You'll say, 'I'm Mrs. Harnish, who are you?' And I'll
say, 'I'm Elam Harnish's younger brother. I've just arrived from
Alaska to attend the funeral.' 'What funeral?' you'll say. And
I'll say, 'Why, the funeral of that good-for-nothing, gambling,
whiskey-drinking Burning Daylight--the man that died of fatty
degeneration of the heart from sitting in night and day at the
business game 'Yes ma'am,' I'll say, 'he's sure a gone 'coon, but
I've come to take his place and make you happy. And now, ma'am,
if you'll allow me, I'll just meander down to the pasture and
milk the cow while you're getting breakfast.'"
Again he caught her hand and made as if to start with her for the
door. When she resisted, he bent and kissed her again and again.
"I'm sure hungry for you, little woman," he murmured "You make
thirty millions look like thirty cents."
"Do sit down and be sensible," she urged, her cheeks flushed, the
golden light in her eyes burning more golden than he had ever
seen it before.
But Daylight was bent on having his way, and when he sat down it
was with her beside him and his arm around her.
"'Yes, ma'am,' I'll say, 'Burning Daylight was a pretty good
cuss, but it's better that he's gone.
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