"Now," demanded Smith, "you see that there little white building yonder?"
I did.
He struck a contemplative position, leaned against the house, extending one hand after the manner of the minstrel sentimentalist, and softly chanted:
"’Tis, O, ’tis the cottage of me love;'
"and there’s where they’re getting up as nice a little supper as can be found on this road or any other. Let’s go over!"
So we strolled across an open space where were two giant pines towering somber against the twilight, a little mountain brooklet, and a few quiet cows.
"Stop," said Smith, leaning his back against a pine, and encircling my neck affectionately with an arm; "I told you, as regards Sarah Jane, how my feelings stand. Well, now, you just bet she’s on the reciprocate! When I told old woman Copples I’d like to invite you over,—Sarah Jane she passed me in the doorway,—and said she, 'Glad to see your friends.'"
Then sotto voce, for we were very near, he sang again:
"'’Tis, O, ’tis the cottage of me love;'
"and C. K.," he continued familiarly, "you’re a judge of wimmen," chucking his knuckles into my ribs, whereat I jumped; when he added, "There, I knew you was. Well, Sarah Jane is a derned magnificent female; number three boot, just the height for me. Venus de Copples, I call her, and would make the most touching artist’s wife in this planet. If I design to paint a head, or a foot, or an arm, get my little old Sarah Jane to peel the particular charm, and just whack her in on the canvas."