Presentlythestranger，seemingsatisfiedwithhisobservation，leanedbackinhisseat，half-closedhiseyes，andbegansoftlytowhistlethe“SpringSong“fromProserpine，thecantatathatadozenyearsbeforehadmadeitsyoungcomposerfamousinanight。EveretthadheardthataironguitarsinOldMexico，onmandolinsatcollegeglees，oncottageorgansinNewEnglandhamlets，andonlytwoweeksagohehadhearditplayedonsleighbellsatavarietytheaterinDenver。Therewasliterallynowayofescapinghisbrother’sprecocity。AdriancecouldliveontheothersideoftheAtlantic，wherehisyouthfulindiscretionswereforgotteninhismatureachievements，buthisbrotherhadneverbeenabletooutrunProserpine，andherehefounditagainintheColoradosandhills。NotthatEverettwasexactlyashamedofProserpine；onlyamanofgeniuscouldhavewrittenit，butitwasthesortofthingthatamanofgeniusoutgrowsassoonashecan。
Everettunbentatrifleandsmiledathisneighboracrosstheaisle。Immediatelythelargemanroseand，comingover，droppedintotheseatfacingHilgarde，extendinghiscard。
“Dustyride，isn’tit？Idon’tminditmyself；I’musedtoit。Bornandbredindebriarpatch，likeBr’erRabbit。I’vebeentryingtoplaceyouforalongtime；IthinkImusthavemetyoubefore。“
“Thankyou，“saidEverett，takingthecard；“mynameisHilgarde。You’veprobablymetmybrother，Adriance；peopleoftenmistakemeforhim。“
Thetravelingmanbroughthishanddownuponhiskneewithsuchvehemencethatthesolitaireblazed。