“Where you would have said--?” Philip permitted himself a grim little smile. “Where my grandfather might have said, ‘I don’t calculate.’” “Oh; then you are a Yankee?” “I suppose that is what I should be called--in Mississippi. My home is in New Hampshire.” “I softened it some,” said the girl half mockingly. “When I was small, I used to hear it always as ‘damn’ Yankee,’ and for the longest time I supposed it was just one word. You don’t mind, do you?” “Why should I mind? The war has been over for quite a long time.” “Not so very long; and it will be still longer before it is over for us of the South. We were whipped, you know.” Then, turning to the car window: “Oh, look! See the deer!” “Antelope,” Philip corrected gravely. “They told me in Kansas City that only a few years ago the buffalo were so thick out here that sometimes the trains had to be stopped to let the herd go by.” “You never saw them?” “Oh, no; I’m new--like everything else out here.” “I suppose you are going to this place called Leadville to make your fortune digging gold?--or is it silver? I never can remember.” “Not at all,” he hastened to assure her. “I expect to go to work in a railroad office in Denver.” “We are going to Denver, too,” she volunteered. “The Captain isn’t well, and we are hoping the climate will help him.” “The Captain?” Philip queried. “My father,” she explained. Then, as if upon a sudden impulse: “Would you care to--may I?” “I wish you would,” said Philip, adding: “My name is Trask.” The easy, self-contained manner in which she compassed the introductions made him wonder if such gifts came naturally to young women of the South. He shook hands rather awkwardly over the back of the seat with Captain Dabney; tried to say the appropriate formality to the wife and mother; tried to make big-brotherly nods to the two younger girls who were named for him as Mysie and Mary Louise. “Now then, since you know us all around, we can talk as much as we want to,” said the girl at his side. “Not quite all around,” he ventured to point out. “Oh, I don’t count; but I’m Jean--not the French way; just J-e-a-n.” Philip smiled. “In that case, then, I’m Philip,” he said. The eyes, that were so dark that in certain lights they seemed to be all pupil, grew thoughtful. “I’ve always liked that name for a boy,” she asserted frankly. “And it fits you beautifully. Of course, you wouldn’t go and dig gold in the mountains.” “Why wouldn’t I?” he demanded. “Oh, just because the Philips don’t do such things.” And before he could think of the proper retort: “Why is everybody looking out of the windows on the other side of the car?” “I’ll see,” he replied, and went to investigate. And when he returned: “We have come in sight of the mountains. Would you like to see them?”