“We had music and dancing at Thanksgiving and such times,” said Lin, his wiry length stretched on the grass beside the seated Sabina.  He was not looking at her, but she took a pleasure in watching him, his curly head and bronze face, against which the young mustache showed to its full advantage.

“I expect you used to dance a lot,” remarked Sabina, for a subject.

“Yes.  Do yu’ know the Portland Fancy?”

Sabina did not, and her subject died away.

“Did anybody ever tell you you had good eyes?” she inquired next.

“Why, sure,” said Lin, waking for a moment; “but I like your color best.  A girl’s eyes will mostly beat a man’s.”

“Indeed, I don’t think so!” exclaimed poor Sabina, too much expectant to perceive the fatal note of routine with which her transient admirer pronounced this gallantry.  He informed her that hers were like the sea, and she told him she had not yet looked upon the sea.

“Never?” said he.  “It’s a turruble pity you’ve never saw salt water.  It’s different from fresh.  All around home it’s blue—­awful blue in July—­ around Swampscott and Marblehead and Nahant, and around the islands.  I’ve swam there lots.  Then our home bruck up and we went to board in Boston.”  He snapped off a flower in reach of his long arm.  Suddenly all dreaminess left him.

“I wonder if you’ll be settin’ the colonel’s table when I come back?” he said.

Miss Stone was at a loss.

“I’m goin’ East to-morrow—­East, to Boston.”

Yesterday he had told her that sixteen miles to Lander was the farthest journey from the post that he intended to make—­the farthest from the post and her.

“I hope nothing ain’t happened to your folks?” said she.

“I ain’t got no folks,” replied Lin, “barring a brother.  I expect he is taking good care of himself.”

“Don’t you correspond?”

“Well, I guess he would if there was anything to say.  There ain’t been nothin’.”

Sabina thought they must have quarrelled, but learned that they had not.  It was time for her now to return and set the colonel’s table, so Lin rose and went to bring her horse.  When he had put her in her saddle she noticed him step to his own.

“Why, I didn’t know you were lame!” cried she.

“Shucks!” said Lin.  “It don’t cramp my style any.”  He had sprung on his horse, ridden beside her, leaned and kissed her before she got any measure of his activity.

“That’s how,” said he; and they took their homeward way galloping.  “No,” Lin continued, “Frank and me never quarrelled.  I just thought I’d have a look at this Western country.  Frank, he thought dry-goods was good enough for him, and so we’re both satisfied, I expect.  And that’s a lot of years now.  Whoop ye!” he suddenly sang out, and fired his six-shooter at a jack-rabbit, who strung himself out flat and flew over the earth.