The editor flushed slightly, and glanced instinctively around for any
unexpected witness of his ludicrous mistake. The fear of ridicule was
uppermost in his mind, and he was more relieved at his mistake not being
overheard than at its groundlessness.

"The verses ARE pretty," he said, recovering himself, with a critical
air, "and I am glad you like them. But even then, you know, I could not
give you the lady's name without her permission. I will write to her and
ask it, if you like."

The actual fact was that the verses had been sent to him anonymously
from a remote village in the Coast Range,--the address being the
post-office and the signature initials.

The stranger looked disturbed. "Then she ain't about here anywhere?" he
said, with a vague gesture. "She don't belong to the office?"

The young editor beamed with tolerant superiority: "No, I am sorry to
say."

"I should like to have got to see her and kinder asked her a
few questions," continued the stranger, with the same reflective
seriousness. "You see, it wasn't just the rhymin' o' them verses,--and
they kinder sing themselves to ye, don't they?--it wasn't the chyce o'
words,--and I reckon they allus hit the idee in the centre shot every
time,--it wasn't the idees and moral she sort o' drew out o' what she
was tellin',--but it was the straight thing itself,--the truth!"

"The truth?" repeated the editor.