“Whoa!  Hold on there; that’ll about do,” said McKinney.  “This country’s just as good as—­”

“No, let him go on,” said Curly to McKinney.  “Onct over on the Brazos—­”

“Sometimes I think you fellows are inclined to be provincial,” said Dan Anderson, calmly.  “Now, I’m not goin’ to talk if you don’t leave me alone.  Listen.  What does Tom Osby see in that horn that he’s lookin’ into?  I’ll tell you.  He sees a plumb angel in white clothes and a blue sash.  She’s got gray eyes and brown hair, and she’s just a little bit shorter than will go right under my arm here when I stretch it out level.”

“That’s about right!” said McKinney.

“She’s got on white,” resumed Dan Anderson, casting a glance about him in the dusk of the evening.  “The girl’s got to have on white.  There ain’t no man can hold out when they come in white and have on a blue sash—­it’s no use tryin’ then.

“Now, there she is, a-settin’ at the piano in there in the front parlor; daddy’s gone out into the country after a load of wood, like enough; old lady’s gone to bed, after a hard day’s labor.  Honeysuckles bloomin’ all around, because in New Jersey—­”

“It wasn’t in New Jersey,” said Learned Counsel, hastily, before he thought.

“No, it was in New York,” said McKinney, boldly.

“You’re all liars,” said Curly, calmly; “it was onct on the Brazos.”

“Gentlemen,” said Dan Anderson, “you are right.  It was once on the Brazos, and in Iowa, and in New York, and in New Jersey, and in Georgia.  Thank God, it was there, once upon a time, in all those places. . . .  And, as I was sayin’, the birds was just twitterin’ in the evergreen trees along the front walk, some sleepy, because it was just gettin’ right dark.  Vines, you know, hangin’ over the edge of the front porch, like.  Few chairs settin’ around on the porch.  Just a little band of moonlight layin’ there on the front steps, leadin’ up like a heavenly walk, like a white path to Paradise—­which was there in the front parlor, with the best angel there at home.

“The high angel of this here Heaven, like I told you, she’s a settin’ there in white,” he went on; “and with a blue sash—­it was blue, now, wasn’t it, fellows?  And she’s lettin’ her fingers, God bless ’em, just tra-la-loo-loo, loo-loo-la-la, up and down the keys of the piano her dad gave her when she graduated.  And now she’s sort of singin’ to herself—­half whisperin’, soft and deep—­I hate a thin-voiced woman, or a bad-tempered one, same as you do—­she’s just singin’ about as loud as you can hear easy down as far as the front gate.  And—­why, she’s a singin’ that same tune there, of ‘Annie Laurie’! . . .  And in your heart you know it’s true, every word of it, all the time, and at any station!” said Dan Anderson.

“At any station!” said Curly.

“At any station!” said McKinney,

“At any station!” said Learned Counsel.