LETTERS FROM AN OREGON RANCH
While she discussed horsebreaking methods with Tom, I looked at her in amazement. It was hard to reconcile such deeds with the doer. She was “like the hazel twig, straight and slender, and as brown as hazel nuts,” with a pleasant voice, a charming smile, a frank, cordial manner, entirely free from self-consciousness; was well gowned in dark blue cloth, wore a Rough Rider hat of tan color, with gauntlets to match, and tucked in her belt was a yellow daffodil.
As she discoursed enthusiastically of ropes, thongs, slipknots, and nooses, I remembered that only a few minutes before in our talk she had quoted from “The Birds of Killingworth” and from “The Bonnie Brier Bush,” and so my wonder grew.
When she left us we sat for a moment looking at each other dumbly. Then Tom remarked, “Exit Saint Cecilia, the female bronco-buster.”
“Aren’t you ashamed, Tom, to speak in that way of one of my visitors?”
“Why, no, Katharine,—I meant that as a compliment. Though she talked of the overturning of wild horses, she certainly looked the gentlest of saints. She is a new type, and I like her immensely. She’s a thousand times more interesting than such girls as we have known, talking eternally of receptions and clubs, of whist and theatre parties, of pink teas and green luncheons, color schemes that were poems, and gowns that were dreams, and that sort of gush. Now this girl is
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