She stood in the shade of the stone pillar, where the ivy made a deep green, and held back her light blue skirt daintily, in her high-bred way; for never was a girl Sheraton who was not high-bred or other than fair to look upon in the Sheraton way—­slender, rather tall, long cheeked, with very much dark hair and a deep color under the skin, and something of long curves withal.  They were ladies, every one, these Sheraton girls; and as Miss Grace presently advised me, no milkmaids wandering and waiting in lanes for lovers.

When I sprang down from Satan Miss Grace was but a pace or so away.  I put out a hand on either side of her as she stood in the shade, and so prisoned her against the pillar.  She flushed at this, and caught at my arm with both hands, which made me smile, for few men in that country could have put away my arms from the stone until I liked.  Then I bent and kissed her fair, and took what revenge was due our girls for her Philadelphia manners.

When she boxed my ears I kissed her once more.  Had she not at that smiled at me a little, I should have been a boor, I admit.  As she did—­and as I in my innocence supposed all girls did—­I presume I may be called but a man as men go.  Miss Grace grew very rosy for a Sheraton, but her eyes were bright.  So I threw my hat on the grass by the side of the gate and bowed her to be seated.  We sat and looked up the lane which wound on to the big Sheraton house, and up the red road which led from their farm over toward our lands, the John Cowles farm, which had been three generations in our family as against four on the part of the Sheratons’ holdings; a fact which I think always ranked us in the Sheraton soul a trifle lower than themselves.

We were neighbors, Miss Grace and I, and as I lazily looked out over the red road unoccupied at the time by even the wobbling wheel of some negro’s cart, I said to her some word of our being neighbors, and of its being no sin for neighbors to exchange the courtesy of a greeting when they met upon such a morning.  This seemed not to please her; indeed I opine that the best way of a man with a maid is to make no manner of speech whatever before or after any such incident as this.

“I was just wandering down the lane,” she said, “to see if Jerry had found my horse, Fanny.”

“Old Jerry’s a mile back up the road,” said I, “fast asleep under the hedge.”

“The black rascal!”

“He is my friend,” said I, smiling.

“You do indeed take me for some common person,” said she; “as though I had been looking for—­”

“No, I take you only for the sweetest Sheraton that ever came to meet a Cowles from the farm yonder.”  Which was coming rather close home, for our families, though neighbors, had once had trouble over some such meeting as this two generations back; though of that I do not now speak.

“Cannot a girl walk down her own carriage road of a morning, after hollyhocks for the windows, without—­”