"Who's Buck?"
Now the girl's face took fire, and dire confusion gripped her. Hair and skin became indistinguishable. But she flung her head up bravely, and with burning eyes looked straight into mine.
"Buck Steele. He's th' blacksmith over to Hebron, an' he's—my frien'."
She had grit. I honored her for that speech.
"You know I'm a stranger," I ran on, easily, making a pretense to fill my pipe, and so help her over her embarrassment. "I came just about a week ago. I'm in the house up on Bald Knob yonder. The city didn't agree with me, and my doctor sent me out here to get well. I'm not mean and stuck up, believe me. I've got the poorest sort of an opinion of myself, although I've lived pretty clean. Now I want to be friends with you, and all the folks about here. You'll help me, won't you?"
Her self-possession had returned while I was talking. When I stopped, I smiled, and looked at her as frankly and honestly as I could.
"You don' 'pear puny!" was her startling rejoinder.
I took another tack.
"Pray tell me how it is the birds and the beasts obey you?"
"I love 'em!" she answered, promptly, and with warmth. "I know 'em, an' they know me."