"I'm agoin'," quoth Saint Mark, "right clost to Miss Blake's. If we don't overtake her--and that hoss of hers sure travels wonderful fast, somethin' wonderful, yes, ma'am, by God--excuse me, lady--it's sure surprisin' the way that skinny little hoss of hers will travel--why, I c'n take you acrost the ford. There ain't no way of gettin' into Miss Blake's exceptin' by the ford. And then I c'n take my team back to the road. From the ford it's a quarter-mile walk to Miss Blake's house. You c'n cache your bundle and she'll likely get it for you in the mornin'. We had ought to be there by sundown. Her trail from the ford's clear enough. I'm a-takin' this lumber to the Gover'ment bridge forty mile up. Yes, by God--excuse _me_, lady--it's agoin' to be jest a dandy bridge until the river takes it out next spring, by God--you'll have to excuse me again, lady." He seemed rather mournfully surprised by the frequent need for these apologies. "It was my raisin', lady," he explained. "My father was a Methody preacher. Yes'm, he sure was, by God, yes--excuse me again, lady. He was always a-prayin'. It kinder got me into bad habits. Yes, ma'am. Those words you learn when you're a kid they do stick in your mind. By God, yes, they do--excuse _me_, lady. That's why I run away. I couldn't stand so much prayin' all the time. And bein' licked when I wasn't bein' prayed at. He sure licked me, that dern son of a--Oh, by God, lady, you'll just hev to excuse me, please." He wiped his forehead. "I reckon I better keep still." Sheila struggled, then gave way to mirth. Her companion, after a doubtful look, relaxed into his wide, bearded smile. After that matters were on an easy footing between them and the "excuse me, lady," was, for the most part, left to her understanding.