“Like those they make dining-tables and sideboards from?”

“Yes.”

“My!  How interesting!” she cried.  “I don’t know a thing about timber, but my father wants me to learn just everything I can.  I am going to ask him to let me come here and watch you until I know enough to boss a gang myself.  Do you like to cut trees, gentlemen?” she asked with angelic sweetness of the men.

Some of them appeared foolish and some grim, but one managed to say they did.

Then the Angel’s eyes turned full on Black Jack, and she gave the most natural little start of astonishment.

“Oh!  I almost thought that you were a ghost!” she cried.  “But I see now that you are really and truly.  Were you ever in Colorado?”

“No,” said Jack.

“I see you aren’t the same man,” said the Angel.  “You know, we were in Colorado last year, and there was a cowboy who was the handsomest man anywhere around.  He’d come riding into town every night, and all we girls just adored him!  Oh, but he was a beauty!  I thought at first glance you were really he, but I see now he wasn’t nearly so tall nor so broad as you, and only half as handsome.”

The men began to laugh while Jack flushed crimson.  The Angel joined in the laugh.

“Well, I’ll leave it to you!  Isn’t he handsome?” she challenged.  “As for that cowboy’s face, it couldn’t be compared with yours.  The only trouble with you is that your clothes are spoiling you.  It’s the dress those cowboys wear that makes half their attraction.  If you were properly clothed, you could break the heart of the prettiest girl in the country.”

With one accord the other men looked at Black Jack, and for the first time realized that he was a superb specimen of manhood, for he stood six feet tall, was broad, well-rounded, and had dark, even skin, big black eyes, and full red lips.

“I’ll tell you what!” exclaimed the Angel.  “I’d just love to see you on horseback.  Nothing sets a handsome man off so splendidly.  Do you ride?”

“Yes,” said Jack, and his eyes were burning on the Angel as if he would fathom the depths of her soul.

“Well,” said the Angel winsomely, “I know what I just wish you’d do.  I wish you would let your hair grow a little longer.  Then wear a blue flannel shirt a little open at the throat, a red tie, and a broad-brimmed felt hat, and ride past my house of evenings.  I’m always at home then, and almost always on the veranda, and, oh! but I would like to see you!  Will you do that for me?” It is impossible to describe the art with which the Angel asked the question.  She was looking straight into Jack’s face, coarse and hardened with sin and careless living, which was now taking on a wholly different expression.  The evil lines of it were softening and fading under her clear gaze.  A dull red flamed into his bronze cheeks, while his eyes were growing brightly tender.

“Yes,” he said, and the glance he gave the men was of such a nature that no one saw fit even to change countenance.