"She reckoned you must have thought the world of your own little
girl."

He paid no attention. Suddenly he said, irrelevantly--

"That dime little Sissy give me is the first gift I've had made me in
thirty-five year. Wal, young man, ye must ha' known--didn't ye now?--
that you was takin' big chances in comin' after ole Pap Spooner. I'll
bet the hull crowd down in Paradise laughed at the idee o' fetchin'
me--hey?"

"Nobody laughs in Paradise now, and nobody except my brother, the
doctor, and Sissy's father knows that I've come after you."

"Ye'll ride back and say the old man was skeered--hey?"

"Well, you are, aren't you?"

"Yes; I've enough sense to know when I am skeered. I'm skeered plum to
death, but all the same I'm a-goin' back with you, because Sissy give
me that dime. There's a sack o' crushed barley behind that shed. Give
yer plug a half feed, an' by then I'll be ready."

We rode into Paradise as night was closing in. The south-east wind was
still blowing, and the thin veil of mist upon the mountain had grown
into a cloud. In front of George Leadham's house were a couple of
eucalyptus trees. Their long, lanceolate leaves were shaking as Pap
and I passed through the gate. A man's shadow darkened the small
porch. To the right was the room where Sissy lay. A light still shone