“Thank you—I’ve tried it,” Elliott responded, as they rode on side by side, at the easy lope of the Western horse. The wind sang in their ears, though it was warm and sunny, and it was bringing a yellowish haze up the blue sky.
“‘Weh, weh, der Wind!’”
hummed Margaret, softly.
“‘Frisch weht der Wind der Heimath zu;
Mein Irisch Kind, wo weilest Du——?’”
“What a truly Western combination,—horses, Wagner, and gun-play!” remarked Elliott.
“Of course it is. Where else in the world could you find anything like it? It’s the Greek ideal—action and culture at once.”
“It may be Greek. But I know it would startle the Atlantic coast.”
“I don’t care for the Atlantic coast. Or—yes, I do. I’m going to tell you a great secret. Do you know what I’ve wanted more than anything else in life?”
“Your father must be coming home from the South Seas,” Elliott hazarded.