“What’s that stringy looking grass over there?” pursued the man, undismayed by her manner.

“Clove pinks.”  Nothing, she told herself indignantly, could persuade her to encourage the acquaintance of a man who mispronounced his words so outrageously.

“And here?” He pointed to the flower-bed she was watering.

“Mignonette and nasturtium seeds.”

“When will they come up?”

“Very soon if they’re watered.”

“And they’ll bloom about July, I guess?”

“They ought to bloom all summer.  In the autumn, if we have room, we’re going to plant some dahlias, and a row of hollyhocks against the house.  By next summer the yard will look much better.”

“By George!” he exclaimed abruptly, and after a minute or two:  “Do you know, I can remember the first time I ever saw a flower—­or the first time I took notice of one, anyway.  It was red—­a red geranium.  There was a whole cart of ’em, and that’s why I noticed ’em, I expect.  But a red geranium is a Jim-dandy flower, ain’t it?”

To this outburst Gabriella made no reply.  Her will had hardened with the determination not to be drawn into conversation, and while he waited with his eager gray eyes—­so like the alert, wistful eyes of a great dog—­on her profile, she began carelessly plucking up spears of grass from the flower-bed.

For a minute he waited expectantly; then, as she did not look up, he remarked, “So long!” in a voice of serene friendliness, and went on to the gate.  He had actually said “So long” to her, Gabriella, and he had said it with a manner of established intimacy!

“Well, what do you think of that?” she demanded scornfully of Miss Polly when he had disappeared up the street.

“I reckon he don’t know any better, honey.  You don’t learn much about manners in a mine, I ’spose, and when he ain’t down in a mine, Mrs. Squires says he’s building railroads across deserts.  She says he ain’t ever had anything, education or money, that he didn’t pick up for himself, and you oughtn’t to judge him as you do some others you’ve known.  Anyway, she says he’s made a big pile of money.”

“I believe you’re taking up for him, Miss Polly.  Has he bewitched you?”

“I don’t like to see you hard, Gabriella.  You’re almost always so tolerant.  It ain’t like you to sit in judgment.”

“I am not sitting in judgment, but I don’t see why I’m obliged to be friendly with a strange man who says ‘idee.’  It would be bad for the children.”

“Mrs. Squires has known him for thirty years—­he’s forty-five now—­and she says it’s a miracle the way he’s come up.  He was born in a cellar.”

“I dare say he has a great deal of force, but you must admit that blood tells, Miss Polly.”

“I never said it didn’t, Gabriella—­only that there’s much more credit to a man that comes up without it.”

“Oh, I’ll admire him all you please,” retorted Gabriella, “if you’ll promise to keep him away from the children.”