The Call of the Cumberlands

Samson had hesitatingly taken the gloved hand, and its grasp was firm

and strong despite its ridiculous smallness.

"I reckon he'll be back presently." The boy was in doubt as to the

proper procedure. This was Lescott's studio, and he was not certain

whether or not it lay in his province to invite Lescott's sister to

take possession of it. Possibly, he ought to withdraw. His ideas of

social usages were very vague.

"Then, I think I'll wait," announced the girl. She threw off her fur

coat, and took a seat before the open grate. The chair was large, and

swallowed her up.

Samson wanted to look at her, and was afraid that this would be

impolite. He realized that he had seen no real ladies, except on the

street, and now he had the opportunity. She was beautiful, and there

was something about her willowy grace of attitude that made the soft

and clinging lines of her gown fall about her in charming drapery

effects. Her small pumps and silk-stockinged ankles as she held them

out toward the fire made him say to himself: "I reckon she never went barefoot in her life."

"I'm glad of this chance to meet you, Mr. South," said the girl with a

smile that found its way to the boy's heart. After all, there was

sincerity in "foreign" women. "George talks of you so much that I feel

as if I'd known you all the while. Don't you think I might claim

friendship with George's friends?"

Samson had no answer. He wished to say something equally cordial, but

the old instinct against effusiveness tied his tongue.

"I owe right smart to George Lescott," he told her, gravely.

"That's not answering my question," she laughed. "Do you consent to

being friends with me?"

"Miss--" began the boy. Then, realizing that in New York this form of

address is hardly complete, he hastened to add: "Miss Lescott, I've

been here over nine months now, and I'm just beginning to realize what

a rube I am. I haven't no--" Again, he broke off, and laughed at

himself. "I mean, I haven't any idea of proper manners, and so I'm, as

we would say down home, 'plumb skeered' of ladies."

As he accused himself, Samson was looking at her with unblinking

directness; and she met his glance with eyes that twinkled.

"Mr. South," she said, "I know all about manners, and you know all

about a hundred real things that I want to know. Suppose we begin

teaching each other?"