"Gifts?" It was the falsetto of a boy's voice from the trail below the
Ridge. "Who's talkin' of gifts and things?"
They heard the others ascending. Her woman instinct caught at the first straw to hand. "Photogravures, Fordie, three more to-day. They are Watts—"
"He has to round the next turn! Never mind! He didn't hear," interjected Wayland irritably.
"All the same," she said, "I'm going to send one of those pictures up to you for the cabin. There is Hope sitting on top of the World, eyes bandaged, harp strings broken—"
"Don't send that one! Jim-jams enough of my own up here! I want my
Hope clear-eyed even if she has to go it blind for a bit as to you—"
"Then there's Faith sheathing her sword—"
"Not putting away the Big-Stick," interrupted Wayland.
"Then you'll have to take the Happy Warrior—"
"I forget that one: I've been up here four years, you know?"
"It's the Soldier asleep on the Battle-Field—"