Billy burst into hearty laughter, in which Bert joined.

"I don't care," Mary protested, "You're terrible, both of
you--an' you, too, Saxon. I'd never a-thought it of you."

"Listen to me, kid," Bert began soothingly, as his arm slipped
around her waist.

But in the false excitement she had worked herself into, Mary
rudely repulsed the arm, and then, fearing that she had wounded
her lover's feelings, she took advantage of the teasing and
banter to recover her good humor. His arm was permitted to
return, and with heads bent together, they talked in whispers.

Billy discreetly began to make conversation with Saxon.

"Say, you know, your name is a funny one. I never heard it tagged
on anybody before. But it's all right. I like it."

"My mother gave it to me. She was educated, and knew all kinds of
words. She was always reading books, almost until she died. And
she wrote lots and lots. I've got some of her poetry published in
a San Jose newspaper long ago. The Saxons were a race of
people--she told me all about them when I was a little girl. They
were wild, like Indians, only they were white. And they had blue
eyes, and yellow hair, and they were awful fighters."

As she talked, Billy followed her solemnly, his eyes steadily
turned on hers.