The Littlest Girl was tremulous, content.

Curly, pausing as we approached, mumbled some shamefaced thanks.
"Curly," said Dan Anderson, his voice queer, "I didn't do it for pay.
I did it--I don't know why--" A new mood was upon him.

A lassitude as of remorse appeared to relax him, body and mind.

An hour later he and I sat in the glorious flood of the light of the moon of Heart's Desire, and we fell silent, as was the way of men in that place.

At length Dan Anderson turned his face to the top of old Carrizo, the restful, the impassive.