"Yes, the cattle days is passin', along with the folks that was somebody in this country once. Well, Banjo, we had some good times in the old days; we can remember them. But changes will come, we must expect changes. You don't need to pack up and go on account of that. I ain't goin' to leave." "I've made up my mind. I'm beginnin' to feel tight in the chist already for lack of air." Both sat silent a little while. Banjo's elbows were across his knees, his face lifted toward the window. The wind was falling, and there was a little breaking among the low clouds, baring a bit of blue sky here and there. Banjo viewed this brightening of the day with gladness. "I guess it's passin'," he said, going to the window and peering round as much of the horizon as he could see, "it wasn't nothing but a little shakin' out of the tablecloth after breakfast." "I'm glad of it, for I don't think it's good luck to start out on a trip in a storm. That there Nola she's out in it, too." "Gone up the river?" "Yes. It beats all how she's takin' up with them people, and them with her. She's even bought lumber with her own money to help some of 'em build." "She's got a heart like a dove," he sighed. "As soft as a puddin'," Mrs. Chadron nodded. "But I never could git to it." Banjo sighed again. Mrs. Chadron shook her head, with an expression of sadness for his failure which was deeper than any words she knew. "The loss of her pa bore down on her terrible; she's pinin' and grievin' too hard for a body so young. I hear her cryin' and moanin' in the night sometimes, and I know it ain't no use goin' to her, for I've tried. She seems to need something more than an old woman like me can give, but I don't know what it is." "Maybe she needs a change--a change of air," Banjo suggested, with what vague hope only himself could tell. "Maybe, maybe she does. Well, you're goin' to take a change of air, anyhow, Banjo. But what're you goin' to do away out there amongst strangers?" "I was out there one time, five years ago, and didn't seem to like it then. But since I've stood off and thought it over, it seems to me that's a better place for me than here, with my old friends goin' or gone, and things changin' this a-way. Out there around them hop and fruit ranches they have great times at night in the camps, and a man of my build can keep busy playin' for dances. I done it before, and they took to me, right along." "They do everywheres, Banjo." "Some don't," he sighed, watching out of the window in the direction that Nola must come. "She's not likely to come back before morning--I think she aims to go to the post tonight and stay with Frances," she said, reading his heart in his face. "Maybe it's for the best," said Banjo.