“Go along with ye!” laughed Mary, still unwavering.
“Sure,” put in Hal, with hasty gallantry, “'tis a blossom she is herself! A rose in a mining-camp—and there's a dispute about her in the poetry-books. One tells you to leave her on her stalk, and another says to gather ye rosebuds while ye may, old time is still a-flying!”
“Ye're mixin' me up,” said Mary. “A while back I was ridin' on a white horse.”
“I remember,” said Old Edstrom, “not so far back, you were an ant, Mary.”
Her face became grave. To jest about her personal tragedy was one thing, to jest about the strike was another. “Yes, I remember. Ye said I'd stay in the line! Ye were wiser than me, Mr. Edstrom.”
“That's one of the things that come with being old, Mary.” He moved his gnarled old hand toward hers. “You're going on, now?” he asked. “You're a unionist now, Mary?”
“I am that!” she answered, promptly, her grey eyes shining.
“There's a saying,” said he—“once a striker, always a striker. Find a way to get some education for yourself, Mary, and when the big strike comes you'll be one of those the miners look to. I'll not be here, I know—the young people must take my place.”
“I'll do my part,” she answered. Her voice was low; it was a kind of benediction the old man was giving her.
The woman had gone downstairs to attend to her children; she came back now to say that there was a gentleman at the door, who wanted to know when his brother was coming. Hal remembered suddenly—Edward had been pacing up and down all this while, with no company but a “hardware drummer!” The younger brother's resolve to stay in Pedro had already begun to weaken somewhat, and now it weakened still further; he realised that life is complex, that duties conflict! He assured the old miner again of his ability to see that he did not suffer from want, and then he bade him farewell for a while.