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—­oh, yes!  You hold the reins between your firm, white teeth while you roll—­”

“Lady, I never travelled with no show,” Andy protested mildly and untruthfully. Was she just joshing?  Or didn’t she know any better?  She looked sober as anything, but somehow her eyes kind of—­

“You see, I know some things about you.  Those are chaps” (Heavens!  She called them the way they are spelled, without the soft sound of s!) “That you’re wearing for—­trousers” (Andy blushed modestly.  He was not wearing them “for trousers".), “and you’ve got jingling rowels at your heels, and those are taps—­”

“You’re going to be shy a yard or two of calico if that black lamb-critter has his say-so,” Andy cut in remorselessly, and hastily made and lighted his cigarette while she was rescuing her blue calico skirt from the jaws of the black lamb and puckering her eyebrows over the chewed place.  When her attention was once more given to him, he was smoking as unobtrusively as possible, and he was gazing at her with a good deal of speculative admiration.  He looked hastily down at the lambs.  “Mary had two little lambs,” he murmured inanely.