But the old hound, glad of conversation on any terms, wagged his tail good-humoredly, and came down off the ledge to lick the stranger’s hand. The girl’s face bore a shade of displeasure, although she made no sign that she had heard. Jepson’s eyes fell upon her again. He sat gazing at her, a slow surprise kindling in his face. She took no heed, but looked out at the null mists and the monotonous rain with eyes that seemed as if they never could be dimmed by aught on earth, so pensively lustrous, so crystal-clear, they were. They had long dark lashes, and were of a rich brown color, a tint that was repeated in her curling hair, and suggested to his homely experience the gloss and tone of a chestnut fresh from the burr. Her hair waved backward with a deep undulation, which he called a “cow-lick,” from a brow smooth and white and broad. She had no color in her cheeks, but her lips were deeply crimson and delicately cut, and there was a fine free line drawn from the lower one, defining the chin and her slender throat. Her dark blue homespun dress draped a tall, lithe figure, and the full skirt afforded sufficient amplitude for the old dog to ensconce himself upon its folds and lie wheezingly down, looking out once more at the rainfall, and then closing his eyes in a sort of blinking resignation. Before long he nodded, his lips languishing from their habitual position; his expression would have seemed a clever caricature of himself, if it were intentional. Still she supported her chin in her hand, slightly bending forward, her elbow resting on her knee, her foot, in its little low-cut shoe with its leather lacing, on the stone below. And still Jepson gazed. “I dunno ez I ever seen ye afore,” he observed presently. Her eyes turned slowly, as she gravely surveyed him. “I hev seen ye, a-many-a-time,—at preachin’,” she admitted naively, “at the church-house, and at camp, too.” Her voice was keyed low, and it had a soft and hesitating accent, as if she were solicitous for the impression conveyed. “Waal, I don’t see nuthin’ at meetin’,” he observed, with prideful piety. “I be all tuk up with the Word.” “I’m a perfesser,” she hastily stipulated, sitting upright and looking animatedly at him. “I hev been perfessin’ a right smart time; but—I ain’t—leastwise”—she hesitated,—“the sperit ain’t never hendered me from seein’ some ez air a-goin’ on, though I ain’t gin over ter lookin’ ’bout, nuther.” “Ye ain’t hed much pourin’ out o’ the sperit, then,” he remarked ungraciously. “Mebbe not,” she admitted. Then with a sudden thought, “I jes’ tell ye, though, thar’d be a mighty fallin’ off in religion ef the saints couldn’t consort tergether somewhar, an’ see one ’nother, an’ talk an’ laff, arter the preachin’ ’s over. Heap o’ fun goes on at camp, too.” “Them ez enjyes tharse’fs at camp won’t ’low ’twar sech ticklin’ fun whenst they gits ter blisterin’ in hell, I’ll be bound,” he declared, with pious relish.