"Why, whatever mine was, darling,"
he said with a tender smile. "You didn't fall in love with any
particular name, did you, Loo?"
"No, but I married a particular one," she said quickly.
His eyelids quivered again, as if he was avoiding some unpleasantly
staring suggestion, and she stopped.
"You know what I mean, dear," she said, with a quick little laugh. "Just
because your father's an old crosspatch, YOU haven't lost your rights to
his name and property. And those people who say you ought to make it up
perhaps know what's for the best."
"But you remember what he said of you, Loo?" said the young man with a
flashing eye. "Do you think I can ever forget that?"
"But you DO forget it, dear; you forget it when you go in town among
fresh faces and people; when you are looking for work. You forget it
when you're at work writing your copy,--for I've seen you smile as
you wrote. You forget it climbing up the dreadful sand, for you were
thinking just now of what happened years ago, or is to happen years to
come. And I want to forget it too, Milty. I don't want to sit here all
day, thinking of it, with the wind driving the sand against the window,
and nothing to look at but those white tombs in Lone Mountain Cemetery,
and those white caps that might be gravestones too, and not a soul to
talk to or even see pass by until I feel as if I were dead and buried
also.
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