"The hotels and all," she continued with shining eyes; "and nobody will
think it's queer. I'll be your daughter, like always."

Calvin turned abruptly from her and faced the valley saturated with
slumberous sunlight. Lucy hesitated for a moment and then fled lightly
into the house. After a little he heard her singing on the upper floor.
People wouldn't think it was queer because she would be his daughter,
"like always."

Yet he wasn't old beyond hope, past love--as strong and nearly as
springy as a hickory sapling. He had waited half his life for this.
Calvin slowly smiled in bitterness and self-contempt; a pretty figure
for a young girl to admire, he thought, losing the sense of mere
physical fitness. Anyhow Lucy was supremely happy and safe, and he had
accomplished it. He was glad that he had been so industrious and
successful. Lucy could have almost anything she wanted--pretty clothes
and rings with real jewels, necklaces hung with better than Scotch
pebbles.

Perhaps when she had seen the world--its bigness and noise and
confusion--after her longing was answered, she would turn back to him.
Already he was oppressed by a feeling of strangeness, of loss at
leaving the high valleys of home.




THE EGYPTIAN CHARIOT