“Then can I come back to you—an’ the bears, an’ Sam’s grave?”
“You won’t want to. You’ll be learnin’ other things an’ seein’ new places an’ fine folks. You won’t want to come back to the hills, even if you could. But you can write, an’ you’ll have a picter of Sam’s grave, like the kind she showed us to-day. She seems like she’d be mighty good to you, an’ I reckon you’ll have to go, Peanut.”
“But I’m comin’ back, Rose, when I’ve learnt figgerin’ an’ seen all the places. I’m comin’ back to locate a mine an’ make money for us. You can’t stay here always alone. An’ our bears would forgit me if I was gone too long. You’ll feed ’em jest the same, won’t you, Rose, when I ain’t here?”
The woman’s voice broke a little as she assured him that the big brown bears that lumbered down the mountain every day for refuse should still be cared for in his absence.
“She’s comin’ in the mornin’,” the Rose continued, “an’ if yer goin’, you want to be ready. Put on yer winter shoes an’ yer hat an’ yer other shirt. ’Tain’t much of a outfit, but it’s more’n you come with, an’ she’s goin’ to pervide fur you. I’ve got a little scrap o’ money, though, Peanut, an’ I want you to take it along. You ain’t to spend it unless somethin’ happens an’ she ain’t there. She’ll pervide when she is. Jest keep it so you know where it is. If you ever get lost, er need anything when she ain’t at home, then use it, but keep it as long as you can.”
The woman’s hand had gone down to the hem of her skirt and under her knee. It came up holding a small roll of currency.
“There’s ten dollars here, Peanut; it won’t buy much, but it would go a long ways if you was lost and hungry. Keep it in the little sack, with Sam’s ambertype an’ the last whistle he made you, an’ don’t let the sack out o’ yer hands.”
The boy took the money curiously. He had never possessed any before. He opened the bills and looked first at one, then at the other. He went into the cabin presently and deposited them in a small buckskin bag which Sam had given him for his treasures. When Miss Schofield appeared next morning he was sitting stiffly in his winter shoes and hat, his wet, faded hair plastered close, the little bag concealed about his neck. He was quite ready.
The Rose was wiping her eyes as she saw them pass down the mountain in the direction of Sam’s grave. She was wondering what she was going to do without Peanut. She did not realize that perhaps Cynthia Schofield was wondering equally what she was going to do with him—what was to be the outcome of the philanthropic impulse and heart hunger that had led her into taking the pathetic little creature by her side, away from his beloved hills, to begin a new development in a strange atmosphere and amid alien surroundings.
But if Miss Schofield had any misgivings as to the wisdom of her undertaking, she was upheld by the thought that her purpose was altogether righteous, and would be justified by results. The fact that as they passed Sam’s grave Peanut flung himself upon it and wept, and refused to be comforted, only strengthened her belief that he would one day glorify her for having removed him from the influence of former companionships.