"And some of 'em," said the old woman, rocking in easeful reminiscence, "would be as fresh with me as if I'd given 'em encouragement. But George Alston, never—he'd treat me as respectful as if I was the first lady in the land. Halting behind to have a neighborly chat and the rest of them throwin' their money on the table and off through the dining room hollerin' for their horses."
Her son, on the lower step, stirred as if uncomfortable. These memories, once prone to rouse a tender amusement, now carried their secret sting.
"He was the real thing," the farmer gravely commented. "There wasn't many like him."
Sadie, who was not interested in a man dead ten years ago, pushed the conversation on to her own generation.
"His daughters are grown up. They must be young ladies now."
Mark answered:
"Yes—Miss Chrystie's just eighteen, came of age this summer. The other one's a few years older."
"Up in Virginia," said the farmer, "George Alston was a bachelor. Every woman was out with her lariat after him but he give 'em all the slip. And afterward, when he went back East to see his folks, a little girl in his home town got him—a girl a lot younger than him. She died after a few years."
There was regret in his tone, not so much for the untimely demise of the lady as for the fact that George Alston had not found his mate in California.
"What are they like?" said Sadie—"pretty?"