“I’ll come back when—I’ve shot the big game—and—you’re twenty-one, you know.”
But he never shot the big game, and he never came back.
CHAPTER IV
Once more night was reigning, but the frost had gone. It was cold, but with the chilliness of late spring, not winter, and the gusty wind blew heavy clouds across the sky. A rainy mist hid the mountains, and added darkness to the already dreary night.
And even as the night was indistinct and gloomy, the Spirits were indistinct and gloomy too. The soughing, sighing wind as it passed among the branches was miserable, but then it is this same dreary wind, they say, that purifies and clears the air.
“The old home, as they call it, is to be broken up,” said Plucritus. “The farm was a very bad speculation. It has never paid.”
“Who is to blame?” asked Genius.
“Why, the farmer. He is one of those delightfully amusing and interesting men so rarely met, who can legislate better for other people than for themselves. He gives other people advice gratis, they take it and prosper. He gives himself advice, and follows it, then fails.”
“Yet,” said Genius, slowly, “I respect and like the farmer. He is a man of well balanced and proportioned judgment.”
“Oh, yes. That makes him the more interesting. He’s a bad speculator, that’s all. Personally, I am not particularly fond of him, you know.”