“How much?” inquired business-like John.

“Ye may have ’em for nought; I’ve got plenty, see.  They’re fine ones, ar’n’t they?”

“I’d sooner pay you for them.  You want the money perhaps.”

“Well, then,” said Sally, and thrust out her brown palm.

“Sally,” said John, seriously, “I’ve been thinking a deal about you.  I think it is somethin’ dreadful the way you are livin’—­you so comely an’ all.  It’s an awful thing to think you don’t know anythin’ and never go to church or that.  Do you never say your prayers?”

Sally looked at him, and twisted open a cockle before replying.

“Nay, I dunnot.  Aunt Nancy doesn’t neither.”

“Do you know who made you, Sally?”

“I larned at school, the on’y time I went, but I forget now.”

“Well, Sally, I’ve been thinkin’—­somebody ought to teach you.  I could teach you myself of an evening if you’d come yonder to the big sandhill.”

Sally looked reflective, but presently nodded.

“I will while I’m here,” she said; “but we’s be shiftin’ afore aught’s along—­we’re allus shiftin’.  We have to be terrible careful not to get cotched for sleeping out.  They’re that sharp wi’ us they won’t let a body do naught, so we dursen’t stay too long i’ one place.  But I’ll coom, an’ ye can teach me if ye’ve a mind.  If ye dunnot see me when ye coom to th’ top o’ hill, jest call out ‘Cockle Sally!  Cockle Sally!’ an’ I’ll coom.”

“No; that’s an ugly name,” said John, who had been idly watching the play of the sunbeams on the little curling strands of hair which were lightly lifted by the summer breeze.  “I could find you a better name than that, I think.  You look like—­”

He paused.

“What do I look like?” inquired Sally.

John’s glance once more travelled over her whole figure.  The faded buff jacket, the not altogether immaculate apron of unbleached calico, were transfigured by the all-pervading sunshine; golden lights outlined the tanned face and hands; as for the hair, it was at that moment a very glory.

“I reckon I’d call you Golden Sally,” he said with a laugh.  “You look as if you were made of gold this morning, and I’ll engage you’re as good as gold,” he added gallantly.

“Coom, that’s too fine a name for me,” cried Sally, well pleased, nevertheless, and smiling broadly.

“I’ll christen you by it all the same,” replied John, smiling too.  “You must be good and mind what I tell you,” he added with mock severity.  “If you don’t, I must find some other name for you.”

Sally’s long eyelashes suddenly drooped, and she drummed on the gate nervously.

“I’ll do my best to please ye,” she said.  “I’ll coom when ye call,” she added after a pause.

Lifting up her basket, and balancing it once more on her head, she raised her downcast lids, and flashed a farewell smile at John as she turned away.  In another moment she was speeding in the opposite direction.