day.

"Was you aimin' to sell Whetstone and go on the train, Duke?"

"No, I'm not goin' to sell him yet a while."

The Duke was not a talkative man on any occasion, and now he sat in
silence watching the cook kneading out a batch of bread, his thoughts a
thousand miles away.

Where, indeed, would the journey that he was shaping in his intention
that minute carry him? Somewhere along the railroad between there and
Puget Sound the beckoning lady had left the train; somewhere on that
long road between mountain and sea she was waiting for him to come.

Taterleg stood his loaves in the sun to rise for the oven, making a
considerable rattling about the stove as he put in the fire. A silence
fell.

Lambert was waiting for his horse to rest a few hours, and, waiting, he
sent his dreams ahead of him where his feet could not follow save by
weary roads and slow.

Between Misery and the end of that railroad at the western sea there
were many villages, a few cities. A passenger might alight from the
Chicago flier at any of them, and be absorbed in the vastness like a
drop of water in the desert plain. How was he to know where she had left
the train, or whither she had turned afterward, or journeyed, or where
she lodged now? It seemed beyond finding out. Assuredly it was a task
too great for the life of youth, so evanescent in the score of time,
even though so long and heavy to those impatient dreamers who draw
themselves onward by its golden chain to the cold, harsh facts of age.

It was a foolish quest, a hopeless one. So reason said. Romance and
youth, and the longing that he could not define, rose to confute this
sober argument, flushed and eager, violet scent blowing before.

Who could tell? and perhaps; rash speculations, faint promises. The
world was not so broad that two might never meet in it whose ways had
touched for one heart-throb and sundered again in a sigh. All his life
he had been hearing that it was a small place, after all was said.
Perhaps, and who can tell? And so, galloping onward in the free leash of
his ardent dreams.

"When was you aimin' to start, Duke?" Taterleg inquired, after a silence
so long that Lambert had forgotten he was there.

"In about another hour."

"I wasn't tryin' to hurry you off, Duke. My reason for askin' you was
because I thought maybe I might be able to go along with you a piece of
the way, if you don't object to my kind of company."

"Why, you're not goin' to jump the j