"That's good. I'm doing well in that line too. I forgot to tell you."
There was no elation in his voice; he looked back with a pang to the
bold and splendid years of their poverty. "Then the Major will quit
wandering round like a lost cat, won't he?"

"I think he likes it here--only for the crazy-mad political feeling;
and I think he's settled down for good."

"High time, I think, at his age."

"You needn't talk! Dad's only ten years older than you are." She
leaned her cheek on her hand, she brushed back a little stray tendril
of midnight hair from her dark eyes, and considered him thoughtfully.
"Why, John Wesley, I've known you nearly all my life and you don't
look much older now than when I first saw you."

"That was in Virginia City. You were just six years old and your pony
ran away with you. We were great old chums for a month or so. The next
time I saw you was--"

"At Bakersfield--at mother's funeral," said the girl softly. "Then you
came to Prescott, and you had lost your thumb in the meantime; and I
was Little Next Door to you--"

"And Prescott and me, we agreed it was best for both of us that I
should go away."

"Yes; and when you came back you were going to stay. Why didn't you
stay, John Wesley?"