The door was open and he went in unthinkingly, seeing nothing in the gloom.

It was his horse which snorted and settled back on the reins and otherwise professed his reluctance to enter the place.
Charming Billy, as was consistent with his hunger and his weariness and the general mood of him, "cussed" rather fluently and jerked the horse forward a step or two before he saw some one poised hesitatingly upon the manger in the nearest stall.
"I guess he's afraid of _me_," ventured a voice that he felt to his toes.

"I was hunting eggs.

They lay them always in the awkwardest places to get at." She scrambled down and came toward him, bareheaded, with the sleeves of her blue-and-white striped dress rolled to her elbows--Flora Bridger, if you please.
Billy stood still and stared, trying to make the reality of her presence seem reasonable; and he failed utterly.

His most coherent thought at that moment was a shamed remembrance of the way he had sworn at his horse.
Miss Bridger stood aside from the wild-eyed animal and smiled upon his master.