“Why, ma, you don’t tell me you don’t know Steve,” he exclaimed.
“Steve,” returned Mrs. Follet bewildered.
“Why, yes! little, old, scrawny, mountain Steve,” exclaimed Mr. Follet, “who did everything that was done here one summer!”
Then Mrs. Follet slowly grasped the astonishing thought that little ignorant Steve and the fine-looking young man before her were one and the same, and gave him gentle, motherly greeting.
“Where’s Nancy?” went on Mr. Follet, impatiently.
“She’s gone with Gyp for a gallop,” returned Mrs. Follet, “but she ought to be back any minute now.” And by the time they had exchanged brief accounts of the years that had passed since they last met, Nancy was seen swaying gracefully down the road upon her pony’s rounded back. She waved gaily as she passed the porch not noticing the stranger who was somewhat screened by hanging vines, and then she turned into the lane which led to the stable.
Steve’s eyes glistened at the vision of the girl which time had so charmingly matured, and starting up he exclaimed:
“Let me meet her at the stable where I used to help her on and off old Dobbin’s back,” and with a bound he was off the porch and striding towards the lane.
Nancy had slowed her pace along the shady driveway, and Steve, going noiselessly through the grass, was at her side when she was ready to dismount.