hy, Miss Swaim, I come out here to see my mother. I 'ain't never
failed to bring her a flower in summer, or a green leaf in winter, one
single Sunday since she was laid out there on the south slope one Easter
day eight Aprils ago."

"But she isn't there." Jerry spoke gently now, realizing that she had
hurt him unintentionally.

"She is to me, an' I'd ruther think it thataway an' feel like I was
callin' every Sunday, never forgettin'," Ponk said, sadly.

"Where's your dead to you, Miss Swaim?" he asked, after a pause.

Jerry, who was gazing down the Sage Brush Valley, turned slowly at his
words, her big eyes luminous with tears.

"They are not." She waved a hand against viewless air.

"Oh yes, they are, walkin' beside you every day, lovin' you and proud of
you! A good mother just lives on an' keeps doin' good, and so does a
father, if you let 'em." Ponk hesitated, and his moon-round face was
flushed. "I ain't tryin' to preach," he added, hastily. "They's some
things, though, we all got to cling to or else get hustled off our feet
into a big black void where we just sink and die. It ain't just
Sage-Brushers, but it's all Christians--Baptists and Cammylites and High
Church and everybody. It's safer to stand in the light than sink in the
bottomless night. But, say, look who's comin' an' see what's trailin'
him. I guess I'll be soarin' back to the hotel now. Pleased to meet
you--always am pleased." Ponk lifted his hat and bowed uncovered, and
uncovered walked away.

What he had said in the sincerity of his spiritual belief fell on
fertile soil in the mind of his listener. He had preached a sermon to
her that was good for her to hear.

Jerry looked out in the direction he had indicated and saw York
Macpherson, walking a bit briskly for him and the place and the
afternoon.

It was no wonder that Jerusha Darby should expect York to be caught by
the charms of his guest. As she sat there in the shade of the
cottonwoods, where, in all the cemetery, the blue grass grew rankest,
with her pale-green gown, her smooth pink cheeks, and the wavy masses of
golden-brown hair coiled low at the back of her head, York wondered if
the spirit of the wild rose in bloom and the spirit of some Greek nymph
had not combined in the personification before him.

At the gateway he met Ponk.

"Why do you run away? I have a special-delivery letter for Miss Swaim. I
thought I'd better come and find her, but that needn't interfere with
you."