Sally Dows | Page 9

an incoherent, purposeless dream.
"Is--is--Miss Sally married?" he asked, collecting himself with an

effort.
"Married? Yes, to that farm of her aunt's! I reckon that's the only thing
she cares for."
Courtland looked up, recovering his usual cheerful calm. "Well, I think
that after luncheon I'll pay my respects to her family. From what you
have just told me the farm is certainly an experiment worth seeing. I
suppose your father will have no objection to give me a letter to Miss
Dows?"
CHAPTER II.
Nevertheless, as Colonel Courtland rode deliberately towards Dows'
Folly, as the new experiment was locally called, although he had not
abated his romantic enthusiasm in the least, he was not sorry that he
was able to visit it under a practical pretext. It was rather late now to
seek out Miss Sally Dows with the avowed intent of bringing her a
letter from an admirer who had been dead three years, and whose
memory she had probably buried. Neither was it tactful to recall a
sentiment which might have been a weakness of which she was
ashamed. Yet, clear-headed and logical as Courtland was in his
ordinary affairs, he was nevertheless not entirely free from that peculiar
superstition which surrounds every man's romance. He believed there
was something more than a mere coincidence in his unexpectedly
finding himself in such favorable conditions for making her
acquaintance. For the rest--if there was any rest--he would simply trust
to fate. And so, believing himself a cool, sagacious reasoner, but being
actually, as far as Miss Dows was concerned, as blind, fatuous, and
unreasoning as any of her previous admirers, he rode complacently
forward until he reached the lane that led to the Dows plantation.
Here a better kept roadway and fence, whose careful repair would have
delighted Drummond, seemed to augur well for the new enterprise.
Presently, even the old-fashioned local form of the fence, a slanting
zigzag, gave way to the more direct line of post and rail in the Northern
fashion. Beyond it presently appeared a long low frontage of modern

buildings which, to Courtland's surprise, were entirely new in structure
and design. There was no reminiscence of the usual Southern porticoed
gable or columned veranda. Yet it was not Northern either. The
factory-like outline of facade was partly hidden in Cherokee rose and
jessamine.
A long roofed gallery connected the buildings and became a veranda to
one. A broad, well-rolled gravel drive led from the open gate to the
newest building, which seemed to be the office; a smaller path diverged
from it to the corner house, which, despite its severe simplicity, had a
more residential appearance. Unlike Reed's house, there were no
lounging servants or field hands to be seen; they were evidently
attending to their respective duties. Dismounting, Courtland tied his
horse to a post at the office door and took the smaller path to the corner
house.
The door was open to the fragrant afternoon breeze wafted through the
rose and jessamine. So also was a side door opening from the hall into
a long parlor or sitting-room that ran the whole width of the house.
Courtland entered it. It was prettily furnished, but everything had the
air of freshness and of being uncharacteristically new. It was empty, but
a faint hammering was audible on the rear wall of the house, through
the two open French windows at the back, curtained with trailing vines,
which gave upon a sunlit courtyard. Courtland walked to the window.
Just before it, on the ground, stood a small light ladder, which he gently
put aside to gain a better view of the courtyard as he put on his hat, and
stepped out of the open window.
In this attitude he suddenly felt his hat tipped from his head, followed
almost instantaneously by a falling slipper, and the distinct impression
of a very small foot on the crown of his head. An indescribable
sensation passed over him. He hurriedly stepped back into the room,
just as a small striped-stockinged foot was as hastily drawn up above
the top of the window with the feminine exclamation, "Good gracious
me!"
Lingering for an instant, only to assure himself that the fair speaker had
secured her foothold and was in no danger of falling, Courtland

snatched up his hat, which had providentially fallen inside the room,
and retreated ingloriously to the other end of the parlor. The voice came
again from the window, and struck him as being very sweet and clear:--
"Sophy, is that YOU?"
Courtland discreetly retired to the hall. To his great relief a voice from
the outside answered, "Whar, Miss Sally?"
"What did yo' move the ladder for? Yo' might have killed me."
"Fo' God, Miss Sally, I didn't move no ladder!"
"Don't tell me, but go down