Presently a more distinct rustling against the straggling blackberry bushes beside the door attracted his attention. It was followed by a light tapping against the side of the house. The editor started and turned quickly towards the open door. Two outside steps led to the ground. Standing upon the lower one was a woman. The upper part of her figure, illuminated by the light from the door, was thrown into greater relief by the dark background of the pines. Her face was unknown to him, but it was a pleasant one, marked by a certain good-humored determination.
“May I come in?” she said confidently.
“Certainly,” said the editor. “I am working here alone because it is so quiet.” He thought he would precipitate some explanation from her by excusing himself.
“That's the reason why I came,” she said, with a quiet smile.
She came up the next step and entered the room. She was plainly but neatly dressed, and now that her figure was revealed he saw that she was wearing a linsey-woolsey riding-skirt, and carried a serviceable rawhide whip in her cotton-gauntleted hand. She took the chair he offered her and sat down sideways on it, her whip hand now also holding up her skirt, and permitting a hem of clean white petticoat and a smart, well-shaped boot to be seen.
“I don't remember to have had the pleasure of seeing you in Calaveras before,” said the editor tentatively.
“No. I never was here before,” she said composedly, “but you've heard enough of me, I reckon. I'm Mrs. Dimmidge.” She threw one hand over the back of the chair, and with the other tapped her riding-whip on the floor.
The editor started. Mrs. Dimmidge! Then she was not a myth. An absurd similarity between her attitude with the whip and her husband's entrance with his gun six weeks before forced itself upon him and made her an invincible presence.
“Then you have returned to your husband?” he said hesitatingly.
“Not much!” she returned, with a slight curl of her lip.