you was to leave like this to-night it would be harder than ever to
come back, and you'd have to do it sooner or later. You know I'm giving
you good advice."

"Yes, I know it--before God I know it," he said, fervently. "You are the
best friend I've got, Dixie. No, I don't want to go back to Texas." His
strong voice shook and he coughed to steady it. "I never want to roam
about that way again. I forced myself to stay out there day by day. That
was one mistake, and I ought not to make another on top of it. You see
it right, Dixie. You see it right."

"Then there is little Joe," she reminded him. "He is still having a hard
time with Sam Pitman, and the little fellow has almost counted the hours
since he heard you was coming. He dotes on you. He still has the money
hid away that you left for him. He says he is going to keep it till he's
a man. Oh, it was so sad! Alfred, he started to run away one night
awhile back, after Pitman had whipped him for planting the wrong
seed-corn. I happened to meet him down the road. He had a little bundle
under one arm and a pet chicken I had given him under the other. I
stopped him and got him to go back. I couldn't bear the thought of
having him so far away from me and unprotected. I told him that, and it
made him break down and cry. Then he let me kiss him; he never had
before, he's so bashful, and, well"--her eyes were glistening and her
tone was husky--"the next morning I saw him in the field bright and
early. He was doing the hardest work there is on a farm--digging sprouts
with a heavy grubbing-hoe. But he was cheerful."

"You made him go back, just as you are making me do," Henley said,
swallowing a lump in his throat and forcing a smile. "You were right in
his case, and right in mine. You are my best friend. How goes it with
you? We've talked enough about me."

"Same old seven and six," she answered, with a shrug. "Still fighting
with the world and Carrie Wade. She's a worm in my flesh that is on a
constant wiggle. She nags me more now because she is more miserable
herself. She don't even get as much attention as she did. She used to go
after it, but the men have headed her off. The fellows at the
lumber-camp got to laughing at her for the way she done. She's got down
to little boy sweethearts. She's been making eyes at Johnny Cartwright,
and the little fool--he ain't more than seventeen, eight years younger'n
her--is clean daft about her. Poor old Mrs. Cartwright is awfully
worr