“Isn’t he the grandest old person,” she said to Robin. “Do you know what he said to me? He said: ‘Get to blazes out of here and leave me rest! Go an’ plague that fellow you’re goin’ to marry. He’ll be sorry when he gets to know what he’s got on his hands as well as I do.’”
“Huh!” Robin grunted. “If the fellow lives till he’s sorry he’ll beat Methuselah’s record for old age.”
“Let’s go out on the porch,” she suggested.
Robin stood with his arms about her looking off toward the blue dome of Old Centennial, the sharp cone of Shadow Butte. The sun dipped low, its rim touching the horizon. Distant windows flashed like heliographs. A cool breeze fluttered the porch awnings.
In his mind’s eye Robin could see all the beauty of those distant hills, the far reach of the plains. Something seemed to have been mysteriously restored to him, some dark cloud blown away, something seemed to have set his heart singing and uplifted him with a strangely comforting sense of peace and security.
He drew the girl up close to him, and they stood for a long time in silence, Robin’s fingers playing hide and seek in the tangle of her yellow hair.
THE END