The moon seemed resting on the summit of a peak, hundreds of feet
above, and staring down in surprise at the noisy stage.

Alexander Filmore (the elder passenger) succeeded in steadying himself
long enough to ignite the end of a cigar to the bowl of Jehu's grimy
pipe; then he watched the trees that flitted by. Clarence, his son,
had smoked incessantly since leaving Camp Crook, and now threw away
his half-used cheroot, and listened to the sighing of the spectral
pines.

"The girl--what about her?" he asked, after some moments had elapsed.

"She will be as much to the way as the boy will."

"She? Well, we'll attend to her after we git him out of the way. He is
the worst obstacle to our path, at present. Maybe when you see the
girl you will take a fancy to her."

"Pish! I want no petticoats clinging to me--much less an ignorant
backwoods clodhopper. She is probably a fit mate for an Indian chief."

"You are too rough on the tender sex, boy," and the elder Filmore gave
vent to a disconnected laugh. "You must remember that your mother was
a woman."

"Was she?" Clarence bit the end of his waxed mustache, and mused over
his sire's startling announcement. "_You_ recollect that I never saw
her."