"The mountain would not come to Mohammed, so Mohammed must come to the
mountain," said Miss Mayfield. "Mother is asleep, Aunt Sally is at work
in the kitchen, and here am I, already dressed for a ramble in this
bright afternoon sunshine, and no one to go with me. But, perhaps, you,
too, are busy?"

"No, miss. I will be with you in a moment."

I wish I could say that he went back to calm his pulses, which the
dangerous music of Miss Mayfield's voice had set to throbbing, by a
few moments' calm and dispassionate reflection. But he only returned to
brush his curls out of his eyes and ears, and to button over his blue
flannel shirt a white linen collar, which he thought might better
harmonize with Miss Mayfield's attire.

She was sitting on the staircase, poking her parasol through the
balusters. "You need not have taken that trouble, Mr. Jeff," she said
pleasantly. "YOU are a part of this mountain picture at all times; but I
am obliged to think of dress."

"It was no trouble, miss."

Something in the tone of his voice made her look in his face as she
rose. It was a trifle paler, and a little older. The result, doubtless,
thought Miss Mayfield, of his yesterday's experience with the
deputy-sheriff.

Such was her rapid deduction. Nevertheless, after the fashion of her
sex, she immediately began to argue from quite another hypothesis.