Besides, my father didn't talk
about Langrigg much. Still I had, so to speak, got the place; I could
see it. I wonder whether one remembers things one's parents knew."

"It doesn't look possible," Carrie replied. "But do you know your
father's people?"

"I don't," said Jim, with a touch of dryness. "There was a Joseph
Dearham who lived at Langrigg. I imagine he was my grandfather, but he
and the others left my father alone and we cut out the lot."

"Were your father and you like each other?"

"Not in a way. I reckon I'm like my mother, but my father has kind of
faded; I'm often sorry I can't locate him well. He was not the man to
go far in this country. Things I do remember show he had fine grit,
but he hadn't punch enough. I think he was too proud to grab what was
his."

"You are not like that?"

Jim smiled. "I take what's mine, but I don't want more. You see, I
had to hustle for my mother's sake and I'd got the habit when she died
and left me all alone. Well, that's all there is to my story, and I've
certainly made you tired."

"You are tired," Carrie replied. "Go to sleep. I have made you talk
too much, and must get busy."

She went off and Jim mused about her. Carrie was not like the English
girl, but she had charm and he felt she was somehow wasted at the
shabby store. She was pretty and clever; although she was kind, she
was sometimes firm. Then his eyes got heavy and he went to sleep.
When he woke Carrie had come back and was lighting the lamp. Jake had
entered with her and put a tray on the table.

"Supper's served," he said. "It's better hash than you used to hand
out in the woods, and Carrie has fixed some hot biscuit with Magnolia
drips in the way you like. Well, you better get busy, and we'll play
we're in camp. I'll locate at the bottom of the snow bank."

Jake sat down on a rug, with his back to the wall and a plate on his
knee, and Jim's thoughts wandered. He had got the habit of remembering
things when he was ill, and the little shabby room, with the cheap rug
on the rough, stained floor, seemed to melt like a dissolving view. He
saw black pines, with the moon shining between their stiff branches,
wood smoke drifting past, and a red fire snapping in the snow. Jake
wore ragged furs and his eyes twinkled, as they twinkled now. Jake was
a humorous philosopher and if his humor was sometimes thin his
philosophy was sound. He was white; one could trust him. Then Jim
came