"'Well, she's on the farm, just the same as ever—takin' care of the old man. Her mother's dead.'
"I didn't push that matter any farther, but just planned to ride over the next morning and see how she looked.
"All that evening sis and I deviled the old man. Mother had told sis about my mine—and so she'd bring out every little while how uncertain the gold-seekin' business was and how if I'd stayed on the farm I could 'a' been well off—and she'd push me hard when I started in on one of my hard-luck stories. I had to own up that I had walked out to save money, and that I was travelin' on an excursion ticket 'cause it was cheap—and so on.
"The old man's mouth got straighter and straighter and his eyes colder—but I told mother not to say anything till next day, and she didn't, although he tossed and turned and grunted half the night. He really took it hard; but he finally agreed to harbor me and give me a chance—so mother told me next morning—which was Sunday. I had planned to get home Saturday night.
"Next morning after breakfast—and it was a breakfast—I strolled out to the barn and, the carriage-shed door being open, I pulled the old buggy out—'peared like it was the very same one, and I was a-dustin' the cushions and fussin' around when the old man came up.
"'What you doin' with that buggy?' he asks.
"'I jest thought I'd ride over and see Nance McRae,' I says, just as I did eleven years before.
"'I reckon you better think again,' he says, and rolls the buggy back into the shed, just the way he did before. 'If you want to see Nance McRae you can walk,' he says, and I could see he meant it.
"'All right,' I says, and out I stepped without so much as saying good-by, intendin' to go for good this time.
"I went across the road to Martin's and got a chance to 'phone into Jackson, and in about twenty minutes I was whirlin' over the road in a red-cushioned automobile that ran smooth as oil, and inside of half an hour I was rollin' through McRae's gate.