Women were at a premium in Gumbolt, and Mr. Plume was not the only person who hymned the praises of “Terpsichoar,” as she was mainly called.  Keith could not help wondering what sort of a creature she was who kept a dance-house and a faro-bank, and yet was spoken of with unstinted admiration and something very like respect by the crowd that gathered in the “big room of the Windsor.”  She must be handsome, and possibly was a good dancer, but she was no doubt a wild, coarse creature, with painted cheeks and dyed hair.  The mental picture he formed was not one to interfere with the picture he carried in his heart.

Next day, as he was making a purchase in a shop, a neat and trim-looking young woman, with a fresh complexion and a mouth full of white teeth, walked in, and in a pleasant voice said, “Good mornin’, all.”  Keith did not associate her at all with Terpsichore, but he was surprised that old Tim Gilsey should not have known of her presence in town.  He was still more surprised when, after having taken a long and perfectly unabashed look at him, with no more diffidence in it than if he had been a lump of ore she was inspecting, she said: 

“You’re the fellow that come to town night before last?  Uncle Tim was tellin’ me about you.”

“Yes; I got here night before last.  Who is Uncle Tim?”

“Uncle Tim Gilsey.”

She walked up and extended her hand to him with the most perfect friendliness, adding, with a laugh as natural as a child’s: 

“We’ll have to be friends; Uncle Tim says you’re a white man, and that’s more than some he brings over the road these days are.”

“Yes, I hope so.  You are Mr. Gilsey’s nieces I am glad to meet you”

The young woman burst out laughing.

“Lor’, no.  I ain’t anybody’s niece; but he’s my uncle—­I’ve adopted him.  I’m Terpy—­Terpsichore, run Terpsichore’s Hall,” she said by way of explanation, as if she thought he might not understand her allusion.

Keith’s breath was almost taken away.  Why, she was not at all like the picture he had formed of her.  She was a neat, quiet-looking young woman, with a fine figure, slim and straight and supple, a melodious voice, and laughing gray eyes.

“You must come and see me.  We’re to have a blow-out to-night.  Come around.  I’ll introduce you to the boys.  I’ve got the finest ball-room in town—­just finished—­and three fiddles.  We christen it to-night.  Goin’ to be the biggest thing ever was in Gumbolt.”

Keith awoke from his daze.

“Thank you, but I am afraid I’ll have to ask you to excuse me,” he said.

“Why?” she inquired simply.

“Because I can’t come.  I am not much of a dancer.”

She looked at him first with surprise and then with amusement.

“Are you a Methodist preacher?”

“No.”

“Salvation?”

“No.”

“I thought, maybe, you were like Tib Drummond, the Methodist, what’s always a-preachin’ ag’in’ me.”  She turned to the storekeeper.  “What do you think he says?  He says he won’t come and see me, and he ain’t a preacher nor Salvation Army neither.  But he will, won’t he?”