“Wot yer lookin’ at?” she asked frankly.

“You,” he replied, with equal frankness.

“It’s them duds,” she said, looking down at her dress; “I reckon I ain’t got the hang o’ ’em.”

Yet there was not the slightest tone of embarrassment or even coquetry in her manner, as with both hands she tried to gather in the loose folds around her waist.

“Let me help you,” he said gravely.

She lifted up her arms with childlike simplicity and backed toward him as he stepped behind her, drew in the folds, and pinned them around what proved a very small waist indeed.  Then he untied the apron, took it off, folded it in half, and retied its curtailed proportions around the waist.  “It does feel a heap easier,” she said, with a little shiver of satisfaction, as she lifted her round cheek, and the tail of her blue eyes with their brown lashes, over her shoulder.  It was a tempting moment—­but Jack felt that the whole race of gold hunters was on trial just then, and was adamant!  Perhaps he was a gentle fellow at heart, too.

“I could loop up that dress also, if I had more pins,” he remarked tentatively.  Jack had sisters of his own.

The pins were forthcoming.  In this operation—­a kind of festooning—­the girl’s petticoat, a piece of common washed-out blue flannel, as pale as her eyes, but of the commonest material, became visible, but without fear or reproach to either.

“There, that looks more tidy,” said Jack, critically surveying his work and a little of the small ankles revealed.  The girl also examined it carefully by its reflection on the surface of the saucepan.  “Looks a little like a chiny girl, don’t it?”

Jack would have resented this, thinking she meant a Chinese, until he saw her pointing to a cheap crockery ornament, representing a Dutch shepherdess, on the shelf.  There was some resemblance.

“You beat mammy out o’ sight!” she exclaimed gleefully.  “It will jest set her clear crazy when she sees me.”

“Then you had better say you did it yourself,” said Fleming.

“Why?” asked the girl, suddenly opening her eyes on him with relentless frankness.

“You said your father didn’t like miners, and he mightn’t like your lending your pan to me.”

“I’m more afraid o’ lyin’ than o’ dad,” she said with an elevation of moral sentiment that was, however, slightly weakened by the addition, “Mammy’ll say anything I’ll tell her to say.”

“Well, good-by,” said Fleming, extending his hand.

“Ye didn’t tell me what luck ye had with the pan,” she said, delaying taking his hand.

Fleming shrugged his shoulders.  “Oh, my usual luck,—­nothing,” he returned, with a smile.

“Ye seem to keer more for gettin’ yer old ring back than for any luck,” she continued.  “I reckon you ain’t much o’ a miner.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Ye didn’t say wot yer name was, in case dad wants to know.”