"Why, yes," Mary went on in low, rapid tones. "My
people live in the Kentucky mountains."

He bent low and gently touched her arm.

"Say, we can't talk in here--I'm afraid. Would it
be asking too much of you to come out in the park, sit
down on a bench and tell me about it? I'll never know
how to thank you, if you will?"

It was absurd, of course, such a request, and yet
his interest was so keen, his deference to her superior
knowledge so humble and appealing, to refuse seemed
ungracious. She hesitated and rose abruptly.

"Just a moment--I'll return my books and then we'll
go. You can replace this volume on the shelf where we
got it."

"Thank yoo, miss," he responded gratefully.
"You're awfully kind."

"Don't mention it," she laughed.

In a moment she was walking by his side down the
smooth marble stairs and out through the grand entrance
into Fifth Avenue. The strange part about it was, she
was not in the least excited over a very unconventional
situation. She had allowed a handsomely groomed,