Sadie, who was not interested in a man dead ten years ago, pushed the
conversation on to her own generation.

"His daughters are grown up. They must be young ladies now."

Mark answered:

"Yes--Miss Chrystie's just eighteen, came of age this summer. The other
one's a few years older."

"Up in Virginia," said the farmer, "George Alston was a bachelor. Every
woman was out with her lariat after him but he give 'em all the slip.
And afterward, when he went back East to see his folks, a little girl in
his home town got him--a girl a lot younger than him. She died after a
few years."

There was regret in his tone, not so much for the untimely demise of the
lady as for the fact that George Alston had not found his mate in
California.

"What are they like?" said Sadie--"pretty?"

Mark had his back toward her. She could see the shape of it, pale in its
light-colored shirt, against the dark filigree of shrubs at the bottom
of the steps. His answer sounded indifferent between puffs of his pipe:

"Yes, I guess so. Miss Chrystie's a big, fine sort of girl, with yellow
hair and lots of color. She's nearly as tall as I am. The other, Miss
Lorry--well, she's small."