he
almost pulled his mount into a sitting posture.

A young woman was stooping before the open door, and she was pouring
something from a white earthen bowl into a battered tin pan. Two
waggle-tailed lambs--a black one and a white--were standing on their
knees in their absorption, and were noisily drinking of the stuff as
fast as it came within reach.

Andy had half a minute in which to gaze before the young woman looked
up, said "Oh!" in a breathless sort of way and retreated to the
doorstep, where she stood regarding him inquiringly.

Andy, feeling his face go unreasonably red, lifted his hat. He knew
that she was waiting for him to speak, but he could not well say any
of the things he thought, and blurted out an utterly idiotic question.

"What are yuh feeding 'em?"

The girl looked down at the bowl in her hands and laughed a little.

"Rolled oats," she answered, "boiled very thin and with condensed
cream added to taste. Good morning." She seemed about to disappear,
and that brought Andy to his senses. He was not, as a rule, a bashful
young man.

"Good morning. Is--er--Mr. Johnson at home?" He came near saying
"Take-Notice," but caught himself in time. Take-Notice Johnson was
what men called the man whom Andy had ridden over to see upon a more
or less trivial matter.

"He isn't, but he will be back--if you care to wait." She spoke with a
certain preciseness which might be natural or artificial, and she
stood in the doorway with no symptoms of immediate disappearance.

Andy slid over a bit in the saddle, readjusted his hat so that its
brim would shield his eyes from the sunlight, and prepared to be
friendly. "Oh, I'll wait," he said easily. "I've got all the time
there is. Would you mind if I smoked a cigarette?"

"Indeed, I was wishing you would," she told him, with surprising
frankness. "I've so longed to see a dashing young cowboy roll a
cigarette with deft, white fingers."

Andy, glancing at her startled, spilled much tobacco down the front of
him, stopped to brush it away and let the lazy breeze snatch the tiny
oblong of paper from between his unwatchful fingers. Of course, she
was joshing him, he thought uneasily, as he separated the leaves of
his cigarette book by blowing gently upon them, and singled out
another paper. "Are yuh so new to the country that it's anything of a
treat?" he asked guardedly.

"Yes, I'm new. I'm what you people call a pilgrim. Don't you do it
with one hand? I thought--o