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“Why, yes; a few times. Did you have it?”

“Nothin’ else, much. I used t’ think of th’ things mother cooked. Mother understood cookin’, if ever a woman did. I’ll never forget th’ dinner she gave me th’ day I came away. A woman ought t’ cook. I hear American women don’t go in much for cookin’.”

“Oh, I think that’s a mistake,” Kate hastened to interrupt. “All that I know understand how to serve excellent dinners. Of course, they may not cook them themselves, but I think they could if it were necessary.”

“Hum!” He picked up a long glove that had fallen from Kate’s lap and fingered it before returning it.

“I s’pose you cook?”

“I make a specialty of salads and sorbets,” smiled Kate. “I guess I could roast meat and make bread; but circumstances have not yet compelled me to do it. But I’ve a theory that an American woman can do anything she puts her mind to.”

The man laughed out loud,–a laugh quite out of proportion to the mild good humor of the remark; but it was evident that he could no longer conceal his delight at this companionship.

“How about raisin’ flowers?” he asked. “Are you strong on that?”

“I’ve only to look at a plant to make it grow,” Kate cried, with enthusiasm. “When my friends are in despair over a plant, they bring it to me, and I just pet it a little, and it brightens up. I’ve the most wonderful fernery you ever saw. It’s green, summer and winter. Hundreds of people stop and look up at it, it is so green and enticing, there above the city streets.”

“What city?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Mother’s jest that way. She has a garden of roses. And the mignonette –“

But he broke off suddenly, and sat once more staring before him.

“But not a damned thing,” he added, with poetic pensiveness, “would grow in that gulch.”

“Why did you stay there so long?” asked Kate, after a little pause in which she managed to regain her waning courage.

“Bad luck. You never see a place with so many false leads. To-day you’d get a streak that looked big. To-morrow you’d find it a pocket. One night I’d go t’ bed with my heart goin’ like a race-horse. Next night it would be ploddin’ along like a winded burro. Don’t know what made me stick t’ it. It was hot there, too! And cold! Always roastin’ ur freezin’. It’d been different if I’d had any one t’ help me stand it. But th’ men were always findin’ fault. They blamed me fur everythin’. I used t’ lie awake at night an’ hear ’em talkin’ me over. It made me lonesome, I tell you! Thar wasn’t no one! Mother used t’ write. But I never told her th’ truth. She ain’t a suspicion of what I’ve been a-goin’ through.”

Kate sat and looked at him in silence. His face was seamed, though far from old. His body was awkward, but impressed her with a sense of magnificent strength.

“I couldn’t ask no woman t’ share my hard times,” he resumed after a time. “I always said when I got a woman, it was goin’ t’ be t’ make her happy. It wer’n’t t’ be t’ ask her t’ drudge.”

There was another silence. This man out of the solitude seemed to be elated past expression at his new companionship. He looked with appreciation at the little pointed toes of Kate’s slippers, as they glanced from below the skirt of her dainty organdie. He noted the band of pearls on her finger. His eyes rested long on the daisies at her waist. The wind tossed up little curls of her warm brown hair. Her eyes suffused with interest, her tender mouth seemed ready to lend itself to any emotion, and withal she was so small, so compact, so exquisite. The man wiped his forehead again, in mere exuberance.