Nevertheless, her thoughts that night were not entirely based on written romance.  She wondered if the stranger knew that she had really tried to box his ears in the darkness, also if he had been able to see her face.  His she remembered, at least the flash of his white teeth against his dark face and darker mustache, which was quite as soft as her own hair.  But if he thought “for a minnit” that she was “goin’ to allow an entire stranger to kiss her—­he was mighty mistaken.”  She should let him know it “pretty quick”!  She should hand him back the dagger “quite careless like,” and never let on that she’d thought anything of it.  Perhaps that was the reason why, before she went to bed, she took a good look at it, and after taking off her straight, beltless, calico gown she even tried the effect of it, thrust in the stiff waistband of her petticoat, with the jeweled hilt displayed, and thought it looked charming—­as indeed it did.  And then, having said her prayers like a good girl, and supplicated that she should be less “tetchy” with her parents, she went to sleep and dreamed that she had gone out to take in the wash again, but that the clothes had all changed to the queerest lot of folks, who were all fighting and struggling with each other until she, Lanty, drawing her dagger, rushed up single-handed among them, crying, “Disperse, ye craven curs,—­disperse, I say.”  And they dispersed.

Yet even Lanty was obliged to admit the next morning that all this was somewhat incongruous with the baking of “corn dodgers,” the frying of fish, the making of beds, and her other household duties, and dismissed the stranger from her mind until he should “happen along.”  In her freer and more acceptable outdoor duties she even tolerated the advances of neighboring swains who made a point of passing by “Foster’s Ranch,” and who were quite aware that Atalanta Foster, alias “Lanty,” was one of the prettiest girls in the country.  But Lanty’s toleration consisted in that singular performance known to herself as “giving them as good as they sent,” being a lazy traversing, qualified with scorn, of all that they advanced.  How long they would have put up with this from a plain girl I do not know, but Lanty’s short upper lip seemed framed for indolent and fascinating scorn, and her dreamy eyes usually looked beyond the questioner, or blunted his bolder glances in their velvety surfaces.  The libretto of these scenes was not exhaustive, e.g.:—­

The Swain (with bold, bad gayety).  “Saw that shy schoolmaster hangin’ round your ridge yesterday!  Orter know by this time that shyness with a gal don’t pay.”

Lanty (decisively).  “Mebbe he allows it don’t get left as often as impudence.”

The Swain (ignoring the reply and his previous attitude and becoming more direct).  “I was calkilatin’ to say that with these yer hoss-thieves about, yer filly ain’t safe in the pasture.  I took a turn round there two or three times last evening to see if she was all right.”