Under her rough outer cloak she wore a polka jacket and the thinnest of summer blouses; and her hat, though dark, was of rough straw, plainly trimmed.  Nevertheless, these peculiarities were carried off with an air of breeding and self-possession that was unmistakable.  It was possible that her cool self-possession might have been due to some instinctive antagonism, for as she came a step forward with coldly and clearly-opened gray eyes, he was vaguely conscious that she didn’t like him.  Nevertheless, her manner was formally polite, even, as he fancied, to the point of irony, as she began, in a voice that occasionally dropped into the lazy Southern intonation, and a speech that easily slipped at times into Southern dialect:—­

“I sent the child out of the room, as I could see that his advances were annoying to you, and a good deal, I reckon, because I knew your reception of them was still more painful to him.  It is quite natural, I dare say, you should feel as you do, and I reckon consistent with your attitude towards him.  But you must make some allowance for the depth of his feelings, and how he has looked forward to this meeting.  When I tell you that ever since he received your last letter, he and his sister—­until her illness kept her home—­have gone every day when the Pacific train was due to the station to meet you; that they have taken literally as Gospel truth every word of your letter”—­

“My letter?” interrupted Falloner.

The young girl’s scarlet lip curled slightly.  “I beg your pardon—­I should have said the letter you dictated.  Of course it wasn’t in your handwriting—­you had hurt your hand, you know,” she added ironically.  “At all events, they believed it all—­that you were coming at any moment; they lived in that belief, and the poor things went to the station with your photograph in their hands so that they might be the first to recognize and greet you.”

“With my photograph?” interrupted Falloner again.

The young girl’s clear eyes darkened ominously.  “I reckon,” she said deliberately, as she slowly drew from her pocket the photograph Daddy Folsom had sent, “that that is your photograph.  It certainly seems an excellent likeness,” she added, regarding him with a slight suggestion of contemptuous triumph.

In an instant the revelation of the whole mystery flashed upon him!  The forgotten passage in Houston’s letter about the stolen photograph stood clearly before him; the coincidence of his appearance in Shepherdstown, and the natural mistake of the children and their fair protector, were made perfectly plain.  But with this relief and the certainty that he could confound her with an explanation came a certain mischievous desire to prolong the situation and increase his triumph.  She certainly had not shown him any favor.

“Have you got the letter also?” he asked quietly.

She whisked it impatiently from her pocket and handed it to him.  As he read Daddy’s characteristic extravagance and recognized the familiar idiosyncrasies of his old companions, he was unable to restrain a smile.  He raised his eyes, to meet with surprise the fair stranger’s leveled eyebrows and brightly indignant eyes, in which, however, the rain was fast gathering with the lightning.