It was an old question, and one that they had been asking themselves
and one another and every one, over and over, ever since they had been
old enough to think. The short story which Philip Alston had told was
all that he or any one knew or ever was to know. The boy silently shook
his head. The girl went on:--
"Sometimes I am sorry that we couldn't live in his house. You would have
understood him better and have loved him more--as he deserves. It is
only that you don't really know each other," she said gently. "And then
I should like to do something for him--something to cheer him--who does
everything for me. It must be very sad to be alone and old. It grieves
me to see him riding away to that desolate cabin, especially on stormy
nights. But he never will let me come to his house, though I beg and
beg. He says it is too rough, and that too many strange men are coming
and going on business."
"Yes; too many strange men on very strange business."
She did not hear or notice what he said, because the sound of horses'
feet echoing behind them just at that moment caused her to turn her
head.
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