“Hit's the Lord's own level,” said Lum, and back he went to his work, the man looking after him and muttering:
“The Lord's own level.”
Hardly knowing it, Lum waited for grinding day. There was the same exchange of “how-dyes” between him and the girl, going and coming, and Lum noted that the remaining hind shoe was gone from the old nag and that one of the front ones was going. This too was gone the next time she passed, and for the first time Lum spoke:
“Yo' hoss needs shoein'.”
“She ain't wuth it,” said the girl. Two hours later, when the girl came back, Lum took up the conversation again.
“Oh, yes, she is,” he drawled, and the girl slid from her sack of meal and watched him, which she could do fearlessly, for Lum never looked at her. He had never asked her name and he did not ask her now.
“I'm Jeb Mullins's gal,” she said. “Pap'll be comin' 'long hyeh some day an' pay ye.”
“My name's Lum—Lum Chapman.”
“They calls me Marthy.”
He lifted her bag to the horse's bony withers with one hand, but he did not offer to help her mount. He watched her again as she rode away, and when she looked back he turned with a queer feeling into his shop. Two days later Jeb Mullins came by.