u like?"

"I ain't like nothing much," said Sim Gage. "I ain't much for looks.
Of course, I suppose women do kind of want to know what men folks is
like, that way. I hadn't thought of that, me being so busy--and me
being so pleased just to look at you, and not even thinking of your
looking at me." He struggled in saying these words, so brave for Sim
Gage to venture.

"Yes? Can't you go on?"

"I ain't so tall as some, but I'm rather broad out, and right strong at
that. My eyes is sort of dark, like, with long lashes, now, and I got
dark hair, in a way of speaking--and I got good features. I dunno as I
can say much more." Surely he had been guilty of falsehood enough for
one effort. But he did not know he lied, so eager was he to have favor
in her eyes.

"That's fine!" said she. "I knew all along you were a fine-looking
man--the Western type. We women all admire it, don't you know? And
I'd like to see you in the Western dress too. I always liked that.
But, tell me, what can you do? What do you do? Do you read out here
much? Do you have anything in the way of music? I used to play the
piano a little."

Sim moved about awkwardly on his chair. "I ain't got around to getting
another pianny since I moved in here. Maybe we can, some day, after
the hay gets turned. I used to play the fiddle some, but I ain't got
no fiddle now, neither. Some play the fiddle better'n what I do. A
mouth harp's a good thing when you're alone a good deal. Most any one
can play a mouth harp some. Lots of fellers do out here, nights, of
winters."

"Is there anything else you can do?" she asked, bravely, now. The
utter bleak barrenness of the man and his life came home to her,
struggling with her gratitude, her sense of duty.

He thought for a time before he spoke. "Why, yes, several things, and
I'm sorry you can't see them things, too. For instance, I can tie a
strong string around my arm, and bust it, just doubling up my muscle.
I'm right strong."

"That's fine!" said she. "Isn't it odd? What else, then?" She smiled
so bravely that he did not suspect. "Mayn't I feel the muscle on your
arm?"

Hesitatingly, groping, she did put out her hand. By chance, as he
shifted back, afraid of her hand, it touched the coarse fabric of his
shirt sleeve. Had it fallen further she might have felt his arm, bare;
might have discovered the sleeve itself to be ragged and fringed with
long-continued use. But she did not know.