“Mr. Johnson, how many times have you died?” Johnson did not have to think twice before answering.  With wide, truthful eyes he said: 

“That day on the road to Monterey I said just that one woman for me.  I wanted to kiss you then,” he added, taking her hand in his.  And, strange to say, she was not angry, not unwilling, but sweetly tender and modest as she let it lay there.

“But, Mr. Johnson, some men think so much o’ kisses that they don’t want a second kiss from the same girl,” spoke up the Girl after a moment’s reflection.

“Doesn’t that depend on whether they love her or not?  Now all loves are not alike,” reasoned the man in all truthfulness.

“No, but they all have the same aim—­to git ’er if they can,” contended the Girl, gently withdrawing her hand.

Silence filled the room.

“Ah, I see you don’t know what love is,” at length sighed Johnson, watching the colour come and go from her face.

The Girl hesitated, then answered in a confused, uneven voice: 

“Nope.  Mother used to say, ’It’s a tickling sensation at the heart that you can’t scratch,’ an’ we’ll let it go at that.”

“Oh, Girl, you’re bully!” laughed the man, rising, and making an attempt to embrace her.  But all of a sudden he stopped and stood with a bewildered look upon his face:  a fierce gale was sweeping the mountain.  It filtered in through the crevices of the walls and doors; the lights flickered; the curtains swayed; and the cabin itself rocked uncertainly until it seemed as if it would be uprooted.  It was all over in a minute.  In fact, the wind had died away almost simultaneously with the Girl’s loud cry of “Wowkle, hist the winder!”

It is not to be wondered at, however, that Johnson looked apprehensively about him with every fresh impulse of the gale.  The Girl’s description of the storms on the mountain was fresh in his mind, and there was also good and sufficient reason why he should not be caught in a blizzard on the top of Cloudy Mountain!  Nevertheless, as before, the calm look which he saw on the Girl’s face reassured him.  Advancing once more towards her, he stretched out his arms as if to gather her in them.

“Look out, you’ll muss my roses!” she cried, waving him back and dodging Wowkle who, having cleared the table, was now making her last trip to the cupboard.

“Well, hadn’t you better take them off then?” suggested Johnson, still following her up.

“Give a man an inch an’ he’ll be at Sank Hosey before you know it!” she flung at him over her shoulder, and made straightway for the bureau.

But although Johnson desisted, he kept his eyes upon her as she took the roses from her hair, losing none of the picture that she made with the light beating and playing upon her glimmering eyes, her rosy cheeks and her parted lips.

“Is there—­is there anyone else?” he inquired falteringly, half-fearful lest there was.