The girl lifted her face to his; “Oh, if you only could!” But, even as she spoke, there came to her the memory of that ride home from the party at Ford’s, when her pony had crowded close to the big white faced sorrel.  It was Brownie this time who was pulled sharply aside.  The almost involuntary act brought a quick flush to the young man’s cheek, and he promptly reined his own horse to the right, thus placing the full width of the road between them.  So they went down the hill into the valley, where Fall Creek tumbled and laughed on its rocky way.

A thread of blue smoke, curling lazily up from the old stack, and the sound of a hammer, told them that some one was at the mill.  Sammy was caught by a sudden impulse.  “Why, that must be Young Matt!” she exclaimed.  “Let us stop.  I do believe you haven’t seen him since you came home.”

“I don’t want to see him, nor any one else, now,” returned Ollie.  “This is our last evening together, Sammy, and I want you all to myself.  Let us go up the old Roark trail, around Cox’s Bald, and home through the big, low gap.”  He checked his horse as he spoke, for they had already passed the point where the Roark trail leaves Fall Creek.

But the girl was determined to follow her impulse.  “You can stop just a minute,” she urged.  “You really ought to see Matt, you know.  We can ride back this way if you like.  It’s early yet.”

But the man held his place, and replied shortly, “I tell you I don’t want to see anybody, and I am very sure that Young Matt doesn’t want to see me, not with you, anyway.”

Sammy flushed at this, and answered with some warmth, “There is no reason in the world why you should refuse to meet an old friend; but you may do as you please, of course.  Only I am going to the mill.”  So saying, she started down the valley, and as there was really nothing else for him to do, the man followed.

As they approached the mill, Sammy called for Young Matt, who immediately left his work, and came to them.  The big fellow wore no coat, and his great arms were bare, while his old shirt, patched and faded and patched again, was soiled by engine grease and perspiration.  His trousers, too, held in place by suspenders repaired with belt lacing and fastened with a nail, were covered with sawdust and dirt.  His hands and arms and even his face were treated liberally with the same mixture that stained his clothing; and the shaggy red brown hair, uncovered, was sadly tumbled.  In his hand he held a wrench.  The morrow was grinding day, and he had been making some repairs about the engine.

Altogether, as the backwoodsman came forward, he presented a marked contrast to the freshly clad, well groomed gentleman from the city.  And to the woman, the contrast was not without advantages to the man in the good clothes.  The thought flashed through her mind that the men who would work for Ollie in the shops would look like this.  It was the same old advantage; the advantage that the captain has over the private; the advantage of rank, regardless of worth.