So they who went and they who stayed behind parted as those who had but slight hope of ever meeting again in this lower world.
Nearly the whole town gathered to see the train of wagons set forth, and even Don Keith, as he witnessed the final leave-takings, the clinging embraces, the tearful, sobbing adieus, was not more than half sorry that he was not going along.
Fan drew the acknowledgment from him later in the day, when she overheard him softly singing to himself:
"'I jumped aboard the old ox-team,
And cracked my whip so free;
And every time I thought of home,
I wished it wasn't me.'"
"Yes, that would have been the way with you, Don, I'm sure," Fan said; "so be wise in time, and don't try it, even if father should consent."
"I don't know," he said, turning toward her with a roguish twinkle in his eye; "I think another part of the song suits me better:
"'We'll dig the mountains down,
We'll drain the rivers dry;
A million of the rocks bring home,
So, ladies, don't you cry.'"
"That's easier said than done, Don," Fan remarked, with a grave, half-sad look. "Oh, brother dear, don't let the love of gold get possession of you!"
"I don't love it for itself, Fan—I hope I never shall—but for what it can do, what it can buy."
"It cannot buy the best things," she said, looking at him with dewy eyes; "it cannot buy heaven, it cannot buy love, or health, or freedom from pain; no, nor a clear conscience or quiet mind. It will seem of small account when one comes to die."