As for the girl, she was surprised to see a man, and particularly a young country man, among the gloves and stockings, cheap pink underthings, and embroideries of Miss Tolman's shop. "You got any--any aprons?" he stammered. "White aprons or gingham?" The girl's smile helped Wesley a great deal. A very nice girl, he decided; but she made him feel queer, light-headed. "I'm not sure, ma'am. When I come away from home this morning I asked Aunt Dolcey did she need anything, and she said 'yes, a couple of aprons,' but she didn't say what kind." The girl thought it over. "I reckon maybe if she's your auntie she'd want white aprons." Her mistake gave him a chance for the conversation which he felt a most surprising wish to make. "No'm, she's not my auntie. She's the old coloured woman keeps house for me." Oh, she was a very nice girl; something about the way she held her head made Wesley think of his spunky little riding mare, Teeny. "H'm. Then I think you'd be safe to get a gingham; anyway, a gingham apron comes in handy to anybody working round a kitchen. We got some nice big ones." "Aunt Dolcey's not so awful big; not any bigger'n you, but heavier set, like." There is a distinct advance in friendly intimacy when one has one's size considered in relation to a customer's needs, particularly when the consideration shows how little a man knows about women's garments. The girl reached beneath the counter and brought up an armful of blue-and-white-checked aprons. She unfolded them deftly, and Wesley saw that she had small strong hands and round wrists. "These got bibs and nice long strings, cover you all up while you're cooking. They're a dollar." His gaze, intent on her rather than the aprons, brought her eyes to his. "Good-looking, but country," was her swift appraisal, adding to it, "And what a funny mark he's got on his forehead." It was true. His young hawklike face, tanned brown by sun and wind, was made strangely grim by a dark vein on his brow, which lent a frowning shadow to his whole visage. Yet the eyes she had looked into were shy and gentle and reassuringly full of open admiration. "If you think she'll like 'em I'll take two," he said after an instant's pause. "I'm sure she'll like 'em. They're good gingham and real well made. We don't keep shoddy stuff. You could go into one of the big stores and get aprons for fifty, sixty cents, but they wouldn't be good value." The soft cadence of her voice gave Wesley a strange and stifled feeling around the heart. He must--he must stay and talk to her. Hardly knowing what he said, he burst into loquacity.