Fanny drew a long breath, and, with a thought of ’Tina, answered, “I am like one of my grandmothers.”
Slight as was her knowledge of the world Inez’s womanly instinct told her that Fanny did not care to discuss her family and she changed the conversation.
“I am going to get dinner now,” she said. “Would you like to see me? I don’t suppose you ever did a stroke of work in your life?”
“I never have,—more’s the pity,” Fanny said, as she followed Inez to the kitchen and watched her with the greatest interest, offering to help her.
“Not now,” Inez said. “You may wipe the dishes when dinner is over, and then we can have more time to visit.”
Fanny wiped the dishes after the dinner, in which the huckleberry pie had a conspicuous place, and left its marks on her mouth and teeth. When the work was done there was a ramble among the hills, a visit to Anita’s grave, which was covered with flowers and then, as the afternoon began to wane, the two girls sat down upon the piazza and watched the shadows deepening in the valley and the colors changing on the mountains from rosy tints to violet hues, while the sound of the waterfalls in the distance became more distinct as night drew on.
“Isn’t the world beautiful?” Inez said, “and isn’t it a joy to live. And yet I have a presentiment that I shall die young, like mother. She had heart trouble, you know, and I inherit it from her. A great shock of joy or pain might kill me. Then what would father do,—and Tom.”
This was the first time she had mentioned Tom, and after a moment Fanny said affirmatively: “You love Tom?” and into Inez’s eyes there came a bright, happy look as she replied, “I don’t mind telling you that I am going to marry him sometime when he gets a little more ahead and can leave his present business. It was settled last winter. He is a good deal older than I am, but looks younger than he is and I look older. Strangers take me for twenty at least. I have always known Tom and always loved him, I think. I have sometimes fancied that father was not quite pleased. He has never said anything except that Tom was too old for me and that I ought to see more of the world before marrying. Tom is my world. There is a pretty house in Stockton which he is going to buy, when he is able, where we can live in the winter, but we shall come back here in the summer.”
“What is his other name? I’ve never heard. You have always called him Tom,” Fanny said, and Inez replied, “Why, Tom Hardy. Funny you didn’t know, and he is the one who kept Long John from robbing the coach the other day. That is what I was going to tell you. I am so proud of him. The papers are full of his praises. Father says there is not another man in the valley who would dare attack that giant of a fellow. Tom hasn’t been home since, and I’m dying to see him. I have felt nervous every time I have thought of the risk he ran. What if he had been shot!”
Inez’s cheek grew pale as she thought of the danger her lover had escaped, and before she could say any more Fanny exclaimed, “Is that Mr. Hardy your Tom? I know him. He was on the coach with us from Milton to Chinese camp and told us all about it. I’m glad he is your Tom.”