I did know Frank, a long time ago, when I was twelve or thirteen, and when I saw you, I thought he'd changed a lot.

But it was his mother; she was the dearest thing, but--queer.

Sort of childish, you know.

And she just worshiped Frank, and used to watch for the postman--oh, it was too pitiful! Sometimes I'd write a letter myself, and pretend it was from him, and read it to her; her eyes were bad, so it was easy--" "Where was this Frank ?" Ford interrupted.
"Oh, I don't know! I never did know.

Somewhere out West, we thought.