"Oh, yes, Berry; he's _just_ like his pa would have looked if he'd lived. Dear, dear, where have you dropped from? Let me see, how long is it since----" "I should say it's all of fifteen years, Mrs. Sellers." "Well, well, how time does get away with us. Yes, and oh, the changes that----" There was a sudden catch of her voice and a trembling of the lip, the men waiting reverently for her to get command of herself and go on; but, after a little struggle, she turned away with her apron to her eyes, and softly disappeared. "Seeing you made her think of the children, poor thing--dear, dear, they're all dead but the youngest. But banish care; it's no time for it now--on with the dance, let joy be unconfided, is my motto--whether there's any dance to dance or any joy to unconfide, you'll be the healthier for it every time--every time, Washington--it's my experience, and I've seen a good deal of this world. Come, where have you disappeared to all these years, and are you from there now, or where are you from?" "I don't quite think you would ever guess, Colonel. Cherokee Strip." "My land!" "Sure as you live." "You can't mean it: Actually _living_ out there?" "Well, yes, if a body may call it that; though it's a pretty strong term for 'dobies and jackass rabbits, boiled beans and slapjack, depression, withered hopes, poverty in all its varieties----" "Louise out there?" "Yes, and the children." "Out there now?" "Yes; I couldn't afford to bring them with me." "Oh, I see--you had to come--claim against the Government. Make yourself perfectly easy--I'll take care of that." "But it isn't a claim against the Government." "No? Want to be a postmaster? _That's_ all right. Leave it to me. I'll fix it." "But it isn't postmaster--you're all astray yet." "Well, good gracious, Washington, why don't you come out and tell me what it is? What do you want to be so reserved and distrustful with an old friend like me for? Don't you reckon I can keep a se----" "There's no secret about it--you merely don't give me a chance to----"