She may be a mother with three or four children; or an old maid
who keeps a boarding-house; or a wrinkled school-mistress; or a chit
of a school-girl. I've had some fair verses from a red-haired girl of
fourteen at the Seminary," he concluded with professional coolness.
The stranger regarded him with the naive wonder of an inexperienced
man. Having paid this tribute to his superior knowledge, he regained his
previous air of grave perception. "I reckon she ain't none of them. But
I'm keepin' you from your work. Good-by. My name's Bowers--Jim Bowers,
of Mendocino. If you're up my way, give me a call. And if you do write
to this yer 'White Violet,' and she's willin', send me her address."
He shook the editor's hand warmly--even in its literal significance
of imparting a good deal of his own earnest caloric to the editor's
fingers--and left the room. His footfall echoed along the passage and
died out, and with it, I fear, all impression of his visit from the
editor's mind, as he plunged again into the silent task before him.
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