He dropped his hands to his side again, still smiling, but with the grin of a collie dog ready to change in a flash to a snarl. “It ain’t--isn’t fur to where I live,” she added in a sincere dislike at hurting him--or any man. “You been goin’ to this air school, aincher?” he asked, quick to detect her avoidance of the “ain’t.” “I been goin’,” she nodded. “Like it?” “More ’n anything I ever done,” she answered. “How long yer been goin’?” “Six years. Ma was sick last year, but she’s better now an’ I’m goin’ back next fall.” “Six year o’ schoolin’ sounds like enough ter me. I ain’t been but two, an’ that’s all I need. Got me a house over in Big Laurel Cove, got me a cow, and I’m makin’ money too.” The sack in her arms was becoming heavy. She was listening because she saw no alternative, but her face remained blank. Bud noted it with a frown. “Got me a house,” he repeated with slightly more emphasis, “and a cow that give a gallon and a half at a milkin’, a good sure-footed hoss and--besides, I’m makin’ money.” “Looks like you oughta be married with all what you say you got,” she answered mockingly. “Mebbe I will some o’ these days,” he answered, seeking her eyes. But he found them at that moment turned towards a bird in the hemlocks. Bud shifted his position in the saddle slightly and adjusted one side of his lavender suspenders. “Ain’t no girl in that thar Cove purty like you,” he declared. “My pa ’lowed I was pretty,” she answered without embarrassment. “Yo’ pa dead?” “Three year come this September.” “Who makes yo’ livin’ fer yer if yo’ pa’s dead?” “My mother hires out for washing and I work out. Guess I’ll take the path fer a piece.” The path mounted several feet to an embankment left by the road-builders in grading the course of the road. The roadbed itself, hidden from the sunlight by the dense foliage of the great chestnut-oaks cloaking the mountain-side, was rarely free of mud so that those on foot deserted it here for the path. She started at once and he followed below, losing sight of her at times as she was hidden by the laurel, but falling in with her again where the path rejoined the road. All this while he continued his conversation as he was able. “A gal like you can’t do no good workin’ out,” he suggested. “Ma thinks I do tol’able well.” “Workin’ out ain’t like havin’ a home fer yo’ own.” “I like workin’ down to Mr. Howe’s. He’s good to me and so’s Miss Wilmer.” “It ain’t like havin’ a home fer yo’ own.” “They have books to read down there.” “Where do the Howes live, anyhow?” “The bark-covered house with the porch runnin’ round it--this side of Valley Elk,” she informed him. “I pass thet way sometimes. Mebbe I’ll be seein’ you off an’ on.” “Mebbe,” she answered with a little pucker of her mouth. “Where’s yo’ house?” “Up there.” She pointed to a primitive, clapboarded structure they were approaching on the mountain-side. He turned his eyes back to her.