After they had breakfasted together in state, the doll was carried into the store to be played with there. It was a wet day, and, the air being chilled by a heavy mountain rain, a small fire was burning in the stove, and by this fire the two settled themselves to enjoy the morning together, the weather precluding the possibility of their being disturbed by many customers. But in the height of their quiet enjoyment they were broken in upon by the sound of horse's hoofs splashing in the mud outside and Mr. Stamps's hat appeared above the window-sill. It was Sheba who saw it first, and in the strength of her desire to avoid the wearer, she formed a desperate plan. She rose so quietly that Tom, who was reading a paper, did not hear her, and, having risen, drew her small chair behind the counter in the hope that, finding her place vacant, the visitor would not suspect her presence. In this she was not disappointed. Having brushed the mud from his feet on the porch, Mr. Stamps appeared at the doorway, and, after his usual precautionary glance about him, made his way to the stove. His manner was at once propitiatory and friendly. He drew up a chair and put his wet feet on the stove, where they kept up a comfortable hissing sound as they dried. "Howdy, Tom," he said, "howdy?" And from her hiding-place Sheba saw him rubbing his legs from the knee downwards as he said it, with an air of solid enjoyment which suggested that he was congratulating himself upon something he had in his mind. "Morning," responded Tom. Mr. Stamps rubbed his legs again quite luxuriously. "You're a lookin' well, Tom," he remarked. "Lord, yes, ye're a lookin' powerful well." Tom laid his paper down and folded it on his knee. "Lookin' well, am I?" he answered. "Well, I'm a delicate weakly sort of fellow in general, I am, and it's encouraging to hear that I'm looking well." Mr. Stamps laughed rather spasmodically. "I wouldn't be agin bein' the same kind o' weakly myself," he said, "nor the same kind o' delycate. You're a powerfle hansum man, Tom." "Yes," replied Tom, drily, "I'm a handsome man. That's what carried me along this far. It's what I've always had to rely on--that and a knock-down intellect." Mr. Stamps rubbed his legs with his air of luxury again. "Folks is fond o' sayin' beauty ain't but skin deep," he said; "but I wouldn't hev it no deeper myself--bein' so that it kivers. An', talkin' o' beauty, she's one--Lord, yes. She's one." "Look here," said Tom, "leave her alone." "'Tain't a gwine to harm her, Tom," replied Mr. Stamps, "'tain't a gwine to harm her none. What made me think of it was it a bein' jest five years since she was born--a makin' it her birthday an' her jest five years old." "What," cried Tom, "you've been counting it up, have you?" "No," replied Mr. Stamps, with true modesty of demeanour, "I ain't ben a countin' of it up, Tom." And he drew a dirty memorandum book softly from his pocket. "I set it down at the time es it happened."