y, while her eyes continued to search him. "He was about your
size, but he's been up in Alaska, way in the interior somewheres for
years, and the letter I wrote him couldn't have reached him inside a
month. I figured if he came out, he would just about catch the last
steamer in October."

"So he would, if he hadn't come down to Seattle already." He stopped,
fumbling with the pin, and threw open the wicket. "I guess I ain't changed
much more'n you, Annabel."

The woman was silent. Her chin dropped; her glance sought the earth. Then
Banks turned to fasten the gate behind him, and she started to stalk
mechanically up the field towards the cabin. "I feel all broke up," he
said, overtaking her; "like I'd been struck by a blizzard. Why, there was
a girl down in Seattle, she sold me a bill of goods that looked more like
you than you do yourself. I know I got myself to blame, but I never
counted for a minute on your keeping the goats."

The woman stalked on a little faster, but she could not outstrip the
prospector; she turned her face, in refuge, to the flock. "Goats," she
said unsteadily, "goats--are all right when you get used to 'em. They're
something like children, I guess; a sight of trouble but good company and
mighty comforting to have 'round. And they're just as different. There's
old Dad, the cautious looking one standing off there watching us and
chewing the end of a thistle. It might as well be a toothpick, and I'll
bet he's thinking: 'You can't get the best of me, no, sir.' And that piece
of wisdom next to him is the Professor. Don't he remind you of the old
schoolmaster down at the Corners? And there goes Johnny Banks. See him?
The pert little fellow chasing up the field. You never can tell where
he'll turn up or what he'll do next."

She laughed a dry, forced laugh, and Banks echoed it in his strained key.
"But we are going to get rid of 'em. They're a fine bunch--you've brought
'em up splendid, made a sight better showing than I could--but we are
going to get rid of 'em, yes, ma'am, and forget 'em as quick's we can. We
are going to start right now to make up those seven years."

They had reached the cabin, and he stopped on the threshold. "My, my," he
said softly, "don't it look homey? There's your Dad's old chair, and the
dresser and the melodion. I was 'fraid you'd sold that, Annabel."

"I could have, there's been plenty of chances, but Dad gave it to me,
don't you remember? the Christmas I was sixteen."