“Your voice sounds like the voice of a boy of mine,” suggested the old man in trembling tones.
“What was his name?” inquired Reuben.
“Reuben Benton.”
“And what is your name?”
“My name is William Benton.”
“How long have you been here?” inquired the young trapper.
“I don’t know. It seems like many years.”
“Do you like it here?”
“Do I like it? I wish I was dead.”
Reuben’s face was glowing with a more tender expression than had been seen upon it in many a day. “We’ll try to arrange it so that you won’t have to stay here much longer,” he said.