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"Good night," he echoed.,

"Still, he might recognise my claim and your debt, and treat me perhaps with the commiseration with which he would pity himself if he lost three hundred pounds.",

It had become a regular thing for his father to say each morning, "I guess you ain't feelin' up to much today, Billy; so all you have to do is watch the gap and water the cattle"; which was quite agreeable to Billy, because it gave him an opportunity to be by himself. Men who sit in the shadow of irrevocable fate are always that way; they want to be left alone—murderers on the eve of their execution, captains on wrecked ships, Trigger Finger Tim, who was to be shot at sunrise, but wasn't.,

"Yes; since I am here I should like to see the ship," answered Lucy.

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She was dressed, of course, in the costume in which she had been kidnapped, and like the sailors she looked very much the worse for wear and tear. Her jockey-shaped hat, so modish and even rakish when purchased, had fallen into a confusion of headgear, a something that might have wanted a name had it been found on the highway. Her hair looked wild in the inartistic dressing it suffered from. Her rich and characteristic bloom had faded, and what lingered was but[Pg 360] as a delicate faint flush of expiring sunset. But even as she stood, not the most cynical and aspish of her own sex would have challenged her beauty, the charms of her figure, the melting sweetness of her eyes on whose dark-brown irids the white lids, rich in eyelash, reposed. Those eyes were wet now, and tears were upon her cheeks.,

He was silent for a time. "Just as you like," he said at length. "If his comin' annoys you, dear, you tell him so.",

Ringold nodded approval. "All right, Neighbor Watland. Anybody else got anythin' to say?",

So it seemed to the boy, as from the brow of a hill he watched the dawn-haze drift toward the newly-open sun-gates of the eastern sky; for autumn always brought a feeling of sadness to Billy. He missed the twitter of the birds, the thousand and one notes of the wild things he loved and which always passed out and away from his world with the summer. The first hoar frost had come; soon the leaves would turn golden and crimson, the fern-clumps crumple and wither into sere, dead, scentless things. Then with shortening days and darkening skies those leaves and plants would sag to earth and the gaunt arms of the bare trees would lift empty nests toward snow-spitting skies.