"You're worn out," she said.
"Not a bit of it," he answered stoutly. "You're the most
uncomplimentary person I know. I was just thinking what a hardy
pioneer I'd become, and that's the way you dash me to the ground."
She looked at the silvery meshes through which her fingers were laced.
"It's quite white and there were lots of brown hairs left when we
started."
"That's the Emigrant Trail," he smothered a sigh, and his trouble found
words: "It's not for old men, Missy."
"Old!" scornfully; "you're fifty-three. That's only thirty-two years
older than I am. When I'm fifty-three you'll be eighty-five. Then
we'll begin to talk about your being old."
"My little Susan fifty-three!" He moved his head so that he could
command her face and dwell upon its blended bloom of olive and clear
rose, "With wrinkles here and here," an indicating finger helped him,
"and gray hairs all round here, and thick eyebrows, and--" he dropped
the hand and his smile softened to reminiscence, "It was only yesterday
you were a baby, a little, fat, crowing thing all creases and dimples.
Your mother and I used to think everything about you so wonderful that
we each secretly believed--and we'd tell each other so when nobody was
round--that there _had_ been other babies in the world, but never
before one like ours.
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