blue eyes growing brighter, his old beard twitching as if a wind moved in it about his lips.
Sallie was straining as if she projected her soul into the south after the lone traveler who stood dark-lined against the sky. She held her hands out as if she called him; the cool wind of sunset was in her light-moving hair.
"Would you come back, Texas, if I'd go to you and tell you I'm sorry and unworthy, but lonesome—oh, so lonesome! Would you come back—home?"
She seemed unconscious of Uncle Boley's presence, calling her appeal after that dark figure no bigger in the distance than a finger held against the sky. The old man took the revolver from the ground, threw the belt over the pommel of her saddle, and came leading the horse forward. Uncle Boley made a gesture with his hand as if sweeping her away. She leaped into the saddle and galloped swiftly to her heart's desire.
The old man stood looking after her as the south drew her on, smaller with the rising of each successive swell.
"Her heart's a flyin' to him like a dove," he said. "Well, do you reckon he'll come back?"
