She died when I was twelve, and poor Father, who
worshiped her, wanted to carry out her plans for me, though he had no
special sympathy with them. To make things worse for him, nobody but
Mother ever had any control over me; I was spoiled and self-willed and
precocious, and I thought the world owed me a good time. Dad's business
judgment of human nature saved the situation, he thoroughly understood
one thing about me, that I'd keep a bargain if I made it. So we fixed up
our little contract; I was to go through college and do my best, and
after I graduated, I was to have a free hand and an income of my own, a
nice one. I did the college trick. I did it well. I was third in my
class, and there wasn't a thing in literature or languages that they
could stop me from getting. At eighteen they turned me loose on the
world, and here I am, tired of it, but still loving it. That's all of
me. Aren't I a good little autobiographer. Every lady her own Boswell!
What are you listening to?"
"There's a horse coming along the old trail," said Banneker.
"Who is it?" she asked. "Some one following us?"
He shook his head. A moment later the figure of a mounted man loomed
through the brush. He was young, strong-built, and not ill-looking.
"Howdy, Ban," he said.
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