It was indeed a girl; she wore a soft hat, the counterpart of his own, fashioned of the same stuff as her dark-gray jacket and the kirtle which reached just below her knees. On her legs were shooting-gaiters of russet leather, decidedly influenced as to color by the tyrannic soil, and on her feet stout cowhide boots. She carried a gun on her shoulder, and a game-bag hung at her side. She further appeared to be bounded on the east, west, north, and south by dogs. An old mastiff lounged sulkily at her heels. Far in front, a collie gave chase to a stately buzzard, which sailed away undisturbed by its pursuer’s shrill barking, while an asthmatic pug sought a Juggernautal fate between the ponderous wagon-wheels, and a little black-and-tan terrier, sniffing hither and thither among the mist-drenched weeds, reminded Roden of the accounts of certain mammoth ants as related by the credulous Herodotus. The girl, who had been walking with head bent, looked up as the creaking of the wagon-wheels arrested her attention. “I beg your pardon,” said Roden, “but can you tell me if I am on the right road to Caryston Hall? I think that’s the name.” She looked at him seriously for a moment, and then said, “Yes, you are. I s’pose you’re th’ new Englishman. Are you?” “I suppose so,” said Roden. “My name is Roden. I have bought a farm somewhere in this neighborhood, and it is called Caryston Hall.” “That’s it,” she said; “you’re right. My father’s th’ overseer there. Why don’t you get down and walk? You look so cold. I’ll show you.” “Thank you,” said Roden; “I think I will;” and he jumped down beside her. Judging by her attire, he had at first thought her a sporting country-woman of his own, like himself an exile in a far country; but after she had spoken he found that the soft, slow intonation was strange to his ear. “The overseer business explains it,” he thought. “She is a native, and this language is Virginian.” In the mean time the girl was also making mental observations. He was the third English gentleman she had seen, though of immigrant Britishers she had known full threescore and ten. She was thinking that he had spoken to her with an unusual civility, and wondering how long it would continue. Civility this young Virginian had not found to be a characteristic of the British settler in her native State. “I’m very lucky to have met you,” said Roden, as they walked on, having dismissed the services of the ancient wagoner, whom the girl addressed as “Unc’ Dick.” “I would like to ask you some questions about the place, and it’s awfully kind of you to go back with me.” She said, indifferently, and without lifting her eyes this time, “Oh, I was goin’ back anyway! ’Tisn’t any bother.”