Then a horse nickered welcomingly, and someone rode out from
the deeper shadow at the corner of the cabin, hesitated as
though tempted to flight, and came on uncertainly. They met
full before the cabin, and the woman leaned and peered
through the dusk at Andy.
"Is this--Mr. Mallory--Irish?" she asked nervously. "Oh dear!
Have I gone and made a fool of myself again?"
"Not at all! Good evening, Miss Allen." Andy folded his hands
upon the saddle horn and regarded her with a little smile,
Keen for what might come next.
"But you're not Irish Mallory. I thought I recognized the
voice, or I wouldn't have--" She urged her horse a step
closer, and Andy observed from her manner that she was not
accustomed to horses. She reined as if she were driving, so
that the horse, bewildered, came sidling up to him. "Who are
you?" she asked him sharply.
"Me? Why, I'm a nice young man--a lot better singer than
Irish. I guess you never heard him, did you?" He kept his
hands folded on the horn, his whole attitude passive--a
restful, reassuring passivity that lulled her uneasiness more
than words could have done.
"Oh, are you Andy Green? I seem to connect that name with
your voice--and what little I can see of you."
"That's something, anyway.
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