Lynde picked up the saddle and resumed his march on the town in the happy valley.  He had proceeded only a little way when he perceived another figure advancing towards him—­a figure not less striking than that of the archaic gentleman, but quite different.  This was a young girl, of perhaps seventeen, in a flowing dress of some soft white stuff, gathered at the waist by a broad red ribbon.  She was without hat or shawl, and wore her hair, which was very long and very black, hanging loosely down her shoulders, in exaggeration of a style of coiffure that afterwards came into fashion.  She was moving slowly and in the manner of a person not accustomed to walking.  She was a lady—­Lynde saw that at a glance—­probably some city-bred bird of passage, resting for the summer in this vale of health.  His youthful vanity took alarm as he reflected what a comical picture he must present with that old saddle on his back.  He would have dumped it into the barberry-bushes if he could have done so unobserved; but it was now too late.

On perceiving Lynde, the girl arrested her steps a moment irresolutely, and then came directly towards him.  As she drew nearer Lynde was conscious of being dazzled by a pair of heavily fringed black eyes, large and lustrous, set in an oval face of exquisite pallor.  The girl held a dandelion in one hand, twirling it by the end of its long, snake-like stem as she approached.  She was close upon him now; for an instant he caught the wind of the flower as it swiftly described a circle within an inch of his cheek.  The girl paused in front of him, and drawing herself up to her full height said haughtily—­

“I am the Queen of Sheba.”

Then she glided by him with a quickened pace and a suddenly timid air.  Lynde was longer recovering himself, this time.  He stood rooted to the ground, stupidly watching the retreating gracious form of the girl, who half turned once and looked back at him.  Then she vanished over the ridge of the hill, as the old gentleman had done.  Was she following him?  Was there any connection between those two?  Perhaps he was the village clergyman.  Could this be his daughter?  What an unconventional costume for a young lady to promenade in—­for she was a lady down to her finger-nails!  And what an odd salutation!

“The Queen of Sheba!” he repeated wonderingly.  “What could she mean by that?  She took me for some country bumpkin, with this confounded saddle, and was laughing at me.  I never saw a girl at once so—­so audacious and modest, or so lovely.  I didn’t know there was anything on earth so lovely as that girl.”

He had caught only an instantaneous glimpse of her face, but he had seen it with strange distinctness, as one sees an object by a flash of lightning; and he still saw it, as one seems still to see the object in the after-darkness.  Every line of the features lived in his eyes, even an almost indistinguishable scar there was on the girl’s right cheek near the temple.  It was not a flaw, that faint scar; it seemed somehow to heighten her loveliness, as an accent over a word sometimes gives it one knows not what of piquancy.