"You know, Mac."
Old Donald nodded.
"Yes, I guess I do, Johnny," he said in a low voice. "You think of Mis' Joanne as I used to—to—think of her. I guess I know. But—what you goin' to do?"
Aldous shook his head, and for the first time that afternoon a look of uneasiness and gloom overspread his face.
"I don't know, Mac. I'm not ashamed to tell you. I love her. If she were to pass out of my life to-morrow I would ask for something that belonged to her, and the spirit of her would live in it for me until I died. That's how I care, Mac. But I've known her such a short time. I can't tell her yet. It wouldn't be the square thing. And yet she won't remain in Tête Jaune very long. Her mission is accomplished. And if—if she goes I can't very well follow her, can I, Mac?"
For a space old Donald was silent. Then he said, "You're thinkin' of me, Johnny, an' what we was planning on?"
"Partly."
"Then don't any more. I'll stick to you, an' we'll stick to her. Only——"
"What?"
"If you could get Peggy Blackton to help you——"