“The rich man died and he went straight to hellerum. 
     Lord bress de Lamb—­glory hallelugerum! 
     Lord bress de Lamb!”

Fleming paused at the cabin door.  Before he could rap the voice rose again:—­

     “When ye see a poo’ man be sure to give him crumbsorum,
     Lord bress de Lamb—­glory hallelugerum! 
     Lord bress de Lamb!”

At the end of this interminable refrain, drawn out in a youthful nasal contralto, Fleming knocked.  The girl instantly appeared, holding the ring in her fingers.  “I reckoned it was you,” she said, with an affected briskness, to conceal her evident dislike at parting with the trinket.  “There it is!”

But Fleming was too astounded to speak.  With the opening of the door the sunbonnet had fallen back like a buggy top, disclosing for the first time the head and shoulders of the wearer.  She was not a child, but a smart young woman of seventeen or eighteen, and much of his embarrassment arose from the consciousness that he had no reason whatever for having believed her otherwise.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt your singing,” he said awkwardly.

“It was only one o’ mammy’s camp-meetin’ songs,” said the girl.

“Your mother?  Is she in?” he asked, glancing past the girl into the kitchen.

“’Tain’t mother—­she’s dead.  Mammy’s our old nurse.  She’s gone to Jimtown, and taken my duds to get some new ones fitted to me.  These are some o’ mother’s.”

This accounted for her strange appearance; but Fleming noticed that the girl’s manner had not the slightest consciousness of their unbecomingness, nor of the charms of face and figure they had marred.

She looked at him curiously.  “Hev you got religion?”

“Well, no!” said Fleming, laughing; “I’m afraid not.”

“Dad hez—­he’s got it pow’ful.”

“Is that the reason he don’t like miners?” asked Fleming.

“‘Take not to yourself the mammon of unrighteousness,’” said the girl, with the confident air of repeating a lesson.  “That’s what the Book says.”

“But I read the Bible, too,” replied the young man.

“Dad says, ’The letter killeth’!” said the girl sententiously.

Fleming looked at the trophies nailed on the walls with a vague wonder if this peculiar Scriptural destructiveness had anything to do with his skill as a marksman.  The girl followed his eye.

“Dad’s a mighty hunter afore the Lord.”

“What does he do with these skins?”

“Trades ’em off for grub and fixin’s.  But he don’t believe in trottin’ round in the mud for gold.”

“Don’t you suppose these animals would have preferred it if he had?  Gold hunting takes nothing from anybody.”

The girl stared at him, and then, to his great surprise, laughed instead of being angry.  It was a very fascinating laugh in her imperfectly nourished pale face, and her little teeth revealed the bluish milky whiteness of pips of young Indian corn.