As the paddle churned the water there was a chorus of good-bying and hurrahing. The whistle shrieked—the steamer lumbered fussily down-stream.
"Why don't you wave, too?" said Val, excitedly. "Is that old book under your arm what you went back for? Why is your other hand full of leaves?"
"I can't imagine why." He opened his fingers and let the scarlet barberries and the small crisp leaves fall into the river.
The faces in the crowd were growing dim, but still she waved her handkerchief.
"You remember that man you once told me about?" she said.
"What man?" He looked dreamily back at the throng as though expecting to find him there.
"Don't you remember he was at play when the Roman guard came to carry him to his execution? I should like to call back to my friends as he did: 'Bear witness when I am dead that I had the better of the game!'"
Ethan's prophecy proved true. Val loved the place at Oakland, and all the walks and drives about. She delighted in San Francisco, and she ransacked Chinatown with unabated curiosity.
"You've never told me what you think of Yaffti," Ethan said to her some days after their arrival.