“Hello,” said she, at last, in a warm voice, unmistakably Irish. “Hello yourself,” said Hal, in the accepted dialect; then he added, with more elegance, “Pardon me for trespassing on your wash.” Her grey eyes opened wider. “Go on!” she said. “I’d rather stay,” said Hal. “It’s a beautiful sunset.” “I’ll move, so ye can see it better.” She carried her armful of clothes over and dropped them into the basket. “No,” said Hal, “it’s not so fine now. The colours have faded.” She turned and gazed at him again. “Go on wid ye! I been teased about my hair since before I could talk.” “’Tis envy,” said Hal, dropping into her way of speech; and he came a few steps nearer, so that he could inspect the hair more closely. It lay above her brow in undulations which were agreeable to the decorative instinct, and a tight heavy braid of it fell over her shoulders and swung to her waist-line. He observed the shoulders, which were sturdy, obviously accustomed to hard labour; not conforming to accepted romantic standards of femininity, yet having an athletic grace of their own. They were covered with a faded blue calico dress, unfortunately not entirely clean; also, the young man noticed, there was a rent in one shoulder through which a patch of skin was visible. The girl’s eyes, which had been following his, became defiant; she tossed a piece of her washing over the shoulder, where it stayed through the balance of the interview. “Who are ye?” she demanded, suddenly. “My name’s Joe Smith. I’m a stableman in Number Two.” “And what were ye doin’ up there, if a body might ask?” She lifted her grey eyes to the bare mountainside, down which he had come sliding in a shower of loose stones and dirt. “I’ve been surveying my empire,” said he. “Your what?” “My empire. The land belongs to the company, but the landscape belongs to him who cares for it.” She tossed her head a little. “Where did ye learn to talk like ye do?” “In another life,” said he--“before I became a stableman. Not in entire forgetfulness, but trailing clouds of glory did I come.” For a moment she wrestled with this. Then a smile broke upon her face. “Sure, ’tis like a poetry-book! Say some more!” “_O, singe fort, so suess und fein_!” quoted Hal--and saw her look puzzled. “Aren’t you American?” she inquired; and he laughed. To speak a foreign language in North Valley was not a mark of culture! “I’ve been listening to the crowd at Reminitsky’s,” he said, apologetically. “Oh! You eat there?” “I go there three times a day. I can’t say I eat very much. Could you live on greasy beans?” “Sure,” laughed the girl, “the good old pertaties is good enough for me.” “I should have said you lived on rose leaves!” he observed. “Go on wid ye! ’Tis the blarney-stone ye been kissin’!” “’Tis no stone I’d be wastin’ my kisses on.”