“Suthin’s wrong, Rough. It’s all dark, ’cept only that pine-knot in the chimbly.”
“No, it’s all right, pard. The light’s come over the Range. I kin see better’n I ever could. Kin see the moister in yer eyes, pard, an’ see the crooked path I’ve come, runnin’ clean back to my mother’s knee. I wasn’t allus called Rough. Somebody used to kiss me, an’ call me her boy: nobody’ll ever know I’ve kep’ it till the end.”
“I hev wanted to ax ye, mate, why ye never had any name but jist Rough?”
“Pard—it’s gettin’ dark—my name? I’ve never heard it since I left home. I buried it thar in the little churchyard, whar mother’s waitin’ for the boy that never come back. I can’t tell it, pard. In my kit you’ll find a package done up. Thar’s two picters in it of two faces that’s been hoverin’ over me since I took down. You’ll find my name thar, pard—thar with hers—an’ mother’s.”
“Hers? Will I ever see her, Rough?”
“Not till you see her by the light that comes over the Range to us all. Pard, it’s gettin’ dark—dark and close—darker than it ever seemed to me afore”—
“Rough, what’s the matter? Speak to me, mate. Can’t I do nuthin’ fer ye?”
“Yes—pard. Can’t ye—say—suthin’?”
“What d’ye mean, Rough? I’ll say any thing to please ye.”