“I almost believe you know what ails him,” said Miller, eying her closely.
“I know what he thinks ails him,” the girl responded.
“And won't you tell me what—what he thinks ails him?”
“No, I couldn't do that,” answered our young lady, with a knowing smile. “If you are ever any wiser on the subject you will have to get your wisdom from him.”
She turned to the piano and began to arrange some scattered pieces of music, and he remained on the hearth, his back to the fire, his brow wrinkled in pleased perplexity.
“I 'll have to get my wisdom from him,” repeated Miller, pronouncing each word with separate distinctness, as if one of them might prove the key to the mystery.
“Yes, I should think two wise men could settle a little thing like that. If not, you may call in the third—you know there were three of you, according to the Bible.”
“Oh, so there were,” smiled Miller; “but it's hard to tell when we three shall meet again. The last time I saw the other two they were having their sandals half-soled for a tramp across the desert. I came this way to build a railroad, and I believe I'm going to do it. That's linking ancient and modern times together with a coupling-pin, isn't it?”
She came from the piano and stood by him, looking down into the fire. “Ah,” she said, seriously, “if you could only do it!”
“Would you like it very much?”