"It's wonderful to think of going out into the world that they knew, Ben—my father and mother. It seems as if they must be out there now, and that I'm going to meet them very quietly and naturally some day. I think it wouldn't astonish me."
"Look a-here, Kid! That'll be about enough o' that! You go to bed."
The other smiled a little wanly.
"I can't. I'm afraid to. I'm going to sit here awhile and think, and when the moon gets up I'm going outside to think. The hills haven't heard the news yet, and the trail over to the lake doesn't know about it. I've got to spread it before I sleep. You see, when I do sleep, I'm afraid I'll wake up and find it was stuff I dreamed."
"Shucks, Kid, what's the use o' talking like that? It ain't no dream. It's true as God made little apples." There was, at the moment, a noticeable relaxation from the speaker's habitual austerity. An awkward smile of affection melted the hardness of his face as he held out a hand to Ewing. "An' I'm doggoned if I'd be so all-fired amazed if everything come out fur the best. Yes, sir, blame me, Kid, if I don't almost half b'lieve you'll make good!"
"You can bet I'll try, Ben!"
"That's right; you do your damndest—'angels can do no more,' as the feller said."
As he lighted a candle his face was grim once more—savagely grim, even as he sang, in going to his rest:
"Oh, 'twas on a summer's eve when I first metter,
Swingin' on the garden ga-a-ate!"