"I'm not Miss Miranda Dows," said the vision with a frankness that was
half childlike and half practical, as she extended a little hand, "but I
can talk 'fahm' with yo' about as well as aunty, and I reckon from what
Major Reed says heah," holding up the letter between her fingers, "as
long as yo' get the persimmons yo' don't mind what kind o' pole yo'
knock 'em down with."

The voice that carried this speech was so fresh, clear, and sweet that I
am afraid Courtland thought little of its bluntness or its conventional
transgressions. But it brought him his own tongue quite unemotionally
and quietly. "I don't know what was in that note, Miss Dows, but I can
hardly believe that Major Reed ever put my present felicity quite in
that way."

Miss Sally laughed. Then with a charming exaggeration she waved her
little hand towards the sofa.

"There! Yo' naturally wanted a little room for that, co'nnle, but now
that yo' 've got it off,--and mighty pooty it was, too,--yo' can sit
down." And with that she sank down at one end of the sofa, prettily drew
aside a white billow of skirt so as to leave ample room for Courtland
at the other, and clasping her fingers over her knees, looked demurely
expectant.

"But let me hope that I am not disturbing you unseasonably," said
Courtland, catching sight of the fateful little slipper beneath her
skirt, and remembering the window. "I was so preoccupied in thinking of
your aunt as the business manager of these estates that I quite forget
that she might have a lady's hours for receiving."