"How stupid of me to forget I was talking with a professor," said Nancy archly.

"And worse still for me to forget that I was trying to enlighten the lady who initiated me into the world of books," replied he promptly, yielding to her mood.

"Oh, how lovely that graceful, clinging vine is," she exclaimed, ignoring his retort and pointing up to a vine covered tree, while Steve thrust back into the secret place of his heart all the cherished memories which the old wood held for him, realizing decidedly that Nancy was no longer a shy, timid little girl ready to place her hand in his, but a young woman who would need to be wooed before she was won,--even though there were no Raymond.

"What had he expected anyway?" he reiterated sternly. "That she would be waiting his coming, all ready for the plucking?" He straightened himself in the saddle. He had long since learned how to work and wait for things he wanted; he could do it again.

He led the conversation away from the personal. They talked of nature, each finding under the spur of companionship many new interests in the old wood; and being a devoted nature lover, Steve was pleased to find that Nancy had added to her tender interest in the feathered folk much information as to peculiar characteristics of varying species. It was an easy transition from nature to nature's interpreters, the poets, and the two found mutual interest in recalling some choice things of literature. She had spent four years at a fine old Kentucky college, graduating in June with high honours. There was still a sweet seriousness about her as in the little Nancy of old, in spite of her girlish gaiety, and while the years of study had brought her an unmistakable breadth and culture, there was also a quaint freshness of speech and manner that made her especially attractive. Steve found keen satisfaction in the conversation, for the girl understood his view-point and yet had fresh conceptions of her own which she knew how to express.

He said to himself as he studied her (which having put aside the personal he could now do), "She has the New England alertness of mind inherited from her mother without the New England reticence, and from her Kentucky father, eccentric as he is, she gets the vivacity and charm which is the Kentucky girl's birthright."

And yet in the midst of his enjoyment an insistent despair of heart returned as he recalled a certain good fellowship in her att.i.tude towards Raymond, which was missing with him. Obtuse as lovers usually are, it never occurred to him that this was one of the best of symptoms in his favour!

They had gone in leisurely fashion through the wood, but the tall trees began to drop away at last, and they went down the slope till the old mill stood before them in soft, quaker-gray upon the bank of a turbulent, rushing mountain creek. The big, wooden wheel had fallen from its place and the old mill itself was fast dropping into complete decay, but the trees in fresh summer green still hung affectionately over it. Just beyond the mill nestled the gray log cabin with its porch across the front; and, yes, there was Tildy pacing back and forth at her spinning-wheel just as she used to do when Steve and Nancy were children. She was of the thrifty type of mountain women, always cleanly, always busy, making the most of the meagre means at hand. To the young people it was as though some magic lantern had flashed before them a scene from the past, and the two turned involuntarily to one another with a rush of something tender upon their faces.

Without speaking they rode to the door, and before Steve could dismount Nancy had sprung from the saddle, caught up her skirt, and was warmly shaking hands with the old woman, whom now she did not often see. Steve quickly followed, and with the air of an old friend also, put out his hand cordially to Tildy.

She took it doubtfully, saying:

"Howdye, stranger?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Tilda pacing back and forth at her spinning-wheel"]

"Why, don't you know me, Mother Greely?" Steve asked.

"I sh.o.r.e don't," she replied, pushing her spectacles up on her nose and peering earnestly through them. "No," she said finally, "I nuver seed ye afore; leastways I ain't no recollection of hit ef I ever did."

The old man, who with the old mill had fallen into decrepitude, then came slowly hobbling out, an inquiring look on his kind old face.

Tildy turned to him, raising her voice shrilly, for he heard with difficulty and asked: "Nat, have ye ever seed this young man afore?"

"No," the old man returned after searching scrutiny.

Then Steve said: "Don't you remember an old gray horse that used to come to the mill with a little girl in white pinafore on his back, two bags of corn behind her, and a tousled, brown-haired boy of about twelve walking beside her?"

"And the little girl was always on the verge of starvation, and only mola.s.ses cakes could rescue her," put in Nancy laughing.

"Nancy and Steve," exclaimed the old woman, and then with the intuition of her s.e.x for romance, she further exclaimed: "An' ye hev done got married!"

"No," Steve hastened to say; but the old man, more accustomed to his wife's shrill voice, caught her affirmation, and failed to hear Steve's denial.

"Well, now," said he, rubbing his hands together, greatly pleased, "Tildy and me allus said ye'd marry some day; ye was jes' suited to one another."

Nancy hated herself for flushing so unreasonably again, and Steve, not daring to look towards her, was hurrying to the rescue, when the old woman with a swift, keen glance at both, broke in with:

"No, pap, no they hain't," piped shrilly into the old man's ear.

His face dropped with evident disappointment, and there was an embarra.s.sed moment for all of them.

"Mother Greely," said Nancy gaily, determinedly recovering herself, "have you got any of those mola.s.ses cakes you used to give us when we came over?"

"Wal now, I think I hev," said the old woman, rising as quickly as her stiffened limbs would let her.

Steve looked down at Nancy as Tildy went in, smiled, and said:

"Shall we sit on the door-step, as we used to?"

Nancy's eyes did not meet his, and she turned her head to hide that provokingly rising colour as she sat down in a matter-of-fact way.

When they rode away from the mill, having made the aged couple happy with the renewal of old times, Steve again with eager yearning strained his inner vision for a glimpse into her heart, but she betrayed not the slightest consciousness of the embarra.s.sing episode.

As the horses went leisurely back along through the wood, Steve and Nancy talked gently of the two old people with their wondrous mountain combination of barest poverty, dense ignorance, keen intelligence, simple kindliness and gentle dignity,--qualities which the young folks were now prepared to recognize.

"It is curious how like two people grow from constant a.s.sociation,"

said Steve at last, musingly. "The resemblance between the old miller and his wife is striking, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is," returned Nancy; "the shape of face and type of feature is the same in both, and as for expression, each might be a mirror for the other."

"It would be interesting to know which had most influenced the other,"

said Steve; "whether she has conformed to his type or he to hers."

"Old Nat and Tildy certainly furnish a good opportunity for study of that problem," said Nancy, "for there has been little except the influence of each upon the other to leave its impress."

"The subject is an interesting field for the aspiring investigator,"

Steve went on. "I wonder that some fine-spun, scientific theory has not already been advanced,--but it only remains another formidable matrimonial hazard," he ended with his sudden smile.

"It does indeed," laughed Nancy. "Wouldn't it be dreadful to think of growing daily more and more like some people?"

"And on the other hand," promptly returned Steve, "how delightful to think of growing more and more like certain other people," turning to her with a light in his eye.

"But then there is the uncertainty,--which is most likely to influence the other," said Nancy, switching dexterously away from hinted personal application, and then with a dash of daring gaiety, adding, "When you marry a girl with a crooked nose, will yours begin to crook likewise, or will hers take on your symmetrical lines?"

"But I am not going to take one with a crooked nose," said Steve, smiling significantly in spite of himself.

"Perhaps not, but the question remains,--which is most likely to conform, a husband or a wife," said Nancy, shying back to the abstract again, with pretty positiveness. And then she called gaily, as she touched Gyp with her whip and started both horses off on a brisk canter, leaving the wood for the road, "Please let me know if you solve the problem, so I may be relieved in mind or forewarned."

As she dashed on slightly ahead of him, spirit and beauty in every line of pony and rider, Steve said to himself with a quizzical smile:

"How cleverly she manages to keep me at arm's length. Oh, little Nancy, where did you learn such tactics?" and he did not know that "such tactics" were sure forerunners of surrender.

As for Nancy, she stood a little later by her bedroom window. The trim, smart riding-habit was laid aside and a little light muslin of almost childlike simplicity had taken its place. She stood looking out at nothing through br.i.m.m.i.n.g tears, with flushed cheeks and quivering lips.

"I do blush so horridly when I am with him, and I'm afraid I say things I shouldn't. Oh, what makes me, when I do like him so much!"

XIV

"ALL RIGHT, SON"