“I know it, but I don’t like to think of it.”
“This is only weakness. You ought to think of it, and be forming your plans.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Wentworth,” said Gerald with sad dignity, “but I cannot and will not speak of my father’s death at present. When God takes him from me it will be time to consider what I shall do.”
“Suit yourself,” said Bradley Wentworth stiffly, “but you must not forget that I am your father’s friend, and——”
“Are you my father’s friend?” asked Gerald with a searching look.
“Of course I am,” answered Wentworth, coloring. “Hasn’t he told you we were young men together?”
“Yes, he has told me that.”
“Then you understand it. I am his friend and yours.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Gerald gravely, “but there,” he added, pointing to a low, one-story frame building, “is the place where Jake Amsden probably came to buy liquor.”
Over the entrance was a large board on which was painted in rude characters: