"How did he get the accident?" Jack whispered.
"His horse threw him against a tree."
"Wish Rackett would come," whispered Jack.
Mary shook her head and they were silent.
"How old are you, Mary?" Jack asked.
"Nineteen."
"I'm eighteen at the end of this month."
"I know.—But I'm much older than you."
Jack looked at her queer dark muzzle. She seemed to have a queer, humble complacency of her own.
"She"—Jack nodded his head towards Gran—"says that knuckling under makes you old."