“Yes, ma'am, that's me—Bob Yancy.” He regarded her with large gray eyes that were frankly approving in their expression, for she was more than commonly agreeable to look upon.
“I am Mrs. Ferris, and I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“The same here,” murmured Yancy with winning civility.
Mrs. Ferris' companion leaned forward, her face averted, and stroked her horse's neck with gloved hand.
“This is my friend, Miss Betty Malroy.”
“Glad to know you, ma'am,” said Yancy.
Miss Malroy faced him, smiling. She, too, was very good to look upon, indeed she was quite radiant with youth and beauty.
“We are just returning from Scratch Hill—I think that is what you call it?” said Mrs. Ferris.
“So we do,” agreed Yancy.
“And the dear little boy we met is your nephew, is he not, Mr. Yancy?” It was Betty Malroy who spoke.