for the space was small. Mark, on the bottom step, smoked a pipe and
watched the eucalyptus leaves printed in pointed black groupings against
the Prussian-blue sky. This was the time when the family, released from
its labors, sat back comfortably and listened to the favored one while he
told of the city by the sea. Old Man Burrage had a way of suddenly asking
questions about people he had known in the brave days of the Comstock,
some dead now, others trailing clouds of glory eastward this many years.

Tonight he was minded to hear about the children of George Alston whom
Mark had met. Long ago in Virginia City Old Man Burrage had often seen
George Alston, talked with him when he was manager of the Silver Queen
and one of the big men of that age of giants. Mother piped up
there--_she_ wasn't going to be beaten. Many's the time she'd waited on
George Alston when he and the others would come riding over the Sierras
on their long-tailed horses--a bunch of them together galloping into
Placerville like the Pony Express coming into Sacramento.

"And some of 'em," said the old woman, rocking in easeful reminiscence,
"would be as fresh with me as if I'd given 'em encouragement. But George
Alston, never--he'd treat me as respectful as if I was the first lady in
the land. Halting behind to have a neighborly chat and the rest of them
throwin' their money on the table and off through the dining room
hollerin' for their horses."

Her son, on the lower step, stirred as if uncomfortable. These memories,
once prone to rouse a tender amusement, now carried their secret sting.

"He was the real thing," the farmer gravely commented. "There wasn't many
like him."