“Oh, only of things that happened over there”--she nodded her head towards the distant hills as to some old crony with whom she shares secrets--“when I was a girl.” “You lived there, long ago, didn't you, when you were young?” I asked. Boys do not always stop to consider whether their questions might or might not be better expressed. “You're very rude,” said my mother--it was long since a tone of her old self had rung from her in answer to any touch; “it was a very little while ago.” Suddenly she raised her head and listened. Perhaps some twenty seconds she remained so with her lips parted, and then from the woods came a faint, long-drawn “Coo-ee.” We ran to the side of the tower commanding the pathway from the village, and waited until from among the dark pines my father emerged into the sunlight. Seeing us, he shouted again and waved his stick, and from the light of his eyes and his gallant bearing, and the spring of his step across the heathery turf, we knew instinctively that trouble had come upon him. He always rose to meet it with that look and air. It was the old Norse blood in his veins, I suppose. So, one imagines, must those godless old Pirates have sprung to their feet when the North wind, loosed as a hawk from the leash, struck at the beaked prow. We heard his quick step on the rickety stair, and the next moment he was between us, breathing a little hard, but laughing. He stood for awhile beside my mother without speaking, both of them gazing at the distant hills among which, as my mother had explained, things had happened long ago. And maybe, “over there,” their memories met and looked upon each other with kind eyes. “Do you remember,” said my father, “we climbed up here--it was the first walk we took together after coming here. We discussed our plans for the future, how we would retrieve our fortunes.” “And the future,” answered my mother, “has a way of making plans for us instead.” “It would seem so,” replied my father, with a laugh. “I am an unlucky beggar, Maggie. I dropped all your money as well as my own down that wretched mine.” “It was the will--it was Fate, or whatever you call it,” said my mother. “You could not help that, Luke.” “If only that damned pump hadn't jambed,” said my father. “Do you remember that Mrs. Tharand?” asked my mother. “Yes, what of her?” “A worldly woman, I always thought her. She called on me the morning we were leaving; I don't think you saw her. 'I've been through more worries than you would think, to look at me,' she said to me, laughing. I've always remembered her words: 'and of all the troubles that come to us in this world, believe me, Mrs. Kelver, money troubles are the easiest to bear.'” “I wish I could think so,” said my father. “She rather irritated me at the time,” continued my mother. “I thought it one of those commonplaces with which we console ourselves for other people's misfortunes. But now I know she spoke the truth.”