brought to treat man's love or
boy's love quite honestly. His eyes clouded. He felt masculinely, sanely
sympathetic with Piney.

"I wish," he said gloomily, "that you would sometimes put yourself in
the place of a man who loves you, put yourself in Piney's place."

Her eyes crinkled up again. "I'll just do it," she said gaily, "I'll do
it now. Presto," she shut her eyes. "Now I have his point of view. Now
I'm seeing what he sees--that Miss Sally Madeira likes to hear him sing,
and humours him and pets him because he is gay and glad to be alive, and
because Uncle Bernique says that he needs somebody to mother him. I
mother Piney. Can't you see that." She laughed again and arose and stood
in front of him, gay, mocking, nonchalant. "Piney love! And if Piney
could love, that you should fancy that he might dare love Salome
Madeira!"

He forgot about Piney. She blocked his farther vision like a shaft of
light. He could not see an inch beyond her. Madeira's voice rang down
the garden walk. Steering did not hear it. "Salome! Salome!" he
murmured, "Is that it, Salome?"

"Yes, that's it, Salome. Isn't it foolish? The Di down there is the
Diaphanous, too. Some pioneer poet named it for its shimmer, but what
good did it do? Missouri promptly called it the 'Di.' No more good is it
to name a child Salome in the backwoods of Missouri. She's bound to grow
up Sally. I've always been Sally, except at school. I'll always be Sally
down here with my own people."

"No, you won't always be Sally--no you won't always be down here with
your own people either,"--he leaned back on the bench and watched her,
his eyes half shut, his whole sense of being illumined by her, his
tongue playing audaciously with his discretion.

"Yes, I shall always be Sally, too." That bisque-warm skin of hers
flushed wondrously and she seemed to talk out of a little confused
audacity of her own. Madeira's voice rang down the walk again. "Yes,
Father!--and down here with my own people, too. Yes, Father!"

"Company's here, Sally."

"All right, Father, coming."

"And I have to go?" asked Steering piteously.

"Oh no, come up to the house and meet our sixteen-to-one congressman,
Quicksilver Sam."

"No--I'll go," chose Steering. "Say, can't I get through from the garden
here, and go down the river road?"

"Yes, you can. Samson shall bring your horse around, if you like.
There's a bridle-path down to the river; it's Piney's way."

"Well, if you will be so goo