"My mother and I were _friends_!" said Carl one night. "When I was a
lad of ten or so, as a concession to convention she married the man
whose name I bear, a kindly chap who understood. He died. After that
we were very close, my mother and I. We rode much together and talked.
I think she feared for me. There was peace in my life then--like this.
That is why I speak of it. I needed a friend, some one like her with
brains and grit and balance that I could respect--some one who would
understand. There are but few--"
"She spoke of your own father?"
"No. I do not even know his name. We were pledged not to speak of it.
I fancied as I grew older that she was sorry--"
The subject was obviously painful.
"And you've never been honestly contented since?" put in Mic-co quickly.
"Once." Carl spoke of Wherry. "They were weeks of genuine hardship,
those weeks at the farm, but it's singular how frequently my mind goes
back to them."
"Ah!" said Mic-co with glowing eyes, "there is no salvation like work
for the happiness of another. That I know."
So the quiet days filed by until Mic-co turned at last from the healing
of the mind to the healing of the body.
"Let us test your endurance in the Seminole way," he said one morning
by the island camp fire where his Indian servants cooked the food for
the lodge.
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