"Come right to your door, do they?" he asked, as she helped him to the ham and eggs.
"Maybe they do, and maybe they don't."
"Well, here's one come right in the middle of the night. Somehow, I jest couldn't make out to wait till morning, Bess."
"Oh, you," she laughed, with a demand for more of this sort of chaffing in her hazel eyes.
At this kind of rough give and take he was an adept. After breakfast he stayed and helped her wash the dishes, romping with her the whole time in the midst of gay bursts of laughter and such repartee as occurred to them.
He found his young hostess so entertaining that he did not get away until the morning was half gone. By the time he reached Seven Mile the sun was past the meridian, and the stage a lessening patch of dust in the distance.
Before he was well out of the saddle, Phyllis Sanderson was standing in the doorway of the store, with a question in her eyes.
"Well?" he forced her to say at last.
Leisurely he turned, as if just aware of her presence.
"Oh, it's you. Mornin', Phyl."