that had
strayed down to the willows.

"You, sir!" she exclaimed, and blushed enchantingly under the pearly dew
that covered her face. "One of our cows broke pasture in the night and
we think she must have crossed the creek and got over on your side of
the meadow. She's a wonderful jumper. We'll have to be hobbling her
soon, I reckon."

"Do you milk?" he asked, charmed by the mental picture of so noble a
dairymaid.

"Except when grandma is well enough. You can't leave it to the darkies
because they are such terrible slatterns. Put a cow in their hands and
she's sure to go dry before three months are over."

She looked up at him, while the little brown mole played hide and seek
with a dimple.

"Have you ever been told that you are beautiful, Miss Keren-happuch?" he
inquired with a laugh.

Her pale eyes, like frosted periwinkles, dropped softly beneath his
gaze.

"How can you think so, sir, when you have seen so many city ladies?"

"I've seen many, but not one so lovely as you are this morning with the
frost on your cheeks."

"I'm not dressed. I just slip on any old thing to go milking."

"It's not the dress, that doesn't matter--though I can imagine you in
trailing purple velvet with a trimming of sable."

An illumination shone in her face, as if her soul had suddenly
blossomed.

"Purple velvet, and what else did you say, sir?" she questioned.

"Sable--fur, you know, the richest, softest, queenliest fur there is."

"I'd like to see it," she rejoined.

"Well, it couldn't improve you!--remember always that the fewer fine
clothes you have on the better. Tell me, Blossom," he added, touching
her shoulder, "have you many lovers?"

She shook her head. "There are so few about here that any woman would
look at."

"I've been told that there's an engaging young rector."

"Mr. Mullen--well, so he is--and he preaches the most beautiful sermons.
But he fancies Molly Merryweather, they say, like all the others, though
he won't be likely to marry anybody from around here, I suppose."

Her drawling Southern tongue lent a charm, he felt, to her naive
disclosures.

"Like all the others?" he repeated smiling. "Do you mean to tell me
that Reuben's piquant little granddaughter is a greater belle in the