She obeyed mechanically, and they fared on through the thick ferns in this fashion for some moments, he looking ahead, occasionally dropping a word of caution or encouragement, but never glancing at her face. When they reached the buggy he lifted her into it carefully,—and perpendicularly, it struck her afterwards, very much as if she had been a transplanted sapling with bared and sensitive roots,—and then gravely took his place beside her.
“Bein' in the timber trade myself, ma'am,” he said, gathering up the reins, “I chanced to sight these woods, and took a look around. My name is Bowers, of Mendocino; I reckon there ain't much that grows in the way o' standin' timber on the Pacific Slope that I don't know and can't locate, though I DO say it. I've got ez big a mill, and ez big a run in my district, ez there is anywhere. Ef you're ever up my way, you ask for Bowers—Jim Bowers—and that's ME.”
There is probably nothing more conducive to conversation between strangers than a wholesome and early recognition of each other's foibles. Mr. Bowers, believing his chance acquaintance a superior woman, naively spoke of himself in a way that he hoped would reassure her that she was not compromising herself in accepting his civility, and so satisfy what must be her inevitable pride. On the other hand, the woman regained her self-possession by this exhibition of Mr. Bowers's vanity, and, revived by the refreshing breeze caused by the rapid motion of the buggy along the road, thanked him graciously.
“I suppose there are many strangers at the Green Springs Hotel,” she said, after a pause.
“I didn't get to see 'em, as I only put up my hoss there,” he replied. “But I know the stage took some away this mornin': it seemed pretty well loaded up when I passed it.”
The woman drew a deep sigh. The act struck Mr. Bowers as a possible return of her former nervous weakness. Her attention must at once be distracted at any cost—even conversation.
“Perhaps,” he began, with sudden and appalling lightness, “I'm a-talkin' to Mrs. McFadden?”
“No,” said the woman, abstractedly.
“Then it must be Mrs. Delatour? There are only two township lots on that crossroad.”
“My name IS Delatour,” she said, somewhat wearily.