ave a runaway boat's crew, coming ashore to look for gold that the
Mexicans had talked of. Lord! that's easy enough! I tell you what, Loo,
it's worth living up here just for the inspiration." Even while boyishly
exhaling this enthusiasm he was also divesting himself of certain
bundles whose contents seemed to imply that he had brought his
dinner with him,--the youthful Mrs. Harcourt setting the table in a
perfunctory, listless way that contrasted oddly with her husband's
cheerful energy.

"You haven't heard of any regular situation yet?" she asked
abstractedly.

"No,--not exactly," he replied. "But [buoyantly] it's a great deal
better for me not to take anything in a hurry and tie myself to any
particular line. Now, I'm quite free."

"And I suppose you haven't seen that Mr. Fletcher again?" she continued.

"No. He only wanted to know something about me. That's the way with them
all, Loo. Whenever I apply for work anywhere it's always: 'So you're
Dan'l Harcourt's son, eh? Quarreled with the old man? Bad job; better
make it up! You'll make more stickin' to him. He's worth millions!'
Everybody seems to think everything of HIM, as if I had no individuality
beyond that, I've a good mind to change my name."

"And pray what would mine be then?"

There was so much irritation in her voice that he drew nearer her and
gently put his arm around her waist. "Why, whatever mine was, darling,"
he said with a tender smile. "You didn't fall in love with any
particular name, did you, Loo?"

"No, but I married a particular one," she said quickly.

His eyelids quivered again, as if he was avoiding some unpleasantly
staring suggestion, and she stopped.

"You know what I mean, dear," she said, with a quick little laugh. "Just
because your father's an old crosspatch, YOU haven't lost your rights to
his name and property. And those people who say you ought to make it up
perhaps know what's for the best."

"But you remember what he said of you, Loo?" said the young man with a
flashing eye. "Do you think I can ever forget that?"

"But you DO forget it, dear; you forget it when you go in town among
fresh faces and people; when you are looking for work. You forget it
when you're at work writing your copy,--for I've seen you smile as
you wrote. You forget it climbing up the dreadful sand, for you were
thinking just now of what happened years ago, or is to happen years to
come. And I want to forget it too, Milty. I don't want to sit here