He was thoughtful for a moment. Ephriam Raymond had done all that he had said and more. That he had died while Rogers was still in the army, had always been a matter of keen regret to the latter; for Raymond's daughter had married years before, and had gone to the coast with her husband, an apostate Mormon, and there had only been Tom with him in his last sickness; Tom, who was always on the verge of trouble more or less serious. The colonel thought of all this, and regretted those vicissitudes which had left him with a vague and uncertain memory of his own father, and had separated him from his best friend at a time when he might have been of some comfort to him. He turned with more questions to Mrs. Crittendon, but the Lan-drays and the Benson and California Mining and Trading Company, had long since taken their place among the traditions of the Ohio town. She had the sentiment of the tragedy rather than the details. “Mr. Benson could tell you all you want to know; he must have known your father. He came West and brought back the news of the massacre; he could tell you all about the company, just who was in it, and everything.” “Well, maybe some day I'll write him.” “Why don't you do it to-night?” suggested Reddy. “There's no such hurry,” said the colonel hastily. “Guess I'll wait until Margaret gets home. I'll have her write the letter for me.” “You know you'll never write at all if you wait; do it now,” said Mrs. Rogers. The colonel gave her a pleasant smile as he pushed back his chair and reached for his pipe. “Just think of the jobs I've saved myself, mother, by putting them off. Half the things I make up my mind to do, I find by waiting ain't so urgent as I supposed; but I'm going to write that letter the first thing when Margaret gets back.” The next day the colonel and Mrs. Rogers departed for home. “Now bring your mother over soon,” urged Mrs. Rogers, as they prepared to drive away. “Don't wait for Margaret to finish her visit in Cheyenne.” Reddy blushed guiltily. This was exactly what he intended doing. “But just come whenever you can.” The colonel added his voice to hers as they drove off, then he lapsed into silence at her side, and the silence endured for many miles. He was thinking of the conversation of the day before, and he was still groping vaguely among memories of the past. At last he turned to his wife, and began telling her of the trip across the plains, with the Landrays and his father. It was a confused narrative, for there seemed to be mingled with it incidents that belonged to another journey that had been made under different circumstances. “Do you know, I'd like mightily to write to Mrs. Landray,” he said at last. “Well, why don't you, colonel?” “Well, maybe I will when Margaret gets back.”