They met full before the cabin, and the woman leaned and peered through the dusk at Andy.
"Is this--Mr.Mallory--Irish ?" she asked nervously.

"Oh dear! Have I gone and made a fool of myself again ?" "Not at all! Good evening, Miss Allen." Andy folded his hands upon the saddle horn and regarded her with a little smile, Keen for what might come next.
"But you're not Irish Mallory.

I thought I recognized the voice, or I wouldn't have--" She urged her horse a step closer, and Andy observed from her manner that she was not accustomed to horses.

She reined as if she were driving, so that the horse, bewildered, came sidling up to him.
"Who are you ?" she asked him sharply.
"Me?
Why, I'm a nice young man--a lot better singer than Irish.

I guess you never heard him, did you ?" He kept his hands folded on the horn, his whole attitude passive--a restful, reassuring passivity that lulled her uneasiness more than words could have done.
"Oh, are you Andy Green?
I seem to connect that name with your voice--and what little I can see of you." "That's something, anyway." Andy's tone was one of gratitude.