“Whar's Uncle Gabe?” She spoke shortly, and as to a stranger.
“Gone to town,” said Rome, composedly. “He had schooled himself for this meeting.”
“When's he comm' back?”
“Not 'fore night, I reckon.”
“Whar's Isom?”
“Isom's sick.”
“Well, who's tendin' this mill?”
For answer he tossed the empty bag into the corner and, without looking at her, picked up another bag.
“I reckon ye see me, don't ye?” he asked, coolly. “Hev a cheer, and rest a spell. Hit's a purty long climb whar you come from.”
The girl was confused. She stayed in the doorway, a little helpless and suspicious. What was Rome Stetson doing here? His mastery of the situation, his easy confidence, puzzled and irritated her. Should she leave? The mountaineer was a Stetson, a worm to tread on if it crawled across the path. It would be like backing down before an enemy. He might laugh at her after she was gone, and, at that thought, she sat down in the chair with composed face, looking through the door at the tumbling water, which broke with a thousand tints under the sun, but able still to see Rome, sidewise, as he moved about the hopper, whistling softly.