njo sighed again.

Mrs. Chadron shook her head, with an expression of sadness for his
failure which was deeper than any words she knew.

"The loss of her pa bore down on her terrible; she's pinin' and
grievin' too hard for a body so young. I hear her cryin' and moanin'
in the night sometimes, and I know it ain't no use goin' to her, for
I've tried. She seems to need something more than an old woman like me
can give, but I don't know what it is."

"Maybe she needs a change--a change of air," Banjo suggested, with
what vague hope only himself could tell.

"Maybe, maybe she does. Well, you're goin' to take a change of air,
anyhow, Banjo. But what're you goin' to do away out there amongst
strangers?"

"I was out there one time, five years ago, and didn't seem to like it
then. But since I've stood off and thought it over, it seems to me
that's a better place for me than here, with my old friends goin' or
gone, and things changin' this a-way. Out there around them hop and
fruit ranches they have great times at night in the camps, and a man
of my build can keep busy playin' for dances. I done it before, and
they took to me, right along."

"They do everywheres, Banjo."

"Some don't," he sighed, watching out of the window in the direction
that Nola must come.

"She's not likely to come back before morning--I think she aims to go
to the post tonight and stay with Frances," she said, reading his
heart in his face.

"Maybe it's for the best," said Banjo.

"I guess everything that comes to us is for the best, if we knew how
to take it," she said. "Well, you set there and be comfortable, and
I'll stir Maggie up and have her make you something nice for dinner.
After that I want you to play me the old songs over before you go.
Just to think I'll never hear them songs no more breaks my heart,
Banjo--plumb breaks my heart!"

As she passed Banjo she laid her hand on his head in a manner of
benediction, and tears were in her eyes.

The sun was out again when they had finished lunch, coaxing autumn on
into November at the peril of frosted toes. Mrs. Chadron had
brightened considerably, also. Even bereavement and sorrow could not
shake her fealty to chili, and now it was rewarding her by a rubbing
of her old color in her face as she sat by the window and waited for
Banjo to tune his instruments for the parting songs.

Her workbasket was beside her, the bright knitting-needles in the
unfinished sock. It never would be comple